Page 40 of The Ninth Element

I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump forming in my throat. Damn this potent ale and the unexpected personality it has unleashed in me.

And Darian… Gods, he is beautiful. Not just in his features but in the way he talks to me, the way he understands the hidden emotions I’d kept buried for so long.

Darian holds my gaze and an unfamiliar ache blooms in my chest. I search his face, tracing the lines etched by laughter and hardship with my eyes. I am surprised by a fierce urge to connect with this wild, captivating man I barely even know, but before I can think more about it, Bahador and Faelas walk toward us.

“And friends,” Darian says, his gaze warm as he looks at them, “are a treasure beyond measure. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, with my shame, without these two rogues by my side.”

There is no time for me to ask what he means byhis shame. Bahador, holding two tankards, thrusts one into my hand. “By the Nine, your cup looks as lonely as a widow in winter.”

I eye the tankard warily. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Bahador scoffs. “Nonsense! The night is young, and as a newfound Izadeonian ally, you’re obligated to drink with us.”

“Bahador, don’t pressure her,” Faelas says with a sigh.

“Just making sure she meets the Izadeonian measures, old friend. We’re still evaluating our little Firelands recruit.”

Faelas rolls his eyes, but Darian laughs heartily and empties his tankard in one swift gulp.

As the night deepens, conversation flows with surprising ease. True to his word, Bahador keeps my tankard full, and despite my initial reluctance, I find myself sipping the ale, its warmth chasing away my usual solitude. Hours slip by like moments as I listen, captivated by their tales of childhood adventures, the grim realities of battling Daevas, their altered monsters, and exhilarating past adventures.

While Faelas and Bahador occasionally mingle with Martyshgards to collect information, Darian remains a steady presence by my side. His presence is a silent promise of protection that allows me to unwind for once and let myself enjoy the moment. I have a strange but deep trust that if I become too lightheaded, he will see me safe to my quarters. It’s an unusual trust to have about someone I met just recently, especially for someone as cautious as I am. But I do, nevertheless.

As the night goes on, a young Martyshgard picks up a lute and fills the room with melodies spanning from joyful jigs to longing ballads. The warmth of the ale spreads through me like a comforting blanket, chasing away the old chills.

But it’s not just the bliss of the ale or the fire in the hearth that brings me warmth; a different kind of warmth blossoms in my chest as I listen to thesoulful melodies and enjoy the company of my newfound allies.

In this moment, surrounded by laughter, music, and a sense of peace, I realize that this might be the best night of my life.

Chapter Thirteen

It’s as if everyone has collectively forgotten that trials must continue. A moon and a half pass, and time crawls at a snail’s pace. I’m not complaining, though. I treasure every moment of my new daily routine so much that sometimes I forget I’m in the middle of a cutthroat competition.

After breakfast with Darian, Faelas, and Bahador (who, surprisingly, hasn’t burned the castle down yet with all his flirting with every woman in the vicinity), I vanish into the library, only reappearing when my brain is filled with more knowledge than a hoarder’s garret.

Zanyar, the master of brooding and dramatic stares, is also glued to a chair in the library, always circled by his loyal puppets, the Ahiras, and the Aramisis. But while they flutter and chirp, Zanyar himself remains a figure apart, a lone lion observing the lesser creatures from a distance. Even the Aramisi women, whose devotion borders on fanatical, usually trail him and maintain a respectful, almost fearful, distance.

The entire scene reeks of Fire Temple all over again. He has that inescapable quality that makes him stand out, regardless of the crowd, even here, among the Martysh folks. During his training sessions, I’ve seen hardened Martysh warriors halt their own exercises to watch him as he moves with his blade.

When he walks in the corridors, it’s as though an invisible edict is issued: conversations between servants, guards, and soldiers die mid-sentence, apeculiar hush falls, and people almost instinctively create a wide berth to allow his unimpeded passage.

It’s not just his striking height or the undeniable, almost cruel perfection of his face. No, it’s something more profound, that same powerful effect he had on everyone back in Fire Temple, an invisible mantle of command that he carries with him everywhere he goes.

All of their drama is fine by me. Except for the fact that Zanyar keeps staring at me. All. The. Damn. Time. It’s as if he expects me to march over there and demand an explanation for his minor betrayal in the second trial. Or maybe he wants me to yell at him. Or perhaps he’s hoping I’ll chuck a hefty book at his perfectly sculpted head. Who knows?

But I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I refuse to acknowledge his existence altogether. He doesn’t deserve my anger, my tears, or even a fleeting glance. He can stew in his own enigmatic juices for all I care. I want him to know that he’s insignificant. They all are. And honestly, it feels incredible to ignore him after I’ve been obsessed with the idea of him for years.

But despite all the deliciousness, I’m still a bit puzzled. Why does he care? He made it very clear that he was not planning to help me win and explicitly asked me not to have such expectations. He has done nothing to contradict his words.

Then why the sudden call for me to approach him—ifthat’s what he’s doing with his constant staring! I honestly don’t know. And I don’t care either. Maybe his precious ego can’t handle being ignored by alowly sorceresslike me.

Afternoons are a blur of Bahador trying to convince my muscles that swords are better accessories than books. By the end of each session, I am convinced he is secretly training me for a monster raid I haven’t signed up for.

Evenings are spent huddled around the fireplace in the small communal area of our secluded watchtower with the Izadeonians and Lila, swapping plans, discoveries, and old memories. It’s like having a front-row seat to the best street play, complete with childhood mishaps, epic battles, andenough embarrassing examples to blackmail them all later.

Truth be told, these evenings are the peak of my day. Where in Firelands, I’d always been on the outside looking in, now I am a part of a pack, sharing inside jokes and trading stories like we’d known each other for centuries. Sure, I might still be the weird, quiet one, but at least I ammycrowd’s weird, quiet one.

I try to hide these emotions, to appear aloof and unaffected, like I have practiced all my life. But when I retreat to my quarter each night, remembering the day’s conversations and laughter in my head, I can’t help but feel a warmth spreading through me. It is a feeling more intoxicating than the strongest Hamdeni wine, and I find myself craving it more than any prize, adventure, or glory.

---