Page 3 of The Ninth Element

Steady yourself, Arien. You expected this. In… Out…

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this isn’t a request; it’s an inevitability. I have, indeed, meticulously prepared for the very real possibility of their collective disapproval. My contingency plan is tucked neatly in my mental satchel, less glamorous but decidedly functional.

Martysh operates in two branches. The Martyshgard Order forms the military branch. This Order has an open cadet program for all citizens of the Asyrion Union, who can undergo a year of training before being selected for full induction. According to the Treaty of the Nine, this requires no provincial blessing—a route I can take without Firelands’s approval.

Yet, in my mind, that particular path was only a preliminary stage, a stepping stone toward my final aspiration: to enter Martysh’s second branch, its intelligence wing, the esteemedMartyshyar Order. The legends. The spies. The strategists. The ones who holdrealpower.

To an average Martyshgard recruit, becoming a Martyshyar is the ultimate, almost unattainable dream. They are the elite, selected from the best of Martyshgards, trained for years, entrusted with secrets that could undo nations, guiding High Lords, and navigating perilous intrigues. It’s a position typically earned through long, decorated service in the Military branch and only possible after gaining seven military stars.

But rarely does Martysh hold what they callthe Martyshyar trials, a rareopening, a high-stakes contest for outsiders to join their intelligence ranks from the outside. Ten champions from each of the nine provinces should compete in these trials, and only nine or fewer can win. If I could be one of those winners, I could leapfrog the entire system and land directly in my dream role: a Martyshyar.

Three years ago, Martysh announced they would hold the trials this spring after a seventy-year pause. At that very moment, with absolute clarity, I recognized this as my fate, as a sign that this is my path, the opportunity I had been waiting for all my life.

The only snag in my otherwise brilliant plan? Unlike simply enlisting in the military wing, participating in these trials requires Firelands’s official nomination. Their blessing. Which, considering my general existence is a mild affront to their white-robed sensibilities, is a rather significant, if not insurmountable, obstacle.

But if these ancient relics of magical superiority refuse my perfectly reasonable request, I will simply inform them of my immediate plans to join the Martyshgard Order. My bag, containing precisely no items suitable for actual combat, is already packed.

So, I return Emmengar’s piercing gaze with one of my own, letting the unshakeable resolve within me shine through.

I am going to Martysh. Whether you allow it or not.

I let that silent message, clear and unambiguous, burn in my eyes.

Emmengar’s eyes, brimming with wisdom and scrutiny, seem to pierce my very soul, peeling away the carefully crafted facade I’ve maintained over the years. The only outward sign of his internal deliberations is a slight narrowing of those unnervingly blue eyes, a fleeting moment of sharpness that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Does he see the stubborn rebellion etched behind my polite front? All I know is that I am poised on the edge of a life-altering decision.

Ahira Emmengar finally breaks the tense silence. “For three centuries, it has been our tradition to honor the aspirations of any Ahira who outpaced their peers in the collection of rings. Arien, you have undeniably earned this right, and we shall not deny you what is rightfully yours.”

His voice, though calm, carries a note of finality that even the visible disapproval radiating from the other council members cannot diminish. “Therefore, Firelands council grants your wish. You shall join the Firelands fellowship for Martyshyar trials.”

Before I can start flying out of my skin from pure thrill, he adds, “There’s only one condition. If you fail the trials, you must never attempt to join Martysh. Ever again.”

Chapter Two

WHY is he here?

It’s the question I’ve been asking myself over and over again since we left Firelands for the Martysh trials two moons ago. For the thousandth time, my gaze is drawn to him. Even the sun, it seems, has decided Zanyar Zareen’s face is a masterpiece because it tirelessly bathes him in a flattering golden light.

His hair cascades like a waterfall of pure, spun golden brown. His eyes, those vibrant, captivating green orbs—like a lush, moss-covered forest after a spring rain, with a touch of sunlight filtering through the leaves for extra effect—are, as always, distracting.

He’s dangerously attractive. Not in a soft, boyish way, but with the raw, untamed beauty of a lion, powerful and perfectly formed, lethal in its grace. Every line of his chiseled jaw, every plane of his face, speaks of resolve, of determination, and a flicker of something darker, something that makes my breath catch.

He moves with a natural, effortless elegance, each stride radiating authority, a palpable sense of power that fills the space around him, leaving a lingering impression, a subtle threat, on everyone he encounters.

Stop looking at him,I mentally yell at myself.You’re mad at him. Remember?

But, as I haven’t managed to look away since the first time I saw him twelve years ago, my efforts are futile. Frankly, the least he can do afternot talking to me once in two moons since we left Firelands is to let me appreciate the view.His view, to be exact.

He is currently scaling the mountain ahead of the rest of our Firelands fellowship, looking annoyingly fresh. No sweat, no fatigue, nothing. Meanwhile, I am drenched, my feet ache, and my stomach is staging a full-blown rebellion.

Since dawn, we’ve been scrambling up the mountain trails alongside the rest of the contenders in the Martysh trials, led by a group of silent Martyshgards who met us at an inn near Shemiran, the Union’s town nestled in the valley below. It’s been nothing but wind-whipped faces and blistered soles since.

“What a dreadful ordeal,” Pippin groans beside me, his breathing sounding suspiciously like a dying animal and his face looking almost as red as his fiery hair.

He looks like the living embodiment of why scholars should not be forced on wilderness expeditions. His bulky frame is more suited for scrutinizing scrolls, not scaling mountains.

I’ve known Pippin for three years, ever since I was banished—sorry, assigned—to the alchemy hall under his supervision, which mostly consisted of him letting me supervise myself while his nose was stuck in some book about the color of leaves in Villya.

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