Page 51 of The Moon's Daughter

“But know this,” he continued quickly, “I wouldneverharm you. No matter what happens. No matter what power you wield. No matter how you wield it. My feelings for you arerealand true.”

The princess studied him warily. “And what exactly is it that you feel for me?”

Zarian held her gaze, intense and unyielding. “Every moment with you, Layna, I have to remind myself to breathe,” he confessed, his heart in his words. “You are the answer to a prayer I must have made in my dreams. I’ve tried to suppress how I felt for months, but at the royal ball…watching you with the other princes, the jealousy that ran rampant through me made it impossible to keep lying to myself. I wanted you and only you. I still do.”

He continued, his voice hoarse, “Before I met you, I was content with my path. Not happy, but content. I’ve questionedeverythingsince meeting you.” He took a shaky breath, hazel eyes glistening in the moonlight, willing her to see the sincerity in his heart. “Layna, you are the most incredible person I’ve ever met. It torments me night and day that I wounded you so deeply. Please, give me a chance to earn back your trust.”

Layna was silent, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She blinked, and one escaped, tracing a wet path down her cheek. Zarian’s hand wavered, as if he wanted to reach out and wipe it away, but he clenched it into a fist and kept it at his side.

“I…I need time to understand all this. To understand my role, the prophecy, and…what you and I are to each other.”

Zarian nodded. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The relentless sun beat down on the sprawling training grounds as the eldest brother engaged in a grueling regimen of combat exercises. He was tall, his muscles well-defined from years of rigorous training, and he moved with precision and power. Stubble darkened his jaw, lending him a handsome ruggedness that drew many admiring eyes. Again and again he struck the training dummy, the determined thud of his fists the only sound in the heavy silence.

His concentration was broken by the hurried approach of his closest friend, his boyishly handsome face red with exertion. Frantic gestures accompanied a torrent of words, each one a hammer blow to the elder brother’s heart.

Without hesitation, he sprinted, dread slithering in his veins and winding around his heart, sweat dripping down his back. Bursting into his father’s chambers, he confronted him, his voice raw with emotion.

“Father, what have you done?”

His father, seated behind a massive desk, regarded him with a calm, resigned gaze. “I did what I had to,” he replied simply, steepling his hands. “No longer is he a stain on our order.”

Anguish and disbelief warred within the elder brother. “It wasn’t his fault! You failed him as a father,” he jabbed an accusing finger, “and I—I also failed him.” Without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the chamber.

Returning to his room, he found utter chaos. His belongings were scattered, curtains torn, furniture overturned, drawers emptied haphazardly.

But it was the sight above his bed that halted him in his tracks, a sight so horrendous it froze the very air in his lungs.

There, nailed by the ear to the wall, was the head of Sultan, his beloved dog. Its lifeless eyes stared back at him in accusation, as dark blood dripped onto his pillow.

He collapsed to his knees, a silent scream of horror welling up inside him.

Nestled within the verdant Nahrysba Oasis, the throne room was a marvel of ancient craftsmanship. Carved from the heartstone of the Oasis itself, the walls told tales of the Medjai ancestors, shimmering under the caress of sunlight that danced through the lattice windows.

The room was suffused with the delicate scent of jasmine and myrrh, mingling with the cool hint of the Oasis’s waters, carried in by the gentle breeze. At the room’s heart stood the throne, a masterpiece forged from desert ironwood.

King Tahriq sat immersed in discussion with his council. “Is there any news on the location of the orb?” he questioned, gazing down at his council. “Or about the Medjai that have gone missing?”

“No, Your Majesty. We are still awaiting news.” His senior adviser spoke with urgency. “But recent reports from our scouts bring troubling news. The unrest in the regions bordering Alzahra grows more pronounced.” He hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I know we have waited to gauge the situation, but we’ve found evidence suggesting that…your younger son is actively involved.”

King Tahriq’s expression darkened. The adviser paused, carefully measuring his words. “Also, there has been a disturbing discovery—Saahil’s body was found at the edge of the Oasis. His throat was slit, similar to the Thessani librarians. We have no proof, but…” the adviser trailed off.

The room grew colder with each word, the implications settling over the room like a shroud.

Tahriq’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his throne.

“You were right. We should have acted sooner,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I never should have let him live. To think that he would go to such lengths.” The king sighed deeply, his shoulders tensing as he struggled to contain his mounting rage.

Another adviser interjected hesitantly, “Your Majesty, perhaps the time has come to inform Prince Zarian. His brother will inevitably head to Alzahra. He must be prepared for what may come.”

King Tahriq’s countenance darkened at the suggestion, his mind casting back to a day long past, etched in the chambers of his heart with shame and regret. He remembered Zarian’s outburst, the raw pain when he learned of his brother’s banishment. The memory of his steadfast son’s voice cracking under the weight of betrayal haunted him.

“No,” Tahriq said firmly, the command slicing through the air. “Do not inform him.” Reopening old wounds would ignite a fire that could consume what little peace remained in his son’s heart. “Instead, send three of our most trusted men to Zephyria. End this.”

It had taken ages for Zarian to recover from the loss of his brother, and he was never the same. A new, fierce anger had taken root inside him, always simmering just beneath the surface. Tahriq couldn’t bear to inflict any more pain on him.

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