“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.
