Page 86 of The Ninth Element

My mind is a tangled mess as I wander through Shemiran. The once-exciting town now feels like a stranger’s home.

Zanyar hasn’t chased after me, even though he could easily outrun me, even with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. I can only conclude that he must have realized I needed some time alone to think.

As I reach the edge of the town square, I come to a stop, standing still like an ancient oak. For a long time, I watch the constant flow of men, women, and children, each face telling its own story. Meanwhile, my thoughts battle like caged beasts in my mind.

I’ve always believed I knew what I wanted, but now I find myself questioning everything. Is my anger about Firelands misplaced? Is Martysh trustworthy? How about my new friends?

Arien, what are you doing?

The question slams into me like a brutal wave of self-reproach. I came to Jahanwatch with clear objectives: join Martysh. Escape. Prove myself. Belong. Instead, I’m tangled in a web of conflicting loyalties, half-truths, hidden agendas, and, worst of all, feelings I can’t afford to indulge.

I’m torn between the ingrained loyalty to Firelands, the unexpected pull toward Darian, and the increasingly dubious promise of Martysh. Am I jeopardizing everything, risking everyone’s safety by meddling in affairs I don’t understand, by getting involved in a centuries-old conflict centeredaround a power I can barely comprehend?

I admit that my obsession with the Star and this relentless need to find answers was never about my curiosity. It was about the Izadeonians. Becausetheycared, and I thoughtIshould care, too. And even after they’d pushed me away in their quest, I kept searching, driven by this pathetic hope that if I could just find some crucial piece of information, I could prove my worth and force my way back into their inner circle.

It’s a painful, humiliating realization.

It’s all because ofhim. Darian. I should be focusing on the trials. I didn’t come here to find love; I’m wasting precious time on this stupid infatuation with a man who clearly sees me as nothing more than a friend.

And now, instead of trying to complete this trial, I’ve squandered half the day arguing with my partner about a Star that I should have no business caring for and wandering through Shemiran, grappling with my existential crisis.

And Martysh, my dream, my sanctuary—the place where I had pinned all my hopes—is also crumbling before my very eyes. What if the Izadeonians are right, and it’s all built on lies, deception, and a refusal to help those in need? What if Zanyar is right, and it’s just another power structure, another game of ambition and control, complete with its own suffocating expectations and impossible demands?

As I stare out at the horizon, a bleak truth settles over me: I’m no closer to belonging than I was the day I arrived in Jahanwatch. In fact, I’m further. Before, there was only emptiness. Now, there’s the sharp sting of disappointment.

Arien. Focus…

I have to focus. This trial, it’s everything. Failure means going back to Firelands as a failure. Unless… Unless Zanyar was telling the truth. Unless his offer of Aravan, of a life beyond all of this, is real. The thought is…

No! Arien. FOCUS.

I need to put aside my doubts, my fears, my feelings. I need to concentrate on what I can control, which is only one thing right now: survival!

And then, perhaps, I can discover what I truly want.

I pull out my coins and examine them closely. Zanyar has been right about everything in the games so far, so his agreement with me about the coins boosts my confidence. But how can we transform them back into Nohvan’s golden phantom?

I rack my brain, trying to recall every scrap of information I’ve ever encountered about Nohvans. Unfortunately, there isn’t much. They are ancient creatures shrouded in myth and mystery. Rare and solitary, they dwell in the remote peaks of the Albir Mountains. They are known to support Martysh, but the specifics of how they do so are unclear. There are tales of Martyshyars soaring through the skies on the backs of Nohvans, undertaking daring missions and turning the tide of battles.

I should have studied the creatures more. They were on my reading list, but I was too busy obsessing over the Star instead. I sigh. With no other options, I begin searching for a library or bookshop. Perhaps the key lies in understanding how Martysh summons them for assistance.

At the edge of the square, just beneath the shade of a grand old oak tree, I notice a weathered old man sitting on a rock. His hair is a messy blend of silver and gray, framing a face marked by the passage of many years. Although he is dressed in tattered robes, they seem familiar. As I get closer, I realize they are the blue robes of Madrisa, suggesting that he was once a Master.

Despite his worn appearance, a warm aura surrounds him, drawing people in. A cluster of children has gathered around him, all giggling and excited.

“And so,” he leans in, lowering his voice to a whisper that captures their full attention, “the monsters, full of hunger and fear, retreated deep into the mountains, never to be seen again. The continent found solace once more, and the people celebrated. But,” his voice drops to an ominous tone, “those memories lingered, a ghostly reminder of the horrors that once swept through their land. Even now, they say if you listen closely on a dark, stormy night, you can still hear the distant howls of those beasts—a haunting sound from a time long past.”

As the old man concludes his story, silence envelops the children. Theygaze up at him, eyes wide, faces lit by awe and fear—some are even holding their breath, completely captivated. It’s a genuinely heartwarming sight.

“Tell us another story!” a little girl pipes up.

“And what shall it be?” the old man asks with smiling eyes. “Shall I tell you of courageous knights? Of sly tricksters and insightful sages? Of dragons wheeling across the heavens or giants striding through the mountains?”

“Tell us about the Nohvan!” I exclaim, the words spilling out of me unbidden.

I can’t help myself. He is a Master, and their minds hold a treasure trove of knowledge beyond sorcery. He might know something crucial.Anything.

The children erupt in cheers with a chorus of excited agreement. “Yes, yes! A Nohvan story! Please!”

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