Page 55

As we sprint down the street after the flying Nohvan, I spot Roshana and Syriad making their way toward the stables with food in hand. They immediately drop their food upon seeing us run and join the chase.

We continue to pursue the majestic creature, my heart pounding in my chest. As we pass through a smaller square, I spot Samira and Olanna talking to the two Gajari men, Omeer and Othman. They notice us and, after a moment of hesitation, wisely decide to join the chase.

We are now a group of fifteen, running through the narrow streets of Shemiran. After passing several streets and making many turns, the Nohvan reaches a massive stone building and flies inside through one of the upper windows.

Bahador rams the door with his shoulder. The door creaks and groans but doesn’t budge. He makes another powerful shove, and this time, he manages to break it down.

It is a playhouse, or at least it was once, a long, long time ago.

It’s once-grand front is now crumbling. Ivy crawls up its walls, its tendrils reaching for the sky as if desperate to reclaim the building for nature.

It is a cavernous space, its ceiling supported by ancient, ornate beams. The seats are covered in cobwebs and dust, and the stage is a dusty expanse littered with broken props and forgotten costumes.

A chill wind whistles through the broken windows, carrying mournful echoes of past performances. The atmosphere is so desolate that it feels like the ghosts of actors and audience members are lingering in the air, their spirits trapped within the decaying walls of the playhouse.

But what truly captures our attention is what is on the rundown stage. We all stare at it as we walk down the aisle. Atop the crumbling floor, nine imposing arched stone gates stand as wisps of smoke and light veil their entrances.

From the side, the gates appear to be solid stone, with no visible passageway behind them. However, when viewed from the front, the space within the arches seems to shimmer and distort, as if the air itself is a doorway.

These are clearly not ordinary gates.

The golden phantom of the Nohvan has disappeared, leaving behind nine golden coins on the crumbling stage. As we arrive on the stage, those of us who contributed our coins retrieve them.

Now that I am closer, I can see ancient words carved along the stone frames of the gates, as old as the theater itself. I recognize the old tongue, but the dialect used is one with which I’m not entirely familiar.

“Are the coins behind those gates?” Roshana asks.

“Most likely,” Bahador replies.

“Let’s pass through them,” Syriad says, his tone impatient.

“Is it safe?” Pippin asks with a trembling voice.

“Which one should we try to pass through?” Roshana asks.

Syriad scoffs. “Does it matter? We can try them one by one.”

“No, we can’t,” I say. “If it were that simple, they wouldn’t have put nine gates here. We have to choose the right one.”

“For the Nine, are we getting advice from Gajari filth now?” Syriad snaps.

The insult is sharp and cruel, but nothing that I didn’t expect from a southern Myran. Before I can even formulate a retort, a roar, more animal than human, erupts beside me.

“What was that, cur?” Bahador bellows, his voice a thunderclap, his massive frame surging forward. “Bark again, if you dare.”

He looms over the Myran like a mountain threatening to crush an ant. Darian and Faelas, flanking him, are no less intimidating. Their faces are carved from granite, their eyes blazing, their hands hovering over the hilts of their swords with a silent, deadly promise.

Even though I’m grateful for their protectiveness, this is not the time for a brawl.

We have a mission to complete, and those damn coins aren’t going to find themselves.

Fighting, especially with an imbecile like Syriad, is the last thing we need.

It is a pointless distraction, a waste of precious time we don’t have.

The Izadeonians, however, don’t seem to share my pragmatic concerns. They look incensed, their faces are flushed with anger, their bodies coiled, and they seem ready to spring.

“Everyone, stop!” I shout, the words bursting from my lips with a force that surprises even me.

The playhouse falls silent. The Izadeonians freeze mid-gesture as they turn to stare at me. Everyone looks momentarily stunned by my outburst.

“We can’t afford to be distracted by squabbles and personal grudges.

” I take another step toward Syriad. “And you! If you think you know better than Gajari filth, be my guest,” I say with a sweep of my arm toward the gates.

“No one is stopping you from stepping into the gates and finding your precious coins. The rest of us, however, know better than to be mindless fools.”

Syriad is as red as a beet, his anger evident on his face. But the sight of the three Izadeonians standing beside me stops him from retaliating.

“Should we risk it and step through one of these gates, then?” Roshana suggests.

