Page 45 of The Ninth Element

A wave of unfamiliar emotions fills me—a longing, an attachment, a sense of connection so profound it is almost frightening. It feels foreign, yet familiar, like a melody I’d heard in a dream. It is as if I’ve known Darian my whole life as if our souls have already danced together in some distant realm as we planned for shared adventures and whispered secrets under a starlit sky.

“Well, damn. We got so caught up in the sights and sounds I completely forgot to sketch a map of the town,” Darian suddenly exclaims, bringing me back to the moment.

I grin at him. “Don’t worry. I remember it.”

Chapter Fifteen

A behemoth of a woman, all muscle and swagger, with a shaved head that gleams under the dim light, plonks down four mugs on our table with a force that makes the wood groan in protest. The mugs are filled with a murky, brownish brew that I eye with deep suspicion, half-expecting it to sprout legs, grow a face, and crawl away.

Chugging ale before attempting a mountain ascent in pitch black does not sound appealing, but Bahador seems intent on making his ancestors proud by draining his tankard like it’s a race against time.

“Behold!” he bellows. “This, my friends, is a proper drinking establishment! No prissy highborn airs here, just honest folk and tales tall enough to reach the heavens. It’s where secrets are spilled, fortunes are won and lost, and questionable life choices are made.”

Faelas rolls his eyes at Bahador’s theatrics, but he isn’t entirely wrong. The place is a raucous symphony of gruff voices, tankards clashing like cymbals, and the occasional snore from some poor soul who’s succumbed to the song of the ale.

“So, no map, then?” Faelas grumbles.

“No,” Darian replies with a shrug. “Arien claims she’s got a sorcerous memory. Says she’ll sketch the whole town later, complete with every stray cat and suspicious alleyway.”

Faelas squints at me. “Is that some sort of sorcery trickery?”

“No,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Just a powerful memory. I can remember everything I see, even once.”

“Everything? Every word of every book, every forgotten footnote? Every love letter anyone ever scribbled for you?” Bahador challenges.

“Yes.”

He scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”

I shrug. “Believe what you will.”

“I believe her,” Darian says nonchalantly, and again, that warm feeling flares up inside me. “She strikes me as one more likely to keep her head down than blow her own horn. If she says she can, she can.”

Bahador snorts. “Never met a walking library before. That’s all.”

“It is a rare talent, indeed. But someone must earn those highest scores on every test, right?”

Bahador’s booming laughter fills the air. “Well, well, looks like the ale’s loosened your tongue. Careful, Darian, we’ve got ourselves a hidden bard with a thirst for bragging rights.”

Grinning, I silence the nagging voice of caution in my head. This is it, the real deal—a proper tavern in a bustling city. My smile widens as I survey the scene around me.

Faelas disrupts my thoughts. “Let’s not get too comfortable. Trials wait for no one, and we’ve got a mountain to climb. Best to head back soon.”

His gaze sweeps across the lively tavern, taking in the boisterous crowd and the warm, inviting atmosphere. But then, his eyes narrow on a shadowed corner.

“Darian,” he whispers, tilting his head toward the corner.

I follow his gaze to a shadowed alcove where two figures huddle, their features almost lost in the dim light. One face, however, is recognizable and very familiar: Martyshyar Kamran, the one who presides over the trials. And beside him, there is a Martyshgard whose brown collar is also adorned with eight stars.

Two eight-starred leaders from two different branches of Martysh sharing a table in a tavern as unassuming as this. I’ve heard fewer than twenty members in the entire Martysh order have eight stars and two ofthem are sitting mere paces from us.

Bahador shrugs at their sight, nonchalant as ever. “Probably swapping war stories or something.”

Faelas, however, mutters, “Or discussing more important things, like the trials.”

I strain my ears, but the tavern’s roaring cacophony makes it impossible to glean even a whisper of their words. “How can you be so sure?”

Faelas leans in. “We need to know what they’re planning. Arien, can you listen in?”

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