His eyes snap back to mine. “I promised to be truthful. You’re being selective with your truth. I’m simply returning the favor.”
I frown, meeting his gaze, holding it. It’s a silent battle of wills, a tense standoff, even as every fiber of my being fights the desperate need to squirm away from his mesmerizing eyes that hold an unfair control over me.
Finally, after a long moment, he speaks with a low andgrudging voice. “What you heard is true. Each piece of the Star contains the power to bend one of the elements.”
“Do they work individually or only when combined?”
“No one knows,”
“Has anyone found a piece yet?”
He hesitates, his eyes searching mine. It seems like a calculation is taking place behind his impassive mask. “Martysh… might have one. They’ve known about the Star far longer than anyone else.”
The words are carefully chosen and evasive. He’s testing me, waiting for a reaction, a tell. But I keep my face carefully blank.
Let him wonder.
“So you came here to find out if Martysh has a piece?”
Another pause, another intense study of my face. Then, a single, clipped word. “No.”
Oh, so he is lying, after all. I try to see through his deception, but he only stares back, his face a blank mask.
“Who made this Star?”
“No one knows. All records were wiped out centuries ago. If that’s Martysh’s work, then they have known about this for a long time. Firelands only learned about the Star more than a decade ago, by accident.”
Almost around the time that Bernold was murdered.
“It’s related to the story of the nine sisters, isn’t it?”
“The story of the nine sisters is ancient, pre-dating written records. It’s more likely that the Star was created, inspired by the creation myth, not the other way around.”
Before I can formulate another question, he cuts me off. “Now,” his voice hardens, “it’s your turn. Tell me the truth, Arien. Before you ask anything else.”
“I told you the truth,” I protest.
He doesn’t respond verbally. Instead, he moves. With shocking speed, he seizes both of my arms with a firm grip, not quite painful but undeniably controlling. He pulls me closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, close enough that his eyes, those intense emeralds,fill my vision.
He’s done playing games.
“Arien.” His voice is a dangerous rumble. “This is not a game. The entire continent is on the brink of war. If others know about this, especially your Izadeonian friends, it’ll be a hundred times more dangerous.”
Panic claws at my throat.
He knows.
“What if they do know?” I challenge, my voice trembling despite my efforts to control it. “They’ll find out eventually if they join Martysh.”
Zanyar closes his eyes for a short second and takes a deep, slow breath as if struggling for patience. When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with a chilling warning. “You’re not helping them, are you? I know you’re disillusioned with Firelands, but our land is your only protection, no matter how much you hate it. If you’re aiding the enemy, you’re not just endangering yourself. You’re risking the lives of every single sorcerer.”
His words squeeze the air from my lungs. I bite my lip, trying to anchor myself in reality. I need time and space, away from his overwhelming presence, to think.
“I’ll see you at sunset,” I say, the words rushed and desperate. “In front of the stables.”
And without waiting for a response, I wrench myself free from his grip and bolt.
Chapter Thirty
