Page 90 of The Ninth Element

An eerie, unnatural stillness stretches, thickens, and quickly becomes asuffocating weight. No one dares to move. No one breathes.

Then, painfully slowly, he turns to look at us. His body looks normal. Unchanged. If it weren’t for the expression in his eyes—a vacant, horrified stare—I’d think he was unharmed. But then, a thin trickle of blood starts at his nose. Then, a thicker stream, darker, from the corner of his mouth.

And then it’s everywhere. Pouring from his eyes, from his ears, like a steady, relentless flow. He reaches out one hand to us, but before he can utter a sound or even take a step, he crumbles to the floor like a discarded puppet.

The movement breaks the spell. I gasp and rush to kneel beside him with a futile need to do something. But his eyes, wide and staring, are vacant as if his very soul has been ripped from his body.

I’m trying to process what I’ve just witnessed when a hand settles on my shoulder. I flinch, looking up to see Darian kneeling beside me. He doesn’t speak, just places a finger on Syriad’s neck for confirmation. “He’s dead.”

A heavy silence spreads across the playhouse. No one dares to speak, to move, to even breathe.

Finally, Darian stands up. He calls to Bahador, and together, they lift Syriad’s body and carry it, with an unexpected reverence, to the side of the stage, away from the others’s gaze.

I look around. Omeer and Othman are staring at Syriad’s body, and I can see a hint of joy in their eyes. Zanyar has already moved on and is examining the carvings around the gates. He has an ominous frown on his face like he is not happy with what is in front of his eyes. Samira and Olanna are also walking near the gates. Most of the others also seem unfazed by Syriad’s death, except for Kameel and Maleed, who look more concerned than sad, and Pippin, who appears petrified.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Lila says, standing beside me. “He had it coming.”

I nod and take a deep breath. The collective appears unbothered by Syriad’s demise, propelling me to move on as well. I walk toward the gates and study the words along the arc of them once more. “This seems to be a long sentence,” I say, pointing at two of the words. “This word means strength, and this one is darkness.”

Roshana steps forward. As a student of Madrisa, she is the most knowledgeable among us about ancient languages. “It seems to be a poem.” Then she reads it. “Nine gates stand united, a symbol of strength and might. Only when nine hearts are joined as one can the gates be opened to light. Divide and conquer, and darkness shall prevail. United we enter, victorious we prevail.”

Silence envelops us as we reflect on the words. I’m fairly certain I understand their meaning, and I can see the same recognition reflected in Zanyar’s furrowed brow. Faelas, too, wears a similar expression of understanding mixed with concern. However, none of us seems certain enough to voice our thoughts. The consequences of being wrong are too terrible to contemplate.

“What did that mean? United in what?” Bahador asks, breaking the silence.

“United to enter,” I say. “I think it means we all have to enter the gates at the same time. Or at least nine of us should.”

Everyone stares at me as if I’m crazy.

“Enter the gates? After what happened to Syriad?” Samira scoffs.

“That’s madness,” Roshana echoes.

“If Arien believes it’ll work, I trust her judgment,” Darian says. “She’s been right about every challenge we’ve faced so far. The poem mentioned something about sharing the same heart and mind, being united to enter. It makes sense that we should trust each other and approach the gates as one.”

Maleed, predictably, scoffs at the idea. “I’m not going through those gates just because ofherhunch.”

Before he can further showcase his scorn, Zanyar silences him. “She’s right. If nine of us enter through the nine gates simultaneously, we’ll likely initiate the illusion that will lead us to the coins.”

Everyone’s faces scrunch up with serious contemplation. It stings, being dismissed faster than a sellsword at a feast. But then, Zanyar the golden, with his perfect hair and impeccable lineage, echoes my exact same words, and suddenly, everyone has a moment of collective consideration.

The problem is, we need nine brave souls—or nine bloody fools—for this harebrained scheme to work. And watching Syriad dissolve into a bloodstained mess isn’t exactly a selling point. So if it’s Zanyar’s words that need to convince them, not mine, so be it.

“The poem speaks of unity,” Roshana says, her voice sweet like summer wine, as she looks at Zanyar.

“Aye,” Lila agrees. “No other path I see.”

Brilliant. That’s seven, counting them, myself, Izadeonians, and Zanyar. Only two more are needed, and we have three Ahiras trembling in their boots at the mere sight of Zanyar. No doubt they will join if Zanyar orders them to.

I turn to them, expecting them to fall in line, but Pippin is already backing away, while Maleed and Kameel wear frowns deeper than a well.

“Zanyar. A word?” Maleed gestures toward the corner, hoping for a private audience.

Zanyar, however, doesn’t move. “Say what you must.”

Maleed takes a deep breath. It’s the first time I’ve seen him express any frustration toward Zanyar. According to Pippin, Kameel and Maleed share Pippin’s surprise at Zanyar’s relentless demand to win every trial. However, they have always believed there was some grand plan behind his behavior. After all, questioning Zanyar is akin to questioning Ahira Emmengar himself, and for these two fools, that is blasphemy.

Maleed chews his cheek. But Kameel has all the subtlety of a charging bull. “This is too far!”

---