Page 31 of The Moon's Fury
Their heavy armor wouldn’t protect them, not when his aim was so precise, each blade sinking in through the narrow gaps between metal.
The men collapsed into the sand with dull, final thuds, their bodies silent. The horses screamed, tearing loose in a frenzy.
The element of surprise was gone. The rest would be harder.
But not impossible.
Not for him.
He spurred Najoom faster, ducking low in the saddle, twin daggers in hand, throwing stars worn like silver rings. His arms moved in a blur, steel singing through the air before finding soft targets—throats, eyes, mouths.
Panic erupted.
Horses reared and bolted.
Men shouted, scrambled, fell.
The caravan’s lead guards finally realized what was happening and yanked their mounts to a stop.
A fatal mistake.
It would make killing them that much easier.
When it was over, the wagons stood still and silent, their canvas flaps fluttering in the breeze.
One by one, the captives emerged—pale, hollow-eyed, their expressions torn between disbelief and fear.
Panting, Zarian stepped toward the nearest man and sliced through the ropes binding his wrists.
“I’ve given you a second chance. Don’t make me regret it,” he said, his voice muffled beneath his scarf. “Do not waste it. Mercy does not grace men twice.”
They hesitated—then courage found them. Some vanished into the night alone, others clung together in silence. A few managed to mount the scattered horses; others walked, limping into the darkness without looking back.
When the last of them had disappeared, Zarian surveyed the carnage he’d wrought. The tale would tell itself—the bandits broke free and overpowered their captors. That, paired with the gold Kharteen had received, would be enough to keep suspicion off his friend.
With one last glance at the bodies and blood soaking the sands, he rode off into the night, a rare peace settling over his chest.
15
Shecouldn’tescapethewhispers that followed her every step. Even her two friends now eyed her warily, forced friendship tightening false smiles.
At night, her parents whispered of finding a new home, a new village, somewhere her eyes might shine again, where her lips might smile again.
The whispers haunted her every moment of every day, until she had nothing left beside them.
Then, one day, it changed.
“Hi,” he said, dark eyes soft and wary. “Forgive me. Please.” He held out a bouquet of wildflowers, as if they could mend the fissures he’d rent in her soul.
He’d named her witch in front of their entire village.
He’d turned her friends against her.
He’d made her parents, who had lived in this village for generations, contemplate leaving.
She had no need for his pity, nor his apology.
Back straight, she walked away.
