Page 77 of The Moon's Daughter

He approached the bodies slowly. Removing the chest plate off one corpse, he ripped its tunic down the front. The Medjai tattoo revealed itself under the moonlight, black ink mingling with crimson blood.

A cruel smile twisted Azhar’s lips.

Leaving the carnage behind, he remained vigilant, the ways of the Medjai echoing in his mind—they often sent three men for a single kill.

He knew there would be one more.

His return to his chambers was cautious, every shadow a potential threat.

And there, as predicted, the third assassin awaited.

Despite his fatigue, Azhar’s strikes were sharp and true, each blow fueled by a lifetime of scorn.

But in the heat of battle, Azhar found himself momentarily bested, his sword knocked from his grasp by a cunning maneuver. The clang of his weapon hitting the stone floor echoed ominously through the chambers, a sound that would have spelled death for a lesser warrior.

But Azhar was no ordinary foe.

His attacker advanced, his blade a deadly promise in the dim light. But Azhar was far from defeated. With the calm of a seasoned predator, he reached down to his boot, his movements masked by the feint of retreat.

In a fluid motion, he drew a concealed dagger. With a swift, practiced motion, Azhar’s arm shot forward. The dagger found its mark, plunging deep into the assassin’s chest.

The impact forced a gasp from the man’s lips, his eyes widening in shock and pain as he staggered back. Azhar watched, an impassive observer to the final moments of his life. The man clutched at the dagger, a feeble attempt to stem the flow of life ebbing away. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, his final breaths a raspy whisper in the night.

Azhar waited a moment, then retrieved his dagger with calm detachment, wiping the bloodied blade on the dead man’s trousers. He stood motionless over the lifeless body.

Have I made you proud now, Father?

He stepped into the dark corridor and called for a servant, his voice echoing sharply against the stone walls.

A gangly boy, no more than fifteen, hurried to his side. “Y-yes, sire?” the boy asked, his voice trembling.

“There are two bodies in the stables and one in my chambers,” Azhar declared. “Take care of them. And have the men sweep the entire castle for intruders. I want no corner unchecked.” Azhar glanced back into his chambers. “And bring me Lords Ebric and Garrisman. Immediately.”

The boy nodded, a quick bob of his head, and rushed off, his steps echoing in the quiet corridor.

Within thirty minutes, Lords Ebric and Garrisman arrived. Their expressions were carefully neutral, but their eyes repeatedly flitted to the pool of blood on the floor, a question in their gazes they dared not voice.

The aftermath of violence lingered in the air.

“Ebric,” Azhar said, “you visited the astronomers today. What have you learned?”

“Sire, I was on my way to see you when the servant came to fetch me. The astronomers have confirmed it.” His eyes darted back to the bloody floor. “The eclipse will take place in three days.”

A chilling smile spread across Azhar’s face. “The time has come,” he rejoiced, his cold smirk not quite reaching his eyes.

Addressing Lord Garrisman with a voice as sharp as a blade, he commanded, “Ride out immediately to the camp. Our full-scale assault begins at once. By the break of dawn, Alzahra shall face its reckoning.” Azhar’s voice grew colder still. “Instruct the generals to divide our forces in half. The first contingent will advance toward Alzahra City from the northwest, leaving a trail of destruction. Show no mercy. Let none survive in their path. Our remaining men will flank from the southwest. Alzahra will be forced to divide their defenses, and as a result, be stretched too thin to offer any real resistance on either front.”

The orders were brutal, a strategy designed not just for victory, but for annihilation. Lords Ebric and Garrisman exchanged a brief look, before nodding in understanding.

As the lords left, the room felt colder. Azhar focused on the orb, its surface still dull in his hands. “Soon,” he whispered, as if it could hear him. “The prophecy will unfold, and all will be as it should.”

In the silence of the night, the stars were indifferent witnesses. Azhar’s plan was set in motion, a grim countdown to a dawn that promised nothing but bloodshed and sorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The council chamber was awash with mid-morning sunlight, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The air was tense as the council members took their seats around the large table.

King Khahleel stood, his gaze sweeping across the room. “I have grave news. Lord Varin has betrayed us. He is an agent for Zephyria.”

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