Chapter XVII begins with the stirring sight of Ar-hap’s return, his army trailing behind like the weary wind. The land remains gripped by drought, and overhead, a bright comet cuts through the dusty sky like a warning. As the gates open and the soldiers trudge in, the air thickens with tension, not celebration. The once-proud forces now limp into their city with hollow eyes and scorched armor. Among them, rumors spread like dry brushfire—of the stranger who dared to claim Heru, the captive princess. Ar-hap, both ruler and warrior, wastes no time summoning the protagonist, demanding justification for his defiance of Martian custom.

The confrontation is as formal as it is dangerous. Ar-hap, towering and fierce, lays down challenges laced with ancient symbolism, meant to crush spirit and ego. Yet each task, seemingly drawn from myth, has already been faced—and conquered—by the protagonist. An old jawbone is produced without pause, and when Ar-hap mocks the need for a long-lost crown, it too is revealed. The court, once eager to jeer, falls into stunned silence. These objects, carried unknowingly as trophies from previous adventures, now serve as seals of power. Ar-hap narrows his gaze. Either this is sorcery, or fate itself is meddling in his court.

Still unconvinced, the king orders one final test, a ritual of Martian lore designed to reveal liars and cowards. The protagonist, instead of crumbling, steps forward with unwavering resolve. His confidence confuses the onlookers. To them, he is either a fool or a prophet. The ceremonial fire, meant to expose impostors, bends unexpectedly. It seems to favor him, flickering blue and white, the colors of truth in Martian belief. Murmurs spread through the hall. Ar-hap watches, a slow realization dawning behind his guarded expression. Something larger than politics may be at work.

Before any decision can be cemented, the comet grows brighter in the sky, forcing the court to shift its focus. Martian priests gather in the palace’s high dome, their chants echoing like warnings through the city. The people, scared and superstitious, flock to temples. Ar-hap is pulled away, not by fear of the foreigner, but by dread of cosmic punishment. He declares a truce, short and unsentimental, buying time to address both man and sky. The protagonist, though uneasy, accepts. His goal remains Heru’s freedom, and for now, she remains untouched.

Heru, however, is kept apart, guarded with silent reverence. Though she is technically safe, the separation gnaws at both hearts. A single glance exchanged in the courtyard says what no language can: patience, hope, and a vow to endure. They wait, unsure of what tomorrow’s sky may bring, but strengthened by silent unity. Around them, Martians whisper of omens and curses, believing the comet a divine mirror to their discontent.

As night falls, the city trembles not with war drums, but with ritual. Fires are lit in circles, offerings made from crops too dry to eat. The comet, brilliant and unblinking, commands the heavens. The protagonist watches from a palace window, reflecting not just on the day’s miracles but on the fragility of power when measured against fear. The people worship stars, yet they tremble before men who dare to hold the sky’s fire in their hands. Ar-hap, so certain of his own rule, now leans on superstition and ceremony.

The story unfolds not just as an adventure but as a study in power—earned, inherited, or misunderstood. While Ar-hap commands armies and rituals, the protagonist bends reality through resourcefulness and courage. On a world far from Earth, ancient traditions battle with the unknown, and a single outsider reshapes destiny. This chapter, grounded in myth and cosmic spectacle, invites readers to consider how belief, whether spiritual or strategic, often decides survival more than strength.