Page 15 of The Ninth Element

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Why am I letting this color, these memories, bother me? That was a life I left behind. This gray is different. This is Martysh’s gray! It is the attire of a warrior, not a lonely orphan. This is the color that I chose! This ismygray.

I take a long, hard look at my reflection,reallyseeing myself for the first time in my new warrior attire. My gaze sweeps over my features, taking them in with a critical eye.

I can’t fool myself; I am not exactly what anyone would call a breathtaking beauty. Not ugly, no, but definitely not turning heads.

My eyes are probably my best feature, even if they are a painful reminder of my absent Gajari mother. Big and black, almond-shaped, with thick, long lashes—all Gajari. I don’t mind my eyebrows and hair, either. My raven hair is thick and shiny, with a natural wave to it.

What I like most about my eyes and hair, though, is that they are dark. Not pale, like my father and his trueborn children. I don’t want to look like them, likehim. Don’t want to be associated with him in any way, even though I am certain he has long forgotten about the child he abandoned.

But other than that, I’m quite average. Average height, average nose, average mouth. Maybe a little on the thin side, with no curves to speak of. Not that I ever cared much. I’ve always been too busy worrying about what others think of my personality to care about their opinions about my looks.

I take another deep breath and step out of my small quarters. It’s the first morning after the trials started. Restless dreams kept me wide awake before the first rooster crowed. I walk from the watchtower, where our quarters are located, to the kitchen, quickly snatch an apple, and make for the training grounds.

Dawn has barely peeked over the horizon, and the training ground is blessedly empty, which is precisely why I am here—to avoid public humiliation for my lackluster sword skills. Grabbing a sword from the weapon rack—which is overflowing with enough pointy, sharp, andgenerally dangerous-looking objects to outfit a small army—I head to the closest training dummy.

Unsurprisingly, I swing the sword with all the grace of a drunken rabbit. The air whooshes, more from effort than anything resembling a proper cut, and the blade clangs harmlessly off the dummy, sending a shower of sawdust raining down on my untidy hair.

“Even a snail with a limp could survive that attack,” a voice drawls from behind me.

Startled, I whirl around to find Darian watching me. A smirk plays on his lips as he observes my valiant yet ultimately pathetic display of swordsmanship.

Even though he looks as if he just crawled out of bed—his hair slightly tousled and his clothes a bit rumpled—he,infuriatingly, still looks stunninglycharming, and my pulse quickens at the sight of him.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I exclaim as I try to plant the sword in the ground with a grand gesture, only to almost topple over myself. Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, I marvel at the sting of exertion and the tinge of embarrassment.

“Frankly, it was more of a compliment, considering you clearly haven’t been acquainted with a sword since… well, ever. Your form isn’t entirely terrible,” Darian comments casually, inspecting me with the critical eye of a sculptor assessing a chunky clay pot. “It’s your aim that needs a bit of… refinement.”

Now, I’m really not in the mood for smug commentary, especially from someone who looks like he’s been cradling a sword since he could walk. “Thanks for that incredibly insightful observation,” I mutter, wrestling with the sword that seems determined to remain permanently embedded in the earth.

Darian, however, remains unfazed, possessing the unshakeable confidence of a man who wouldn’t bat an eyelash if a Daeva decided to take a nap on his side.

“You’re most welcome,” he chirps, plucking a sword from the rack that looks more like an oversized needle than a weapon of war. “Mostpeople think swordplay is all about brute force, but it’s an art. Movement, footwork, redirection, the occasional well-timed jab—that’s what separates the warriors from theenthusiastically stabbingcrowd.”

He twirls the slender sword with elegance and offers it to me. “Shall we dance?”

Hesitantly, I reach out and take the weapon. The sword feels like a feather compared to the cumbersome club I’d been wrestling with moments ago.

“Let’s see what you can do with a blade that doesn’t require the strength of an ox,” he deadpans.

I don’t move as I eye him suspiciously.

“What’s the matter? Afraid of a little friendly dance with the competition?” A corner of his mouth twitches upward, a common and fascinating expression. “Or are you worried your sword skills are about as sharp as a butter knife?”

I draw myself up. “I was rather hoping for some solitary practice. Besides, I prefer my sparring partners to be less… insulting.”

“And that is precisely why you’re no good. If you want to poke holes in inanimate objects, might I suggest embroidery? Swordplay is a dance, not a solo performance. You need a partner. Someone to point out your flaws, your questionable footwork, and your uncanny ability to miss a target the size of a barn door.”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve been practicing for years!” I huff.

“You don’t call stabbing dead dummies practicing, do you?” he counters, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“And what’s it to you, anyway?” I grumble, feeling my cheeks flush.

“Well, I, too, am here to train. And as I so eloquently mentioned, swordplay isn’t a solo sport. Consider this a life-saving lesson should these trials force you to use a sword.”

I consider his offer. I have indeed spent countless hours practicing with lifeless dummies, but facing a real opponent is a different beast altogether. This could be the chance to test my abilities against a living, breathing adversary. I can’t afford to pass up such a valuable opportunity.

I grip the thin sword with newfound determination, ready to show thatI’m not just a bookworm with a gift for navigating through mists. Darian, meanwhile, twirls his own sword like it is a feather, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes his stance opposite me.

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