Page 73 of The Ninth Element

The library is my second home, where I’m engaged in a thrilling game of “Find the Star. Lose Your Sanity”,and the elusiveStaris definitely winning.

I don’t even know why I’m still looking for information about it. But I keep going because, apparently, boredom is a more powerful motivator than common sense.

Afternoons are reserved for my daily dose of humiliation, courtesy of Bahador and his relentless swordplay. He has almost turned me into his personal training dummy.

“You’re a natural-born sword-wielder,” he declares. “Your footwork is improving. Less like a newborn deer, more like a… slightly drunk gazelle. With a sword. And a tendency to trip over air. But progress!”

I manage a smile, which is a miracle in itself. “Thanks, Bahador. You’re a remarkably patient teacher.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re a gem, Arien. A bit rough around the edges, sure, needs a bit of polish, butwith a surprising amount of sparkle hidden beneath. I quite enjoy our little torture sessions.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back despite myself.

“I have something for you,” I say, reaching into my pouch and pulling out a few vials. “The green one will heal. The purple one gives you a stamina boost—perfect for running away from Nohvans.”

Bahador’s smile could light a small city. “You’re a walking apothecary, aren’t you? How do you manage to concoct these without blowing up the place?”

“Madrisa secret. With a few unorthodox techniques, I picked up at the Fire Temple. And there’s one more thing…” I pull out a small vial filled with shimmering, golden liquid that hums with sorcery. I glance around before shoving the vial into his pocket and whisper, “This isn’t for the trials. It’s an invisibility potion.”

Bahador’s jaw drops. He stares at his pocket, then at me. “You’re joking. An actual invisibility potion?”

“It’s good for three people, less than one hourglass turn. Potions have limits, you know. Can’t make you disappear forever.”

Bahador stares at me, speechless. He’s been tight-lipped about their mission, only hinting at dead ends. Apparently, sneaking back into the Martyshyar wing is a headache without using sorcery. Who knew?

“This is… amazing, Arien,” he finally manages, still looking slightly dazed. “We’ve been banging our heads against a wall trying to find a way.”

I shrug, trying for nonchalance and probably achieving awkward. “Happy to be of service, even if said service is completely unsolicited and possibly unwanted.” I force some humor in my tone.

“Of course, your help is wanted, Arien,” Bahador says, catching the sarcasm in my words. “That’s not why we haven’t asked for it.”

“Right, right,” I mutter, staring determinedly at a particularly interesting crack in the stone.

But Bahador picks up on my not-so-subtle bitterness. “Arien. Truth be told, I wasn’t thrilled about asking for your help in the first place. This is our fight, not yours.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But after we did, I don’t agree with Darian shutting you out like that. I think he feels guilty. Henearly got you killed, nearly cost you the trial. He’s always been terrible with guilt; he either lashes out or pushes people away. It’s not a new pattern. He is like this because…” He hesitates, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain, his gaze flickering away from mine for a moment. “But deep down, I think he’s just trying to protect you, to keep you from getting hurt, even if it’s in his usual messy way. That’s all.”

I plaster on a bright, brittle smile only to make him feel better. “I understand. Just be careful with the potion. One sip is all you get. Any more, and you’ll be seeing double, or worse.”

Bahador nods, and a silent acknowledgment passes between us. But instead of leaving, he moves to a weathered bench at the edge of the training ground and sinks onto it. His movement is heavy, and his usual easygoing grace is replaced by a weary slump. His expression is not the carefree Bahador I’m used to. I cross the distance and sit beside him. “Is everything all right?”

He sighs—a long, drawn-out sound. “Honestly, Arien, I’m questioning everything myself. I never wanted to come to Martysh. My dream was always the Izadeon army, even when my father pushed and prodded me for years to become a Master.” He pauses, staring out at the training grounds, his eyes unfocused. “But then Faelas and Darian decided to try for the trials, and… Well, I couldn’t let them come here alone. The three of us, we’ve always been together. The thought of being separated from them, of sending them to this place by themselves… I couldn’t do it. But now…” He shakes his head slowly. “With everything we’re learning about the Star, its power, the Daevas… I’m starting to wonder if this is the right path for any of us.”

That familiar sinking feeling returns. “You mean you’re having doubts about joining Martysh? Like Faelas?”

“No,” Bahador says, shaking his head again. “Faelas and Darian, they’re the brains. Always have been. I’m the muscle, the follower. I’ve never questioned Darian, not once. But here…” He pauses, searching for the word. “Maybe it’s Martysh, maybe it’s everything that we’ve discovered… but I’m not the same person I was moons ago. I’m… seeing things differently.”

He wants to say more. I can feel it. But he holds back, releasing only a troubled sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world. “All this to say, I think it’s good you’re not tangled in our mess, though I don’t agree with how Darian went about it. Focus on the trials, Arien. And when you win, when you become a Martyshyar, don’t forget Izadeon. Help us.” The plea in his voice is raw, almost desperate.

“Whenwewin,” I correct him. “We will fight for Izadeon together when we become Martyshyars.”

Bahador gives a wry smile and nods, but his eyes remain troubled. I don’t fully understand his doubts. They seem different from Faelas’s. But I can sense his need for a friend, someone outside his usual circle, to open up to about his thoughts without worrying about being questioned. So I don’t pry. I just sit beside him, offering silent support.

When I finally leave him and walk back to my quarters, I am physically and emotionally exhausted, dying for a bath, a moment to think about Bahador’s words and get some sleep. But as I approach the spiral staircase leading to my humble quarter, a voice calls out, “Arien!”

It is Lila. As always, her presence is unexpected, sudden, and cheerful.

“Lila.”

“You’ve been as elusive as a Nohvan since the last trial. Where have you been?”

Our interactions had been scarce since the aftermath of the arena. Whenever we saw each other in passing, Lila seemed eternally grateful for my assistance, though I kept assuring her it was only a minor act of helping an ally.

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