Chap­ter I begins with­in the ver­dant heart of Ptarth’s roy­al gar­dens, where Thu­via sat beneath the soft blos­soms of a tow­er­ing pimalia. Her still­ness was deceiv­ing, for inward­ly she wres­tled with the unwel­come per­sis­tence of Astok, Prince of Dusar. His dec­la­ra­tions, wrapped in veiled arro­gance and dis­re­gard for her will, only deep­ened her scorn. He mis­un­der­stood her civil­i­ty as invi­ta­tion, for­get­ting the restraint expect­ed of Mar­t­ian nobil­i­ty. When his for­ward­ness crossed the line, Cartho­ris of Heli­um arrived, his entrance both time­ly and firm. With­out the need for elab­o­rate exchange, a sim­ple word and the ten­sion in his pos­ture silenced Astok’s boasts. Thu­via observed in silence, grate­ful yet com­posed, unwill­ing to show more than eti­quette allowed. Before mat­ters could erupt into open con­fronta­tion, her voice calmed the guards who arrived to inter­vene. She sug­gest­ed a peace­ful end to the mat­ter, mind­ful of the sacred­ness of the gar­den and the polit­i­cal impli­ca­tions of vio­lence.

Astok’s with­draw­al was a show of emp­ty polite­ness, hid­ing resent­ment behind prac­ticed farewells. Thu­van Dihn’s response was equal­ly for­mal but thin­ly con­cealed his dis­ap­proval. The prince’s con­duct had brushed dan­ger­ous­ly close to caus­ing diplo­mat­ic frac­ture. With the threat avert­ed, the moon­light offered a calmer stage for a con­ver­sa­tion of more ten­der mat­ters. Cartho­ris and Thu­via stood apart yet emo­tion­al­ly teth­ered, a bond nei­ther ful­ly acknowl­edged. He con­fessed his affec­tion, words sim­ple but weighty. Thu­via, ever duti­ful to her peo­ple and promise, remind­ed him of her future with Kulan Tith. Her words were not cold but res­olute. Cartho­ris respect­ed her hon­esty and refrained from press­ing fur­ther, choos­ing instead to hide his dis­ap­point­ment with the dig­ni­ty befit­ting a prince of Heli­um. Their good­bye held more than either spoke aloud.

The evening air car­ried a strange still­ness as Cartho­ris approached his fli­er. There was pride in the design, a craft equipped with inno­va­tions that could change air trav­el on Bar­soom. He explained the mech­a­nisms to Thu­van Dihn—how the con­trols allowed for autonomous flight, avoid­ing obsta­cles while ensur­ing safe pas­sage even with­out a pilot. The elder Jed­dak lis­tened with inter­est, impressed by the inge­nu­ity but curi­ous about its lim­its. One of the palace atten­dants, less for­mal­ly trained yet keen-eyed, hint­ed at a poten­tial weak­ness in the sys­tem. This obser­va­tion was dis­missed light­ly, though Cartho­ris not­ed it with a men­tal book­mark, a reminder that even bril­liance must be test­ed by scruti­ny. That moment cap­tured the essence of Mars—advancement meet­ing the wis­dom of expe­ri­ence.

Back inside the palace, Thu­via wan­dered through thoughts heav­ier than armor. Her loy­al­ty to Kulan Tith was not born of love, but of duty and alliance. Still, Cartho­ris’s words lin­gered, a whis­per that stirred con­flict in her spir­it. Love, on Bar­soom, often col­lid­ed with oblig­a­tion. She admired Cartho­ris not just for his courage but for the restraint he had shown. In that brief moment, she had glimpsed a future dif­fer­ent from the one promised to her. But Bar­soom was a world of promis­es bound by pow­er, not dreams. Her heart, though touched, remained restrained by the expec­ta­tions placed upon her as a princess of Ptarth. Alone with the scent of pimalia still cling­ing to her, Thu­via con­tem­plat­ed what might have been.

Mean­while, aboard his fli­er, Cartho­ris set the con­trols for Ptarth’s skies. The night winds whis­pered across the deck, car­ry­ing his thoughts back to the gar­dens. He did not regret speak­ing his heart, even if it brought him pain. Duty, again, took the reins of his choic­es, lead­ing him back to Helium’s oblig­a­tions and the ten­sion of ris­ing polit­i­cal stakes. Unknown to him, his inven­tion, laud­ed for its auton­o­my, had been observed too close­ly by hands less noble. The idea that such a craft could be altered, mis­di­rect­ed, or stolen lin­gered unspo­ken but real. In a world where ambi­tion often over­shad­owed hon­or, the very thing designed to pro­tect him might soon be turned into a threat.

Though the chap­ter ends with part­ings, it plants the seeds for every thread that fol­lows: the tug of love and loy­al­ty, the pride of inven­tion tem­pered by human error, and the shad­ows cast by polit­i­cal ambi­tion. Through care­ful choic­es of words and restraint, it becomes clear that what isn’t said often shapes des­tiny more than what is. Thu­via and Cartho­ris are bound by hon­or, sep­a­rat­ed by duty, and drawn togeth­er by some­thing nei­ther war nor tra­di­tion can silence.