Page 35 of The Ninth Element

“I’ll take her under my wing,” Bahador says, clapping a giant hand on my shoulder.

I gulp, imagining sparring with that mountain of a man, but Bahador seems oblivious to my apprehension.

“Meet me this afternoon,” he says with a confident grin. “We’ll make a warrior out of you in no time.”

For the rest of the day, I’m feeling a haze of emotions. The thrill of passing the second trial and securing a spot in the top nine wars with the fear of future challenges.

I keep reminding myself that things are looking up. I’m currently holding the third-place spot with a solid thirteen, trailing only slightly behind Zanyar’s seventeen and Maleed’s fourteen, both of which don’t even want to win.

Even better, my new Izadeonian allies are also ranking high—Darian is tied for fourth spot with Olanna at twelve points, and Bahador and Faelas are hot on the heels of the other Jamshahi women, Samira. We may be outnumbered, but with this crew’s strength and smarts, I feel more confident than ever about my chances.

But my newfound allies, Darian, Bahador, and Faelas, are a source of anxiety as much as they are of comfort. Caution tells me this sudden camaraderie is fragile, like a feeble house built on the shifting sands of competition.

I’ve already learned the hard way that opening myself to others is a dangerous indulgence that results only in disappointment. I can’t risk that again, not when the stakes are so high. I tell myself to focus on the prize, to keep my emotions in check, and to remember that I’m here to win, not to make friends.

By the early afternoon, as I drag myself toward the training ground, I’m mentally and emotionally drained. The prospect of training feels overwhelming, but I know it’s crucial.

Lost in contemplation, I deviate from my usual path. Instead of the well-trodden route from the inner ward to the southern ward, I venture behindthe kitchens, past the pantries and storage rooms, and down a secluded hallway. As I approach the door leading to the southern ward, I enter a scene that instantly raises my suspicions.

Kortyz and the two other Myran men, Syriad and Rygnar, are huddled in the shadows, furtively smoking something that looks suspiciously like pilfered kitchen herbs. The air reeks with a pungent, unfamiliar aroma, and their shifty glances only fuel my alarm.

I decide to hurry out unseen, but Kortyz sees me before I can make an escape, and his face twists into a sneer. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the traitorous Ahira.” He takes a step toward me, swaying like a drunken sailor. His eyes are glazed over. “Fraternizing with the servants after cozying up to those lowly eastern dogs? Or did you lose your way, little lamb?”

He practically licks his lips when he sayslamb, sending a shudder of disgust down my spine. Opting to ignore him, I stay silent and walk past him. But it seems that my dismissal angers him more than any retort could. He blocks my way.

“Cat got your tongue? Last night, you were squawking like a crow.” He leans closer, his voice dripping with venom. “I told Maleed it is that Gajari blood in you, diluting even the noble sorcery in your bones. Even magic can’t wash away the dirt that runs in Gajari veins.”

Nine hells, the arrogance of this puffed-up oaf! I may not have given two copper coins for my absent Gajari mother, but to hear him spew such bile about the Gajaris, the very people he and my own father rule over against their will, ignites a fierce rage in my gut.

My fingers itch to release my sorcery and burn his eyebrows off, but I am not about to break the rules and get myself tossed out of the trials for a lowlife like him. I try to sidestep him, but this time, the other Myrans, Syriad, and Rygnar block my path.

“Gajaris should know their place,” Rygnar mumbles with a voice thick with menace. “You don’t just ignore your betters and walk away.”

I take a deep breath and open my palm to summon my sorcery quickly if need be.

“And what will you do about it? Make me?” My voice is steady despitethe rage and fear boiling inside me. Whatever herbs they’re smoking have clearly affected their minds. “Perhaps you need reminding that harming a fellow contender is forbidden between trials.”

Let them make the first move. I’d be waiting. And they’d learn that thislittle lambhas teeth.

Kortyz let out a bark of laughter. “Lucky for me, then, that no one will witness our little… disagreement in this secret corner, aye?”

He slithers closer. His breath is hot and reeks of that cursed herb while Syriad and Rygnar block any path I can take to run away.

I stand my ground, my chin held high. “Martyshbod said the bracelet will ensure we are eliminated if we disobey the rules.”

He creeps in closer, “Did she? I don’t remember that. Why don’t we put that idea to the test?”

“Lest you’ve forgotten, I’m an Ahira. Touch me, and I’ll turn you into a bloody stain under my foot,” I say through gritted teeth.

Kortyz’s smirk only widens, and he steps closer still, his gaze holding a dark promise. I have no idea what he intends to do, but from the look in his eyes, it won’t be pleasant. But whatever happens, I know I can’t blast him with sorcery first, or else I’d be the one breaking the rules.

Is this his game? To goad me into attacking so he can have me disqualified from the competition? Maybe he isn’t as addled as I thought—the cunning bastard.

Now I’m trapped, and Kortyz is looming over me. Behind me, another Myran effectively seals off any chance of retreat down the narrow hallway. My mind races, but the rules are clear: I can’t initiate an attack.

Instead, I decide to use this opportunity to tosshimout! The instant Kortyz makes his move, I will cast a protective shield from my outstretched palm, intercepting his blow. If I’m fast enough to cast the shield, I can get him eliminated without letting him hurt me.

Every muscle in my body is taut, coiled, and ready to react. I brace myself, waiting for the inevitable strike, a blow I can only pray my hastily conjured shield would meet in time.

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