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Pippin stammers, his eyes wide with apprehension. “They seem like doorways to other worlds.”

“There are no other worlds,” Zanyar says curtly. “These gates are enchanted; that much is clear. The question is, what kind of sorcery is trapped between them?”

The Gajari men step close to the gates, studying them intently.

“Could the sorcery within them transport us to another location?” Olanna wonders .

“Sorcery is the art of bending the elements,” I reply, “or altering the interaction between the elements. It cannot bend space or time.”

Zanyar nods in agreement. “It’s likely an illusion spell. If we pass through the correct gate, an illusion could lead us to where the coins are.”

Syriad’s face is still red, and his expression is hostile as he stares at the gates. He is used to having the last word, and being humiliated by me seems to have been too much for him to handle. I eye him warily, knowing how much of a fool he can be.

“I can’t see any other option than trying,” Roshana says, eyeing Zanyar with adoration.

“Agreed,” Syriad grunts, and then, without warning, he lunges toward Omeer, who stands closest to one of the shimmering gates.

Lila and I scream simultaneously, “Omeer!”

My hand, as if with a will of its own, snaps up to summon a shield to stop him, momentarily forgetting that using my sorcery would disqualify me from the trials.

But before the spell can form, before I can even draw breath, Zanyar’s hand clamps down on my wrist. The speed of his reaction suggests that he knew what I was about to do before I’d even fully formed the thought.

Omeer, startled by our cries, whirls around a fraction of a heartbeat before Syriad reaches him. His eyes widen in a flash of pure terror…

He’s going to push him through the gates…

My mind screams as I fight against Zanyar’s grip on my hand.

But Omeer is impossibly fast. With an unearthly reflex, he sidesteps, grabbing Syriad’s outstretched arm and using his momentum against him.

A perfectly timed shove catches Syriad completely off guard, and he stumbles forward, his own furious speed carrying him through the shimmering portal.

We watch, wide-eyed in horror, breath caught in our throats.

He steps into the gate… and time seems to stop for him.

He freezes mid-stride, one leg suspended before the portal, the other beyond, as if petrified.

For a few stretched moments, silence reigns.

Then, his body moves, and he steps out on the other side, his back to us.

An eerie, unnatural stillness stretches, thickens, and quickly becomes a suffocating weight. No one dares to move. No one breathes.

Then, painfully slowly, he turns to look at us. His body looks normal. Unchanged. If it weren’t for the expression in his eyes—a vacant, horrified stare—I’d think he was unharmed. But then, a thin trickle of blood starts at his nose. Then, a thicker stream, darker, from the corner of his mouth.

And then it’s everywhere. Pouring from his eyes, from his ears, like a steady, relentless flow. He reaches out one hand to us, but before he can utter a sound or even take a step, he crumbles to the floor like a discarded puppet.

The movement breaks the spell. I gasp and rush to kneel beside him with a futile need to do something. But his eyes, wide and staring, are vacant as if his very soul has been ripped from his body.

I’m trying to process what I’ve just witnessed when a hand settles on my shoulder. I flinch, looking up to see Darian kneeling beside me. He doesn’t speak, just places a finger on Syriad’s neck for confirmation. “He’s dead.”

A heavy silence spreads across the playhouse. No one dares to speak, to move, to even breathe.

Finally, Darian stands up. He calls to Bahador, and together, they lift Syriad’s body and carry it, with an unexpected reverence, to the side of the stage, away from the others’s gaze.

I look around. Omeer and Othman are staring at Syriad’s body, and I can see a hint of joy in their eyes.

Zanyar has already moved on and is examining the carvings around the gates.

He has an ominous frown on his face like he is not happy with what is in front of his eyes.

Samira and Olanna are also walking near the gates.

Most of the others also seem unfazed by Syriad’s death, except for Kameel and Maleed, who look more concerned than sad, and Pippin, who appears petrified.

“Don’t let it bother you,” Lila says, standing beside me. “He had it coming.”

I nod and take a deep breath. The collective appears unbothered by Syriad’s demise, propelling me to move on as well.

I walk toward the gates and study the words along the arc of them once more.

“This seems to be a long sentence,” I say, pointing at two of the words.

“This word means strength, and this one is darkness. ”