Page 87 of The Moon's Daughter

Zarian’s heart stopped.

His eyes were deceiving him.

Layna was tied to one of the pillars, not with rope, but with what looked like bright, pulsatinglight.

Her arms were bound above her head, thick ropes of light winding tightly around her wrists. Two more bright cables encased her waist and knees. She was suspended, her toes frantically brushing the ground for stability.

Her beautiful face was a canvas of fear. A livid bruise spread darkly across her cheek, while her lower lip was split and oozing fresh blood. An angry red welt marred her forehead.

The sight of his love, so cruelly treated, ignited a maelstrom of fury within him, scorching through his veins with the promise of vengeance.

“Layna!” he called out, unsheathing his sword as he stepped closer.

“Zarian! Wait, it’s—” Her warning was cut short as another voice, chillingly familiar, halted him in his tracks.

“Hello, brother. It certainly took you long enough,” Azhar said, emerging from behind the second pillar. The morning light played off his form, casting him in a silhouette both familiar and utterly alien to Zarian.

No.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Zarian’s mind struggled to accept who stood before him.

Frozen in shock, he took in the sight of the man he once knew. His brother had aged, the years etching themselves in new creases around his eyes and mouth. His physique was more imposing, muscles honed from years of combat.

Bright red scratches marked his face, a vicious bite mark marred his neck, and dried blood encircled his nostrils—details that, under different circumstances, might have given Zarian a grim sense of satisfaction knowing Layna had fought back so fiercely.

His brother’s eyes held a cold, ruthless gleam, a far cry from the boy he remembered from childhood.

“Zaarif?” Zarian’s voice was laced with disbelief and a rising anger. “Zaarif, what have you done?”

The man before him scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Zaarif.” He spat on the ground. “Even the name they gave me was a pale imitation of yours. Zaarif is dead. I’mAzharnow.”

The revelation hit Zarian like a thunderclap, leaving him reeling. His brother’s new identity, his betrayal, merged into a singular point of pain. His mind worked frantically.

Zaarif had been in Zephyria all this time.

“Yes, that’s right!” Azhar crowed, seemingly pleased at Zarian’s astonishment. “I’m the new king of Zephyria. The conqueror who brought Alzahra to its knees. The man who will harness the power of the moon’s Daughter. If only Father could see me now,” Azhar proclaimed, his voice laced with bitter triumph. “Well…I suppose he’ll see soon enough.”

Zarian, still grappling with shock, implored, “It’s not too late, Zaarif. Stop this now. Let her go,” he said in a desperate plea to reach the brother he once knew.

“Let her go? Before I’ve had the chance to sample her myself and discover what has so enthralled you? She must be absolutelyexquisiteto lead the righteous son astray.” Azhar’s words dripped with venom. “After all, I’ve taken your leftovers my entire life.”

He clamped his hand around Layna’s face with deliberate roughness, fingers digging in painfully. “In due time, my little wildcat,” he sneered. “First, we need your power to reveal itself.”

“Don’t touch her!” Zarian’s roar was visceral, torn from the depths of his soul. His fury, the raw fear for Layna’s safety, vibrated through the air.

Azhar smirked in a cruel mimicry of brotherly affection. “Try and stop me, brother. I’m eager to see if you can best me now.” His eyes glinted with malice, arms spread in open challenge.

Clad only in his sleeping trousers, Zarian gripped his sword tightly. Azhar, fully armed and dressed for combat, presented a stark contrast.

Zarian bent his knees and raised his sword.

He waited.

With a roar, Azhar rushed forward and Zarian raced to meet him head on. Their swords clashed loudly as the brothers locked blades, each struggling to overpower the other.

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