Page 54 of The Moon's Daughter

It was time to put his plan in motion. He dressed meticulously for the operation, layers of dark, reinforced fabric hugged his muscular frame, while leather bracers shielded his corded forearms.

At the stables, his tempestuous black steed, who Azhar had not bothered to name, awaited. Powerful and restless, it paced the confined space, hooves stamping the ground with loud thuds. Muscles rippled beneath its glossy coat, nostrils flared wide, exhaling sharp snorts that cut through the air.

Riding through Zephyria’s mountainous terrain, his thoughts were consumed with vengeance. Ever since learning of his brother’s feelings for the Daughter of the Moon, Azhar had been haunted by a dark obsession. The idea of claiming the princess, the jewel of Alzahra wrested from his brother’s grasp, became a fixation that fanned the flames of his resolve.

His mind wandered back to his last covert visit to Alzahra, where a glimpse of the crown princess on her balcony had captured his attention. Hidden in the shadows, he observed her, her long brown hair cascading down her back. The sight of her glowing skin, practically shimmering in the soft moonlight, had given life to a new hunger within him, a desire totake.

He imagined countless scenarios, each designed to break his brother’s spirit. Perhaps he’d brutally ravage the princess while forcing his bound brother to watch. Or maybe he would torture her, covering her creamy skin in thousands of small, shallow cuts before plunging his knife into her heart, all while his brother witnessed the cruelty, unable to stop him.

Azhar’s thoughts grew increasingly twisted as the hours passed during his journey. Jagged mountains gave way to rocky terrain, and then the vast expanse of the desert was upon him. He deftly guided his steed through the ever-changing landscape, the horse’s hooves kicking up clouds of sand as they progressed.

Finally, Azhar reached the Zephyrian camp at the border. From a distance, he observed the restless soldiers, their constant pacing and anxious glances betraying their impatience after weeks of idle waiting.

The encampment sprawled with tents and makeshift structures. Soldiers gathered around fires, sharpening weapons and discussing strategies in hushed tones. Azhar rode through the camp with quiet authority, his presence commanding attention. He dismounted, leaving his horse with a foot soldier.

The men gave him a wide berth, conversations halting as he passed. Known for his volatile rage, even the bravest soldiers hesitated to engage him.

His reputation was not unfounded; just two weeks prior, Azhar noticed a young soldier struggling to light a fire. Without a word, Azhar had taken the flint, striking it with efficiency. The sparks caught quickly, igniting into a roaring blaze. Before the soldier could express his gratitude, Azhar viciously grabbed his arm and held it within the flames.

The smell of burning flesh, disgustingly potent, permeated the air. The soldier’s screams of pain echoed through the camp. No one dared intervene. Eventually, Azhar released him, his arm a smoldering mess of melted flesh.

“If you cannot master a simple fire, you are of no use on the battlefield,” he snarled, flinging the man to the ground, ignoring his pitiful sobs.

Azhar moved toward the edge of the camp. As the fires flickered behind him, casting long shadows across the desert floor, he blended into the darkness.

Tonight, his actions would set the course for the impending war, a declaration that would reverberate through the halls of Alzahra.

Azhar, a silent desert shadow, slipped across the border. He easily located his target, the tent of the top general, the information from his source precise.

Inside, the general was alone. It was an oversight that would cost him dearly.

Azhar approached silently from behind, a wraith in the dim light, and with a swift, deep slash, slit the general’s throat. The body crumpled to the ground with a muffled thud, blood pooling rapidly.

Azhar knelt next to the body and continued his work. Brutal, efficient, and devoid of emotion. He moved quickly, completing the gruesome task with a chilling detachment.

Afterward, the desert shadow returned unseen to the Zephyrian camp, his silhouette a dark blur against the starlit desert. The head general greeted him. Wordlessly, Azhar thrust a heavy black bag into his chest.

Glancing inside, the general sucked in a sharp gasp, wide eyes darting to Azhar’s stoic face. He quickly regained his composure and assured, “I will ensure this reaches the palace. You need not concern yourself further. I have prepared the finest tent for your rest tonight. Is there anything else you need, sire?”

Azhar’s expression darkened, a sinister edge creeping into his voice. “Yes. Bring a woman to my tent,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for questions. “Fair-skinned with long brown hair. Make sure she’s there within the hour.”

The head general bowed deeply. “As you wish, sire.” He turned sharply on his heel and hurried away, the bag leaving a trail of dark droplets on the ground behind him.

The next morning, Azhar remounted his horse, his mind consumed with thoughts of Alzahra’s princess. The woman from the night before was nothing more than a mere diversion, a pale substitute for the true object of his obsession. The cool morning air did nothing to quell his twisted desire.

Upon his return to the castle, King Jorah summoned Azhar to his chambers. The king’s chest swelled, and his eyes gleamed with approval.

“You have served me well, my son. I could not have hoped for a better heir,” Jorah declared, his voice laden with a warmth reserved only for his adopted son. “Your actions propel us closer to victory. Our gift has already been dispatched to the princess.”

“Father,” Azhar began, sensing an opportunity. “Let me go to Alzahra alone. I’ll take the orb and return with the princess. You need not expose yourself to unnecessary danger.”

The king regarded his adopted son with a calculating gaze. “Your zeal is commendable. But this task requires control and precision,” Jorah finally said, his posture stiff. “We will go together. Under your protection, no harm shall befall me. The orb’s power is immense, and it requires a firm hand to wield it—my hand. If all goes to plan, I will use it to control her. Besides, there is a reckoning I have long awaited.”

Azhar stared at Jorah, silent and still, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

“But make no mistake, your role is crucial,” Jorah added quickly. “Your courage and resolve have not gone unnoticed. Upon our success, whatever your heart desires will be yours.”

Azhar’s expression remained unwavering. “I desire the princess,” he asserted, his voice a low rumble. “For myself.”

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