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.