Zanyar doesn’t seem thrilled about our new additions but doesn’t object. Darian, on the other hand, is all warmth, stepping beside me and offering his usual, heart-stoppingly kind smile. “Why am I not surprised that you’ve discovered some sort of a secret?”
“In the second trial,” I begin, addressing the group as a whole, forcing my voice to remain steady, “the phantoms transformed into the coins we collected. I think we need to summon the Nohvan again from the coins.”
They all stare at me with varying shades of doubt, disbelief, and open skepticism, except for Zanyar and the Izadeonians. Maleed shakes his head slowly with utter contempt, probably already crowning me the village idiot.
“And how, precisely, do you propose we summon this phantom?” Kameel asks, his voice laced with doubt.
“Maybe if each of us contributes a coin? Nine of us, nine coins… like in the legend of Nohvan.”
The silence lingers for a long moment. Then, Darian reaches into his pocket without a word and pulls out one of his coins. “Only one way to find out,” he says, his gaze meeting mine, holding a silent reassurance.
I reach out and take my coins back from Zanyar, holding on to only one while placing the other back in my pouch. I hold both of our coins in my hand, but nothing happens. Zanyar then places one of his in my palm. Bahador, Faelas, and Lila follow suit. Maleed rolls his eyes before pulling out one of his coins and adding it to the pile, followed by Kameel.
Pippin, however, hesitates, looking terrified.
“What are you waiting for?” Bahador snaps at him.
“What if Arien’s right?” Pippin whimpers. “There are only nine of us here. What if we’re the only ones who pass the trial? The last nine? And then we have to join Martysh?”
Pippin looks around, appearing as though he might cry. His gaze lands on Zanyar, who commands with an ice-cold voice that chills any man to the bone, “Give her one of your coins.”
Pippin trembles visibly as he reaches into his pocket, takes a coin out, and places it on my palm, above all the others.
I hold my breath, wondering for a brief moment if I was mistaken again. When nothing happens after a few moments, I brace myself to admit defeat when the coins begin to heat up, growing so hot that I can barely hold them. Just as I fear my palm might burn, the coins start to transform into a swirling mixture of dust, light, and sparks.
Suddenly, a fountain of light rises from my palm, spiraling around me and the others like a tornado until a golden Nohvan forms above our heads, much larger and brighter than the one from the second trial.
It spreads its majestic wings, moving them with graceful ease. And then, with a final mesmerizing maneuver, it begins to soar away.
Chapter Thirty-One
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 mournfulechoes 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.
