Page 13 of The Ninth Element

“There aren’t many of us,” I respond.

Despite his imposing stature and rugged appearance, his demeanor is surprisingly gentle and approachable. He nods thoughtfully, his eyes still on me. “Not like blacksmiths or bakers, that’s for sure. You look… young.” He glances at the four rings adorning my fingers before meeting my gaze again. There is a hint of what appears to be respect in his eyes.

It is a foreign concept, and my stomach does a little dance in response. This enormous man, this surprisingly perceptive giant, is making me flustered, even though he isn’t doing anything, intentionally, to fluster me. It isn’t just his size or the intensity of his gaze. It is his…presence. His attention. That hint of regard in his eyes. It is unsettling. I look away, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern of cracks in the stone floor.

“By chance, is that your brooding lover?” he asks casually, throwing a look over my shoulder.

“W-what?” I sputter.

“He seems pretty interested in our conversation. He’s glaring at me like I just stole his favorite axe.”

I look around, bewildered, my gaze finally landing on Zanyar. He is standing a few paces away, his arms crossed, his expression thunderous.

If looks could kill, I would currently be a small, smoking pile of ash on the ancient stones of Jahanwatch.

What, by all the fires of Azarkuh, is his problem?

But before I can stammer out a reply, another figure strides into the courtyard through the gates, looking incredibly calm given what he has emerged from.

“Faelas!” Darian exclaims as he walks towards him and pulls the newcomer into a full hug. The man, Faelas, however, shoves him back with a grunt, which only makes Darian’s grin widen even further.

“Took you long enough, mate.”

“That’s because I was looking foryou,” Faelas mutters, a frown creasing his brow. “Why in the blazes did you stop calling for us?”

Just then, another Izadeonian, this one looking like he’d also wrestled a Daeva, stumbles through the gate, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

“Bahador!” Darian roars, clapping him on the shoulder.

The three of them then fall into an animated, overlapping conversation, sharing their experiences in that cursed mist. It seems Faelas and Bahador had indeed spent a considerable amount of time searching for Darian, even after Darian had apparently stopped responding to their calls. Both now seem thoroughly irritated with Darian for, as they put it, ‘gallivanting off on his own’.

Darian keeps protesting, claiming that he thought it was best to try and find the castle instead, a declaration he apparently shouted in the mist, which they heard but chose to interpret as more of a reason to find him.

Wait…

My mind snags on that. Then were those soundsreal? There isn’t a chance in the nine hells that someone was looking formewith that kind of urgency. Specifically not, as my foolish, overactive imagination embarrassingly assumed to be Zanyar. So, for some, the voices were genuine, and for others… a trick?

As I am contemplating, I am startled to find Zanyar suddenly looming beside me like a storm cloud. He grabs a cup from the table and downs some water in one swift gulp, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles working.

I look up at him cautiously, unsure if I should risk initiating a conversation or if that would merely invite his typical glacial stares. Just as he openshis mouth, seemingly to address me, another figure materializes through the gates – another sorcerer. Maleed.

He looks… awful. All traces of his usual arrogance and confidence have been stripped away, leaving behind a man who looks like he’s stared into the abyss and found it staring back. After the Martyshgard slaps the bracelet onto his wrist, he races towards us, or rather, towards Zanyar.

Before he can even catch his breath properly, Zanyar asks, “What about the others?”

Maleed stammers, “I… I could only hear Kameel. Alizan. Elranz. And Pippin. I kept hearing their voices, so close, and then… then just when I thought they were only a few steps away, their voices would recede, get further! It was maddening. At some point, I realized it was impossible to find anyone in that cursed mist. It was as if… as if the mist itself was intentionally keeping people on different, diverging tracks. So, instead, I tried to find the castle, which I should have done much, much earlier, and then I…” He falters, his gaze dropping, clearly not keen on sharing whatever personal horror he has experienced in the depths of the fog.

As the sun begins its slow descent towards the horizon, and with still no sign of any of the other Ahiras, Zanyar’s mood darkens with the same pace as the encroaching night. He hasn’t touched any food, and his expression is as sharp as broken glass.

I can’t help but wonder what had him so agitated. They had all ‘volunteered’ for this competition, knowing they would have to intentionally fail at some point. Does he feel humiliated that most of the Ahiras might be eliminated in the very first trial?

Meanwhile, the courtyard is gradually filling with more hopefuls. Nine of the Izadeonians who have passed the test are now at the food table, drinking wine and ale. Six Jamshahis have arrived and are huddled together, comparing their mist experiences in hushed tones, while the Maravanians are shoveling food into their mouths like they haven’t seen a decent meal in a fortnight. Three Eyrians are talking quietly amongst themselves in a corner. To my delight, no one from Southern Myra has yet managed to pass the barrier, but the two Gajaris are present. The Kishi girl, Lila, hasapproached the Izadeonian group and is now engaged in a conversation with Faelas.

Listening to the conversation reveals a common theme: many people wasted a significant amount of time trying unsuccessfully to find each other in the mist. It is only after they gave up on this pursuit that they could confront the true nature of these illusions.

Many seem hesitant to share their specific experiences, suggesting that the mist has penetrated deeply, touching on their most profound memories, fears, inspirations, and motivations. Those who are still missing may be stubbornly pursuing phantom sounds or may have entirely succumbed to the emotional torment inflicted by the mist.

As the day draws inexorably to a close, Zanyar remains unexpectedly, and rather uncomfortably, by my side. It is a gesture so out of character that even Maleed finds it unusual, as evidenced by the disapproving, sideways glances he keeps shooting in our direction.

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