Page 37 of The Ninth Element

Sputtering torches stuck in iron sconces on the walls cast everything in a flickering orange glow and create pools of deep shadows to hide all sorts of occurrences. Laughter, loud and unrestrained, bounces off the damp flagstones, mixed with whispers and theclinkandclatterof tankards that have definitely seen better days.

It’s a scene that’s both alluring and intimidating, a glimpse into a world that I’m only just beginning to understand and one that I’m not entirely sure I belong in.

In a cozy corner, a grand, ornately carved fireplace crackles merrily with a cluster of well-worn leather armchairs beside it. One of the chairs is currently occupied by a grizzled, one-eyed man. His name is Hadryk, Bahador told me. A highly respected five-starred Martyshgard, originally from Izadeon, and, judging by Bahador’s warm greeting, a cherished family friend.

Bahador, with his booming laugh and back-slapping enthusiasm, is holding court in the middle of the room like he owns the place. He looks as comfortable in this dimly lit, slightly spooky chamber as if he’s known these Martyshgards—with their impressive beards and intimidating scowls—his entire life.

Meanwhile, I am my usual wallflower, trying to blend into the shadows and hoping no one will notice me. The ale he handed me isn’t helping alleviate my growing sense of being a fish out of water. One sip confirms my suspicions: this stuff is potent.

Bahador, noticing my awkwardness, gestures for me to come over with a booming voice. “Arien! There you are, lurking in the shadows again! Come join the fun! Hadryk here is about to spin a tale about the upcoming trials.”

“Don’t play coy with me, boy,” Hadryk snorts. “Even if I had the honor of a weasel, I can’t betray Martysh, or I’ll lose my life.”

As I start to make my way over, a booming voice erupts behind me. Darian. He approaches Bahador, clapping him on the back with a force that would probably stagger a lesser man. “What merriment are we brewing here?”

For some illogical, deeply buried reason that I refuse to examine tooclosely, his mere presence eases the knot of anxiety in my chest. It’s a ridiculous, almost dangerous feeling, this sense of relief, this feeling of familiarity. But it’s there, undeniably—a subtle shift in the air that makes it easier for me to breathe.

Don’t be a fool. You’re getting too close to him.

I watch him, the way he grabs a tankard and, in an instant, blends with the crowd. It is effortless, seamless. With someone like Zanyar, whose beauty and power are a blazing warning, you instinctively keep your guard up. But Darian doesn’t demand attention; he simply draws people in, closer and closer, with an easy smile and an engaging word, and by the time you realize you’re in too deep, it’s already too late.

“Seems our friend here got a thirst for forbidden knowledge,” Hadryk grumbles, gesturing toward Bahador. “Thinks he can sweet-talk me out of Martysh secrets, the fool. You don’t have the same mind, do you?”

Darian rumbles a laugh. “Aye, well, if Bahador the silver-tongued couldn’t pry loose a word, then I wouldn’t waste my breath trying.”

“A wise choice,” Hadryk confirms. Then his one eye narrows at Darian. “How fares your father?”

Darian’s smile, which was so easy and warm moments before, falters slightly. “He… persists.”

Persists?Why did that simple word, that slight hesitation, feel so loaded? I look to him, searching for answers, but he looks more guarded than Martysh on their trials.

Hadryk, sensing the unspoken tension, nods sympathetically. “And yours, Bahador?”

“Same as ever, swamped with work. Governing a province doesn’t leave much leisure time.”

“Aye, I can imagine. Izadeon’s a handful, eh? Good to know it’s in a capable hand.” Hadryk grunts as he drains his tankard.

Bahador’s father is governing Izadeon? That’s odd. Is he… the High Lord’s son? He can’t be! High Lords don’t send their heirs to the harsh life of Martysh. But what else could Bahador mean about his fathergoverningthe province?

Before I can ponder further, a new arrival interrupts my thoughts. “Took me forever to find this hideout,” Faelas remarks, stepping into the group. “The hallway’s eerily silent compared to the racket in here.”

Hadryk’s sharp gaze locks onto Faelas, and a wave of raw emotion washes over his weathered features as he rises from his chair. His strong, calloused hands grip Faelas’s arms as his single eye scrutinizes the younger man’s face with an intensity that conveys deep affection. “By the Nine, you’ve become a man.”

Faelas meets the old man’s gaze unflinchingly. “Commander. I’m afraid I haven’t grown into the image of my father as you once hoped. It seems my Eyrian mother’s blood runs stronger in my veins.”

Hadryk’s grip tightens momentarily, and several emotions flit across his face, all too fast to see. “But you carry his spirit. The bravest man I ever knew, and his courage lives on in you.”

I watch, curious, as a quiet conversation unfolds between them. Bahador and Darian, meanwhile, are engaged in their own lively discussion with other Martyshgards. Not wanting to intrude, I retreat into my shadowed corner. Darian, of course, notices me and approaches, leaning against the wall. “Someone avoiding the revelry?”

“Just tired from the training,” I say defensively.

I glance away, and my gaze falls on Hadryk and Faelas, still deep in conversation. “Does Faelas know Hadryk closely?”

“This old warhorse was a commander in Izadeon’s army before he joined Martysh,” Darian explains. “He served under Faelas’s father’s command.”

“Was he a high-ranking commander, Faelas’s father?”

“He was the Chief Commander of the Izadeon army.“

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