Page 9 of The Ninth Element

The calls I tried to respond to, the panicked search for whoever was calling, foranyone… it was all wrong. Whatever this trial demands from us, it isn’t through someone else’s help. It has to be faced alone. A solitary endeavor…

If so, I may not be at a disadvantage.

Solitude has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. I’ve studied alone, dined alone, and thrived in the quiet company of my own thoughts. The familiar feeling of isolation blooms in my chest, but for the first time in my life, it doesn’t sting with its usual bitterness. Instead, it feels… freeing. And immediately, the insistent voice falters, then stops altogether. And with its cessation, I feel the weight of panic genuinely begin to recede, too.

I start walking again. In my stupid, panicked flight towards the voice, I blundered around and completely lost my sense of location against the castle.

I choose the opposite direction of where the voice was coming from. And a strange thing begins to happen. I can swear the mist is… receding. Not dramatically, not parting like a grand curtain, but thinning, just enough so that the absolute white is resolving into murky grays. I can vaguely discern shapes a few steps ahead now.

If I can see, I can navigate. I can escape this mist.

I quicken my pace, my boots sinking slightly into the soft earth, and the ability to see even two steps in front of me feels like a miraculous gift. I am definitely in a wooded area as the bottoms of tree trunks emerge from the mist.

I keep walking in what I hope is a consistent direction, and with eachstep, the mist seems to grudgingly yield a little more. Soon, I can almost make out a clearing ahead, a break in the trees. And there, standing beside a large, dark shape that resolves into a horse, is a man!

Relief surges through me. It has to be a Martyshgard, or perhaps even one of the Martyshyars.

“Hey!” I yell. “Hey! Do you know which direction the castle is?”

I start to run, but the figure doesn’t turn to me. Doesn’t react at all, even though I am shouting as loudly as I can.

Caution peeks through my excitement. I slow my run to a more careful walk. This feels… off.

“Can you hear me?” I call out again, my voice less certain now.

Still no response. As I draw a little closer, I see a smaller figure beside the man. A child. A little girl. The man moves to kneel in front of her with a gentle posture, and his attention is entirely consumed by her.

The mist continues to thin as I approach as if I am passing through a series of increasingly transparent veils. Now, I can see them more clearly. Their clothes are rich, expensive fabrics in deep red and gold tones—not the practical garb of Martyshfolks. Their hair, both the man’s and the child’s, is pale.

And then, as the last wisps of mist swirl away from their faces, the air punches out of my lungs…

My blood doesn’t just run cold; it feels like it freezes solid in my veins, then shatters into a thousand icy shards. My legs feel like they are carved from lead, anchoring me to the spot.

That man… his profile, sharp and aristocratic, the proud set of his shoulders, the almost regal way he holds his head… Iknowhim. I know him with a certainty that is like a festering wound in the deepest, most painful corners of my memory.

He is High Lord Hoomyn Helmsworth of Myra. Myfather.

And the little girl, her innocent face turns up to him in an easy adoration. Her pale hair is a perfect, sun-kissed mirror of his… she is Hannah. His trueborn daughter. My half-sister. The cherished child, the legitimate daughter, the sun around which his world seemed to revolve all those years ago.

The scene before me isn’t just some random illusion. It is a memory. One of the many agonizing moments I had witnessed countless times, a lifetime ago, before I was sent away to Firelands.

He used to teach her to ride, just like this. The small, dappled pony, the infinite patience in his hands as he adjusts the tiny stirrups, the bright, carefree peal of Hannah’s laughter as he steadies her… it is all so painfully familiar.

I used to creep through the dense undergrowth at the very edge of the castle grounds in Myrielfort, the seat of the High Lord of Myra,my father. I’d hide behind thick, thorny bushes like a silent wraith observing these idyllic moments. Watching him be a father toher, and to his older son, Hyrad, his precious heir. The loving, attentive father he never, not for a single moment, chose to be to me, his bastard-born shame.

The mist has faded even further, but my vision remains blurry. This time, however, the moisture is hot and stinging. I raise a trembling hand to my eyes, only to realize that they are my own tears. I am crying.

Gods, why are you crying?

I am no longer that little girl who used to hide and watch these moments. I’d buried her, and her aching pain, deep down, a long, long time ago. So why now? Why, in this crucial moment, this trial that is supposed to be my chance to forge a new future, to finally leave my past behind, am I confronted withthis? And why am I dissolving into tears like a child?

“Father! You promised you wouldn’t let go!” Hannah’s bright, cheerful voice dances through the air.

“I won’t, my sweet. I promise. I’ll hold you tight, my brave little girl.”

A familiar numbness starts in my palms, a cold tide spreading up my arms, creeping towards my chest, aiming to extinguish any flame of my resolve.

No… it’s all an illusion, Arien. It’s not real.

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