Page 84 of The Moon's Daughter

As he turned a corner, he was intercepted by a figure hastening toward him.

It was a junior palace guard, Ajmal or Amjad, Zarian could not recall exactly. He approached with urgency, breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Prince Zarian!” the young guard exclaimed, stopping before him. “I’ve been searching for you.” He paused, catching his breath, the flicker of lantern light casting shadows across his face. “The guards are organizing a small feast for the entire palace in honor of the eclipse. We thought it would lift spirits, given the war and all.” He looked at Zarian with a hopeful expression, his fingers fidgeting awkwardly at his sides. “Oh, and I assure you, there’s no ale! Only water. We must remain sharp. Please join us. We would be incomplete without you.”

Zarian managed a halfhearted smile. “Thank you for thinking of me,” he responded politely. “But I must decline. The night holds other plans for me. Enjoy the celebration.” Zarian started to walk away, then turned back. “How is your mother, by the way? I recall she was unwell.”

The guard’s expression shifted, the shadows playing across his face deepening. He hesitated for a beat before offering a strained smile. “She is much improved, thank you. Your concern has been a comfort to us both,” he replied, not quite meeting Zarian’s eyes.

“That’s good to hear. Give her my best wishes.” With a nod, Zarian bid the young guard good night and turned toward the solitude of his quarters.

Inside, he closed the door with a soft click, the sound echoing like a judge’s gavel—final and condemning.

It found him guilty.

He trudged to his bed and sat down, head in his hands, tormented by the memory of Layna’s tear-streaked face. The guilt of causing her such distress on the eve of the eclipse tore at him mercilessly. He wished he could take back his words, wished he had suppressed his insecurities for just one more day to spare her the added burden.

Sighing deeply, he rose to prepare for sleep. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher by his bedside and drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat.

As he lay back, Layna’s sorrowful image haunted him, a reminder of the pain he inflicted upon the person he loved most. Sleep quickly overcame him, dragging him into a deep, uneasy slumber.

Yet even in his dreams, Layna’s tears followed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Azhar and his men approached Alzahra City’s main checkpoint. The moon, unusually large and lingering, cast an eerie glow, painting the sky an otherworldly shade of pink.

Azhar surveyed the surroundings, his gaze settling on the moon. “Listen, men, and listen well,” he commanded, his voice clear over the sounds of the waking city. He quickly outlined their strategy. His men nodded, faces set in determination.

With a subtle signal, twenty of his men, disguised as commoners, approached the busy checkpoint. They moved with the unassuming gait of merchants, though their horses were laden with weapons instead of wares.

Despite the early hour, a line had already formed at the gate, mostly travelers seeking rest and merchants eager for trade. The tension among the Zephyrians was a silent undercurrent, invisible to the unsuspecting guards who watched over the throng.

In a sudden, orchestrated chaos, the tranquility shattered. The remaining ten Zephyrians thundered over the dunes toward the city walls. The furious rumble of hooves was the first warning, swiftly followed by the whistling death of arrows, arcing through the sky toward the guards. Panic ensued as arrows found their marks, throwing the city’s defenders into disarray.

Caught unaware, the guards yelled orders drowned out by the panicked crowd as they scrambled to respond. The checkpoint became a scene of chaos, with civilians caught in the confusion and guards abandoning their posts to counter the Zephyrians’ swift advance.

Azhar seized the moment. “Follow me,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. His men urged their horses forward through the now-unguarded entrance, slipping into the city with the other people escaping the attackers.

As they rode deeper into the city, one of Azhar’s men voiced his confusion. “Sire, I thought the plan was to join the others and attack the guards from behind,” he blurted. “Our men will be killed.”

Azhar glowered at him, and the man shrank under the weight of his glare. “The plan has changed,” Azhar snarled viciously.

The Zephyrians continued toward the palace, splitting into smaller groups as they neared.

Approaching a side gate, Azhar’s group was met by a young palace guard. With a nervous nod, the guard silently allowed them entrance.

“Your timing is perfect,” he said. “The head guard started making inquiries. They suspect another traitor alongside Lord Varin.” His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the hilt of his sword.

Azhar’s face split into a menacing smile. “It’s too late for Alzahra. You will be rewarded handsomely,” he assured. “Is everything according to plan?”

“Yes,” the guard confirmed. “Most of the palace will be asleep for a while longer. Only a handful didn’t drink the water.”

“Good,” Azhar said, cold determination in his voice. He addressed his men, “Go. Kill King Khahleel and end his pitiful reign. Our little spy here will guide you.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “But capture the queen alive,” he added. “I will send her piece by piece to Shahbaad. It’s the least I can do for old Jorah.”

Turning back to the traitorous guard, he ordered, “Open the gates for my remaining men. Kill anyone in your path.”

Azhar reached into his cloak and withdrew the orb. Wrapped in layers of black fabric to conceal its bright glow, it shone with a fierce, pulsing light. He looked at the eerie pink sky and took a deep breath.

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