Page 19 of The Ninth Element

I suddenly find myself defending Firelands’s strict rules. “There are very few of us sorceresses. In my year, there were only two other girls compared to hundreds of boys. And for three whole years after, no girls came to the Academy. The rules are meant to protect us from unwanted advancements.”

Faelas’s eyes narrow. “Unwanted advancements?”

“So, men and women aren’t allowed to interact at all?” Darian asks, his forehead creased with obvious disapproval.

“Not really,” I say, my voice a little smaller now, feeling the weight of their disbelief. “Not unless there’s a specific, sanctioned reason. A shared task. A project. Something official.”

“Backward and outdated, that’s what it is!” Bahador declares, shaking his head.

Darian nods in agreement. “Sounds like a relic from a bygone era.”

I’d never really questioned these rules before. My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by other sorcerers, and I’ve been constantly told that distance was the key to my safety. It was more than a rule; it was a reflex, an ingrained belief. We were few and, therefore, vulnerable.

But now, noticing the Izadeonians’s reaction, a small seed of doubt begins to sprout. Was it really about safety, or was it a way to keep us sorceresses separate, isolated, and, therefore, easier to manage? The thought is deeply unsettling. I’d accepted the isolation without ever truly questioning why they existed.

“Speaking of oddities, his presence here still baffles me. The Aramisi boy,” Faelas says suddenly, casting a thoughtful glance toward the Ahiras’s table.

The moment the words are out of his mouth, the air begins to feel thick and heavy, the room too small. A primal urge to flee, to jump up from my chair and run far, far away, bubbles to the surface.

I really,reallydon’t want to discuss anything about the Ahiras with strangers, especially Zanyar. Even if they don’t consider me one of their own, some ingrained sense of loyalty, or perhaps self-preservation, still lingers in my head.

“He’s not aiming for the win, is he?” Bahador asks. “That will cause a war in the Union, wouldn’t it? My father told me that when Zanyar’s sorcery manifested, High Lord Zardalan Zareen summoned all the other High Lords to Shemiran for a crisis council, claiming that Zanyar couldn’t become a Firelander. He claimed a High Lord’s firstborn son has a duty to his people. They remained there for turns, locked in heated debate. Quite amusing, really,” he chuckles, “that Aramis, the province that founded Firelands, had its own heir claimed by them three hundred years later.”

Faelas responds, arms loosely crossed. “The law of the land is clear. Any child with sorcery in their blood belongs to Firelands, regardless of their birthplace or lineage.”

“Then why is he here?” Bahador asks with a frown. “He can’t be here to win! I’ve heard he’s now Firelands’s special envoy to Aramis. High Lord Zardalan wouldn’t stand for losing his heir again, this time to Martysh, right?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I mumble, feeling heat creep up my neck. My unease is growing rapidly. I risk another glance at the Ahiras’s table, and my heart plummets when my eyes lock with Zanyar’s icy gaze.

Just like after the first trial, he is staring directly at me, and he isn’t breaking eye contact. I feel panic rising within me, and my breath hitches in my throat at the intensity he radiates. He’s like a simmering volcano barely concealed beneath a thin layer of snow. Is it judgment? Fury? I can’t tell, but every instinct screams at me to run. Now.

“I think I’ve, uh, had enough breakfast,” I stammer, rising from the bench. “I’ll see you all later.”

And with that, I flee the dining hall.

Chapter Six

For the next eight days, I live the life of a sleep-deprived warrior. Every morning, before the rooster even thinks about crowing, I’m out there on the training grounds, freezing my backside.

When other castle residents who are not suffering from sleeplessness start to wake up, I grab an apple from the kitchen and start walking around Jahanwatch. Knowing the battlefield is half the victory, and this place is a beast—its expanse rivals that of a small town.

Beyond the inner courtyard, our initial landing site in the first trial, the castle also encompasses two massive wards situated to the north and south. Each of these wards is fortified by its own keeps and supporting structures. To the east of the castle’s main wall lies a massive arena. The passageway leading to this arena is guarded, but its colossal size is visible from the castle’s eastern battlements.

Inside each keep, the maze-like corridors seem to shift and twist, leading me on a bewildering chase. Hidden rooms lurk behind concealed doors, and there are staircases that appear to ascend endlessly. I find myself lost in a new part of this labyrinth every single day. Thankfully, I have the peculiar ability to remember everything I read or see, so I simply walk around memorizing my surroundings.

The castle’s two most vital structures are the main Keep, home to the highest echelons of Martysh, and the Martyshyar wing, situated betweenthe southern and inner wards.

Within this wing, hundreds of Martyshyars work and safeguard their secrets. Entry to the Martyshyar wing is strictly limited to the Martyshyars themselves—not even Martyshgards are permitted. It’s undoubtedly there, among other critical affairs, that they strategize for the trials.

Over the past eight days, I’ve also watched the other contenders form bonds, forge alliances, even across provincial lines. Part of me wants to ask the Izadeonians if I can join their group, but I suppress the desire.

Why would they want me? An outsider. An Ahira. They’re infinitely more experienced—and stronger. And it’s not like they need more allies. The Maravanians and Kishis are falling over themselves to get close to them. Nine strong, fearsome, popular men—they don’t need an outcast Ahira tagging along.

I can’t bear the thought of asking only to be rejected. If there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s getting my hopes up just to be dismissed. I’ve been there, done that, learned my lesson.

This leaves me with one option: the Ahiras. They’re the closest thing I have to potential allies. Against all logic and reason, I cling to the desperate, ridiculous hope that Zanyar will suddenly remember our brief, amicable time in the alchemy hall and order the others to support me. It’s a completely unfounded fantasy. But logic? Who needs it?

Around midday, after hours of pacing the castle’s cobblestone paths, my stomach would growl in protest, and I would sneak into the kitchens for a quick bite, carefully dodging any lingering glares from the Ahiras before heading to my next destination: the library.

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