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Roshana steps forward. As a student of Madrisa, she is the most knowledgeable among us about ancient languages.

“It seems to be a poem.” Then she reads it.

“Nine gates stand united, a symbol of strength and might. Only when nine hearts are joined as one can the gates be opened to light. Divide and conquer, and darkness shall prevail. United we enter, victorious we prevail.”

Silence envelops us as we reflect on the words.

I’m fairly certain I understand their meaning, and I can see the same recognition reflected in Zanyar’s furrowed brow.

Faelas, too, wears a similar expression of understanding mixed with concern.

However, none of us seems certain enough to voice our thoughts.

The consequences of being wrong are too terrible to contemplate.

“What did that mean? United in what?” Bahador asks, breaking the silence.

“United to enter,” I say. “I think it means we all have to enter the gates at the same time. Or at least nine of us should.”

Everyone stares at me as if I’m crazy.

“Enter the gates? After what happened to Syriad?” Samira scoffs.

“That’s madness,” Roshana echoes.

“If Arien believes it’ll work, I trust her judgment,” Darian says. “She’s been right about every challenge we’ve faced so far. The poem mentioned something about sharing the same heart and mind, being united to enter. It makes sense that we should trust each other and approach the gates as one.”

Maleed, predictably, scoffs at the idea. “I’m not going through those gates just because of her hunch.”

Before he can further showcase his scorn, Zanyar silences him. “She’s right. If nine of us enter through the nine gates simultaneously, we’ll likely initiate the illusion that will lead us to the coins.”

Everyone’s faces scrunch up with serious contemplation. It stings, being dismissed faster than a sellsword at a feast. But then, Zanyar the golden, with his perfect hair and impeccable lineage, echoes my exact same words, and suddenly, everyone has a moment of collective consideration .

The problem is, we need nine brave souls—or nine bloody fools—for this harebrained scheme to work. And watching Syriad dissolve into a bloodstained mess isn’t exactly a selling point. So if it’s Zanyar’s words that need to convince them, not mine, so be it.

“The poem speaks of unity,” Roshana says, her voice sweet like summer wine, as she looks at Zanyar.

“Aye,” Lila agrees. “No other path I see.”

Brilliant. That’s seven, counting them, myself, Izadeonians, and Zanyar. Only two more are needed, and we have three Ahiras trembling in their boots at the mere sight of Zanyar. No doubt they will join if Zanyar orders them to.

I turn to them, expecting them to fall in line, but Pippin is already backing away, while Maleed and Kameel wear frowns deeper than a well.

“Zanyar. A word?” Maleed gestures toward the corner, hoping for a private audience.

Zanyar, however, doesn’t move. “Say what you must.”

Maleed takes a deep breath. It’s the first time I’ve seen him express any frustration toward Zanyar.

According to Pippin, Kameel and Maleed share Pippin’s surprise at Zanyar’s relentless demand to win every trial.

However, they have always believed there was some grand plan behind his behavior.

After all, questioning Zanyar is akin to questioning Ahira Emmengar himself, and for these two fools, that is blasphemy.

Maleed chews his cheek. But Kameel has all the subtlety of a charging bull. “This is too far!”

Zanyar only raises an eyebrow in response, like the portrait of indifference and dismissal that he is.

“We’ve followed you through arrows and wilderness,” Kameel continues, “but this is madness. After what happened to Syriad. We won’t risk our necks on the word of some crazy sorceress.”

“What if it’s my word?” Zanyar challenges him with a voice as solid as Azarkuh, unyielding and sharp, with the threat of a sleeping volcano underneath.

Maleed hesitates for a short moment but finally manages to say, “Even then. We’ve come too far already.

Pippin’s right. If only nine can pass through these gates, it could be the final nine.

Are you sure you want to gamble everything?

To be forced to join Martysh? Or die in whatever is beyond those gates, like Syriad? ”

Zanyar looks at him coldly and averts his eyes shortly after, offering only a short response, “Do as you will.”

