Page 57 of The Ninth Element

It’s all so overwhelming. I’m not accustomed to analyzing my own emotions, let alone those of others, and it makes understanding this moment with Zanyar even more challenging. Like I’m trying to solve a complex puzzle with only half the pieces.

And then there’s Darian. He risked his own life, his chances to win, to find me. We’re close, but notthatclose. With every moment he offers me warmth and welcome, I can feel myself growing more and more attached to them, tohim. But is it wise? To let my guard down and get too attached to another person?

But most of all, I can’t erase the image of Kortyz’s face, twisted in pain and shock, after I plunged the makeshift weapon into his neck. Now, surrounded by cold stone and the impatient dawn, I feel adrift, with only the pain in my shoulder and a familiar loneliness for company.

A weak mind…

Suddenly, a movement catches my attention. I turn my face toward it, expecting a guard, only to find… Zanyar.

He approaches with a quiet grace, stopping a few paces away. His posture is relaxed but watchful, and his body language suggests a subtle alertness. His vibrant emerald eyes gleam in the soft morning light.

The usual flutter in my heart when he is near starts, but for the first time since I’ve known him, I crush it down instantly. Instead, I simply look at him, my gaze contemplative, as if observing a distant landscape.

“Your injuries?” he asks.

I raise a hand to my aching shoulder, wincing at the sharp pain. “It’s nothing,” I reply, though the lie is evident.

He doesn’t move. He just stands there and watches me. As the first rays of dawn bathe the battlements in a warm glow, his golden hair, loose around his neck, catches the light, making him shimmer like the sun itself,a burning perfection that seems at odds with his usual cold demeanor.

Before I can react, he closes the distance between us. His hand reaches out, and I instinctively flinch.

I’m not sure why; even I am surprised by my body’s response. He stops when he sees my reaction, and I can see a muscle in his jaw tense. He takes a deep breath while I hold mine. After a long moment, he moves his hand again, slower this time, and I stay still.

When it is only inches from me, a spell emanates from it, like a gentle caress against my injured shoulder. The throbbing pain subsides, replaced by a soothing warmth.

He leans closer, his shadow enveloping me. His palm, surprisingly gentle, cups my cheek, and the warmth of his hand spreads through me. It is a difficult effort not to lean into his touch. The ache in my jaw instantly eases. It is a strange comfort, a caress that is both soothing and unnerving, and I briefly close my eyes, savoring the relief and the sensation.

Even after the healing is complete, his hand remains on my cheek. I open my eyes to meet his golden-green eyes locked on me. I almost resent how stunning he looks in this light. His beauty feels like a sign, screaming at me to run away from this enigmatic man.

My eyes run between his, trying to read them, readhim. But how can I? I can barely grasp my own feelings, let alone those of someone so remote, so out of reach, until just hours ago.

Without warning, he pulls his hand away and, with it, his warmth, leaving me feeling profoundly cold, unsettled, and disoriented. I feel shaken, once again, from whatever just happened between us. But instead of leaving, he moves to the side and sits beside me, watching the sunrise.

The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken words and the growing light. I occasionally glance at him, but his gaze remains fixed on the rising sun. Its rays soften his features, revealing a weariness in him.

I nervously pick at my bruised hands, seeking solace in the mundane. Zanyar, in contrast, seems a picture of serenity, his gaze fixed on the dawning day as if he doesn’t wish to be anywhere else. We sit in a deep silence, watching the sun ascend.

Conflicting desires war inside me: to speak or to remain cautious. He is a mystery. His actions and presence at the trials are a puzzle. And now, these strange moments between us and his unexpected healing contradict his previous actions.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he asks, “Was that your first taste of blood?”

The memory of the arena hits me like a brick. I don’t know why he is bringing it up, but I choose silence and only nod.

“I was sixteen when I first spilled blood,” he says casually, still looking at the rising sun.

My eyes widen in disbelief as I turn to look at him. “How? Why?”

“A debt had to be paid. The beast had taken four lives in Aravan. Ending his life was justice, perhaps too merciful.” His tone is calm. Too calm for such a topic.

“But why didyouhave to do it?”

“My father’s decree. He called it a rite of passage. To mark the day I was deemed a man.”

I’m at a loss for words. Sixteen, the age of adulthood, is typically a time for celebration and gifts in these lands. But this boy was forced to shed blood to earn his place among men? It sounds too cruel and twisted.

“The first kill stays with you,” he says. “Mine was a clean strike with an axe. Though justice was served, the memory stayed, even to this day. It’s a ghost that haunts the mind. There’s no shame in carrying such a burden.”

His words unlock something in my mind, and I finally acknowledge that among everything that has happened, what weighs on my heart the most is the lingering stench of blood. I can still hear the wood hitting flesh and smell the blood misting the air.

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