Page 40 of The Moon's Daughter

As they dined, Jorah was the epitome of charm and wit. He spoke eloquently of the future, of an alliance that would bring their kingdoms into a new era of prosperity. But it was not his words that captivated Hadiyah; it was the way he looked at her, as if he had been searching for her for an eternity.

In the months that followed, their courtship was a whirlwind of stolen moments and shared dreams. Jorah was attentive, sharing stories of his travels, painting vivid pictures of distant lands and cultures, igniting in Hadiyah a curiosity and desire for adventure.

During a private walk in the gardens, under a canopy of stars, Jorah took her hand, sliding off his ring and pressing it into her palm. “A promise,” he said softly, “of a future together.”

“We courted for a year. I…I loved him,” Hadiyah continued, eyes downcast. “But my father decided a union with Khahleel of Alzahra was a stronger match. It tore at my heart, but I did my duty.”

She paused, her gaze drifting to a portrait of King Khahleel. “And in doing so, I found a truer love with your father. Khahleel showed me a depth of kindness and compassion that I hadn’t known with Jorah.”

Hadiyah sighed. “All these years, I emphasized the importance of a strategic marriage to you. My hope was to shield you from the heartache I endured with Jorah.” Her mother smiled at her sadly.

Layna listened intently, her mind racing with questions. “Do you think Jorah was always this evil? Or did losing you change him?”

Her mother shook her head. “I often wonder about that myself, Layna. Was the man I knew just a façade, or did heartbreak twist him into the man he is today? I don’t know. But I do know his proposal now is not about love or even politics. It’s about revenge.”

Layna took her mother’s hand. “Thank you, Mama, for sharing this with me. Understanding the history helps, even if it doesn’t change our situation.”

Hadiyah nodded, squeezing her daughter’s hand. “We must be cautious. Your father’s anger is understandable, but we must think strategically. This is a game of chess, not sand rugby.”

Layna nodded in agreement. Glancing toward the clock, she realized it was nearly time for her training with Zarian. Rising from her seat, she embraced her mother tightly before excusing herself.

After the council meeting, the day passed in a blur of briefings with security advisers, but nothing had managed to quell Zarian’s simmering rage.

In one meeting, he snapped at a junior adviser for a minor oversight in the palace security log, his voice harsher than intended. The young man recoiled, eyes wide, and Zarian had to grit his teeth to refrain from apologizing.

As he walked through the halls, his fingers kept clenching and unclenching into fists, tension visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. Passing servants and guards gave him a wide berth.

Now, as he approached his chambers, the council meeting replayed in his mind, the ridiculous proposal fueling the fire of his anger. The hours had done nothing to lessen his fury, and he knew he needed to release it before it consumed him.

Inside his chambers, he hastily scribbled a coded note for Jamil. The words were brief but urgent.

With the note securely folded, Zarian slipped out and headed to the palace gardens. He strode with purpose to a secluded spot and concealed the note under a large rock, confident Jamil would find it on his nightly rounds.

As Zarian left the gardens, anger swirled unchecked within him. His fury was directed at King Jorah for daring to propose such a humiliating union.

But another part, a part he was reluctant to acknowledge, was directed at Layna for even considering the thought of marrying the old tyrant. The thought of her sacrificing herself, playing the dutiful princess to avert a war, ignited a fierce protectiveness in him. But alongside that protectiveness was a sense of betrayal he didn’t fully understand.

She doesn’t owe me anything, he reminded himself.I have no right to her.

Still seething, Zarian arrived at the training grounds, fists clenched as he watched Layna approach.

“Princess,” he greeted tightly. “Shall we begin?”

Layna nodded distractedly, lost in her own thoughts.

As they began sparring, Zarian’s movements were intense, his instructions sharp, his usual patience replaced with an acrid urgency. Each parry and thrust were an outlet for his anger and frustration.

Their swords clashed, echoing across the grounds. Zarian was aggressive in his strikes.

He swiftly disarmed Layna, sending her sword flying. Zarian swept her legs out from under her, sending her crashing to the ground before pinning her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the earth.

But unlike the first time, there was no moment of charged tension or lingering gazes. He quickly rose, resuming his stance.

As Layna stood, brushing off the dust, Zarian watched her with piercing intensity. His voice, when he finally spoke, dripped with bitter sarcasm.

“If you plan to rule Zephyria, you might want to improve your technique,” he mocked, the corners of his mouth curving into a sardonic smile. “At this rate, you’ll hardly impress King Jorah.”

The words hung in the air. For a moment, Layna stood in shock, seemingly taken aback by the venom in his voice.

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