Page 89 of The Moon's Daughter

Layna’s wail, a sound of pure anguish, filled the sky.

Azhar dragged himself toward his brother’s still form, retrieving his knife from Zarian’s neck with a wet squelch. With concerted effort, he stood slowly, his expression unreadable. Casting a disdainful glance downward, he nudged Zarian’s foot with a contemptuous kick.

Layna’s screams, raw and unyielding, tore through the air, her grief so heavy, so profound it seemed to fracture her very being. A violent storm of emotions raged within her—anguish, despair, and an overwhelming sense of loss that burned through her heart, leaving only ashes behind.

He never knew, she thought despairingly.

He never knew that, in the end, she had chosen him.

The pain of unspoken truths and dreams unlived engulfed her. They had been denied the chance to explore their love, to build a future together.

All that remained was the echo of his name in her cries.

Her anguished screams resonated across the terrace, a lament that pierced the heavens, challenging the cruelty of fate. But even as her voice rose higher, a soul-crushing numbness crept in, a cold embrace that dulled the sharp edges of her pain. With one final, heartrending cry, Layna’s strength waned, and darkness claimed her, pulling her into its depths.

And then, in the desolate silence that followed, something within her stirred—a power, ancient and untamed, called forth from the ashes of her despair.

The Daughter had awakened.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Daughter of the Moon had awoken, and with her came the promise of vengeance.

Still bound to the pillar, her head snapped up sharply. Her eyes, once clouded with tears, now blazed with an ethereal white light, her desolation giving way to a prophecy fulfilled.

Azhar couldn’t suppress a twisted laugh. “At last,” he crowed. “I was beginning to suspect I had the wrong princess.” He spat out a mouthful of blood and grinned darkly, his teeth stained a grisly red.

With a roar that was a battle cry, the Daughter fought fiercely against the bonds of light that constrained her. Her scream sent a pulse of energy that vibrated through the air and pushed Azhar backward.

His smile vanished as he scrambled to stay grounded, reaching within his cloak to draw forth the orb. Discarding the black cloth, he held the orb aloft as if it were both his shield and sword.

The Daughter writhed violently against the glowing shackles. The light, forged from the orb’s power, flickered and strained under the weight of her fury.

She pulled harder, face contorting with exertion. Azhar’s expression shifted from confidence to shock, then fear, as the bonds of light cracked. The seemingly unbreakable luminescent chains began to crumble, disintegrating into nothingness as if they were mere illusions.

Finally free, the Daughter rose up into the air, a goddess among men. Her eyes were completely white, crackling with bright energy, and her long hair billowed around her.

Azhar’s bravado slipped. He pointed the orb at her, desperate to regain control. A ray of pure light shot forth. The radiant beam split into three serpentine tendrils, coiling tightly around her neck, arms, and ankles.

Bound again, the Daughter pulled against the new bonds with a terrifying cry.

Azhar motioned downward with the orb, the foretold earthly moon, which pulsed brightly with energy. Straining with effort, he managed to pull the Daughter to the ground. The bright bonds tightened further around her, painfully digging into her skin.

The stone floor beneath her feet felt cold, so different from the warmth of the blistering energy coursing through her veins.

Azhar stood before the subdued Daughter, his voice carrying on the wind. “Daughter of the Moon! I command you: kneel before your king and master.” His words, laced with a force not his own, echoed around them.

The Daughter’s face, a mask of pure rage, twisted as she fought his command. Her spirit clashed against the earthly moon’s imposing will.

But the orb’s power proved too strong.

Slowly, agonizingly, her body responded to Azhar’s command. She prostrated before him, her forehead pressed against the cold, unforgiving stone.

The Daughter remained kneeling for what felt like hours as Azhar towered above her.

“There. Is that not better?” Azhar’s voice was a caress, a smooth, dark velvet, designed to tempt and persuade. “Do you not feel the difference? Such fury resides within you—cast it aside,” he murmured in a honeyed whisper, his voice somehow strangely, devastatingly familiar to her ears. It sent an unwelcome shiver down her back. “We need not be enemies. I will be your protector. Your ally. Whatever you wish me to be. Together, we will reshape the world.”

He observed her hungrily, a conqueror surveying his prize.

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