Page 80 of The Moon's Daughter

Zarian’s mind raced to piece together the identity of this mysterious figure. The promise of wealth and power was a classic motivator, but the efficiency and stealth of this agent spoke of a skill set that was unnervingly professional.

Varin stared at Zarian, eyes wide, braced for more pain. The prince clutched Varin’s hand, the fingers jutting out at gruesome angles, and squeezed tightly. Varin screamed in agony.

Zarian grabbed his face, roughly shaking it. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Answer the guards’ questions, or so help me, you will pray for death.” His lips peeled back in a terrifying snarl. “If I have to come back and see your sorry face again, I won’t be as gentle next time.”

The prince stepped back, leaving Varin’s broken form slumped against the cold stone wall.

As he reached the door, Varin’s voice, laced with pain yet rife with malice, cut through the silence. “It burns your very soul, doesn’t it? Awaiting Nizam’s arrival? For him to come claim what he has bought?”

The words halted Zarian in his tracks. He slowly turned his head, his steely gaze meeting Varin’s. Despite the pain of the interrogation, Varin’s eyes sparkled with a renewed defiance, a dark satisfaction in turning the knife of truth.

Zarian’s expression remained impassive, but the sting of the accusation—a bitter reminder of the debt that now ensnared Alzahra—pierced him. His fingers flexed, and he resisted the urge to turn back and crush Varin’s traitorous face under his boot.

Without a word, he swiftly exited the cell, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding thud, sealing away Varin and his venomous words.

He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, shoulders slumped under an unseen weight. Inhaling deeply, he straightened and approached the head guard.

“Well done, Your Majesty,” Jaffar said. “Thank you for your help. He was a tough one to break. Your methods are, uh, quite effective.” Jaffar smiled nervously. “You even had me terrified out here.”

Zarian did not respond immediately. “Could any of the palace guards be working for Zephyria?” he finally asked.

“Once, I’d have said no. But in light of recent betrayals,” he said, glancing back at the cell door, “I find myself grappling with doubts.”

“Begin quiet inquiries,” Zarian instructed. “Who among the men could be motivated to turn against Alzahra? Look into personal situations, grudges, debts—anything that could be leveraged.”

“It will be done,” Jaffar nodded.

Zarian glanced back at Varin through the metal bars. “Get him medical attention for his fingers,” he ordered reluctantly, the words tasting of ash in his mouth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

King Tahriq, seated at the head of a long, wooden table, surveyed the main hall of his palace. A profound transformation had taken root in the Oasis. Greenery, vibrant and lush, intertwined with the pillars of the hall, breathing new life into the ancient space. Cascades of jasmine vines spilled over edges of high alcoves, their white blooms releasing a sweet fragrance that pleasantly perfumed the air. These new plants thrived under the careful stewardship of an unexpected visitor.

As Tahriq’s gaze lingered on the greenery, a begrudging warmth fluttered strangely in his chest. When the Alzahran princess first arrived seeking refuge—thesecondunwelcome visitor Zarian dared send to the sacred Oasis—his fury had been staggering.

For days, his displeasure raged like a tempest throughout the palace. The elders had remained stone-faced when he informed them, not a single one uttering a word when Tahriq assured them that the princess would be far removed from Medjai activities.

He allowed her to stay out of love for his son, yet it was clear that Zarian’s decisions were increasingly guided by his heart. The crown prince’s loyalties were dangerously divided, a fact that he desperately tried to conceal from the elders.

However, as days merged into weeks, Tahriq’s initial ire gave way to an unexpected admiration for Soraya’s strong spirit and sharp intellect. Within mere days of her arrival, she boldly made several requests for an audience with him. Tahriq swiftly rejected each one, growing increasingly irritated at her audacity.

Undeterred, the young princess had disrupted a council meeting the following week. Ignoring Jamil’s insistence that she was not allowed inside, she barged in anyway. Tahriq’s astonishment mirrored Jamil’s, whose eyes widened into saucers, his mouth hanging open. Soraya, either oblivious or indifferent to the stunned silence, confidently approached the table with several rolled-up parchments under her arm.

Settling into a vacant seat, she unfurled her plans for agricultural advancement with an excitement that left the room momentarily paralyzed. She proposed a new irrigation method, one that promised to extend the life-giving waters of their springs further into the arid reaches of the desert. It was actually quite brilliant.

His advisers had turned to him with confused expressions, unsure how to address her proposal. After a moment’s hesitation, Tahriq had approved her request, eager to be rid of her. He instructed Jamil to coordinate any resources she needed. She stood and smiled brightly, bowed, and then flounced out of the room.

Now, with the projects flourishing under her keen oversight, Tahriq felt an unexpected swell of pride and respect. The thought of his wife, Ruqi, crossed his mind, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined having a daughter like Soraya. A little girl, her laughter echoing through the stark halls, would have been a welcome presence.

Tahriq’s imaginary daughter would have grown up under Ruqi’s nurturing gaze and Zarian’s brotherly protection. And like Soraya, his daughter, too, would have stood before him one day, her ideas and visions for their people igniting a spark of hope and change.

A sharp pang pierced through Tahriq’s heart. The idea of a daughter, with dark curls and hazel eyes, a tiny version of the woman he loved so deeply, was a dream unfulfilled.

The king sighed deeply, shaking off his melancholy. How different things might have been if Soraya had captured Zarian’s heart instead of her sister. An alliance through marriage with Soraya would have been straightforward and readily accepted by Khahleel.

But destiny had carved a different path—one that linked Zarian to Layna, the elder princess destined to be queen. Khahleel and his council would undoubtedly seek an alliance with a kingdom offering more than just knowledge and secrets in exchange for her hand.

And then, there was the prophecy. She was the dangerous Daughter of the Moon, and Zarian, he knew, would not fulfill his mission.

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