Maleed’s face suggests he would have preferred a slap over that curt dismissal. The whole exchange leaves me stunned. Watching Zanyar’s blatant disregard for the five-ringed Ahiras while siding with me was not what I expected to see.

“We’re coming too,” Omeer announces and steps forward with Othman, finally gracing us with their company.

“Hold on,” Samira says, suddenly looking like she’d fight a Nohvan for a spot, even though she doubted this whole plan not a short while ago. “What if that sour-faced Ahira is right? Only nine through the gate and those behind the gates are done for?”

“They wouldn’t have paired us if that was the case,” I say. “They probably foresaw that there would be more than nine people in this playhouse. So they matched us up to ensure that everyone had a chance to win, even if only one person made it through the gates. There’s no need to fight over it.”

Samira nods, seemingly convinced. “I’m going then. Between the two of us.” She gestures between herself and Olanna. She’s the obvious choice between the two with her impressively muscled arms and body strength.

Roshana glances at Pippin, who is already sulking by the edge of the stage and sighs. “Guess I’ll represent our merry band.”

“But wouldn’t more hands make for lighter work?” Olanna chimes in. “If so, I’ll join Samira.”

“Nine’s the limit,” Zanyar says firmly.

“And who died and made you king of selecting the chosen nine?” Olanna scoffs, her eyes narrowed at Zanyar. “We’re not your bloody cronies, you know.”

A prickly silence falls over the group. Zanyar, accustomed to unquestioning obedience, regards Olanna as if her very existence is of no significance to him, and he is utterly bewildered as to why she even dared to address him.

His dismissive stare only fuels Olanna’s anger, and I see both her and Samira clench their jaws at his blatant disregard.

“We just need two more coins,” I suggest to Zanyar, trying to defuse the situation. “Samira and Olanna need four. I can handle it for our pair.”

Zanyar’s gaze turns to me. “If you’re going, I’m going,” His voice is brooking no argument.

Eyebrows shoot up, wide-eyed glances are exchanged, and a silent chorus of “Did he just? ” fills the space.

Maleed and Kameel gape at him. They, like me, are clearly struggling to reconcile this possessive, almost protective Zanyar with the aloof, untouchable figure they’ve always known. Roshana frowns, and annoyance crosses her features. Even Lila, with her air of nonchalance, seems momentarily thrown.

Zanyar Zareen, the man who rarely acknowledges anyone’s existence beyond a curt nod, is suddenly displaying a fierce loyalty toward… me ?

“Enough of this bloody squabbling,” Darian barks, breaking the silence and stepping forward to stand beside me with a deep frown.

“We’re wasting time. We need one from each pair, except those two spineless cravens.

” He gestures at Maleed and Kameel, his voice dripping with annoyance.

“That’s Arien, me, Bahador, one of the Gajaris, Samira, and Roshana. We can only take three more.”

“We’re both going,” Othman declares, his voice as firm as Martysh Oath. Clearly, they aren’t about to miss a soldier in their battle to snatch their coins.

“Of course, I’ll go too,” Faelas shoots Darian a cold look. “Thanks for the invitation.”

Darian shrugs. “Just trying to be fair.”

“Nine we are, then,” Zanyar says, stepping forward, settling the matter with the finality of a headsman’s axe. He conveniently ignores Samira and Olanna’s sour faces.

“We’re with Bahador,” I assure Lila. “We’ll help him get your coins. ”

Lila is frowning, but I catch a flicker of relief in her eyes as she glances at Syriad’s crumpled form. I risk a glance, too, and my stomach churns. But I push the fear down. No. We won’t end up like Syriad, not if we stick together.

Zanyar, making unilateral decisions as always, steps in front of one of the gates.

The rest of us follow, each standing in front of one.

My heart is pounding. I am either one step from death or one step away from the prize I wanted all my life.

I know that if we win this trial, I’m almost there. There are so few of us left.

“On my order,” Darian says. “One, Two, Three.”

And with that, we all take a synchronized step inside the gates.