Page 48 of The Moon's Fury
Moons, whatwashis favorite color?
He looked at her, and he knew.
“Green.”
Green like the plants and vines she’d given life to at the Oasis.
Green like the pressed shrubs in her journal, the first thing she’d packed for their journey.
Green because every time he saw that color, he remembered her.
“I love this one street food in the Oasis markets—roasted chicken on flatbread with pine nuts and caramelized onions. And favorite animal is a horse. Yours?”
“I don’t have a favorite color. My favorite food is stewed lamb. And I love horses, too.” She smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, assessing his face as if searching for something, but he had no idea what.
Eventually, she shifted, and he sensed she was ready for bed.
“Do you want to see Almeer?” he asked quickly, desperate in his attempt to keep her beside him for just a moment longer. He stuttered over the other man’s name, his lips clamping down in refusal to utter it. “It’s just … we’re crossing through Zephyria. We’ll pass his village.” She was silent, eyes fixed on the fire. His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee. “I thought you might want to see him,” he added.
The corner of her mouth dipped ever so slightly—a detail so small that anyone else might have missed it. But he had spent every spare moment in the Oasis studying her from afar.
She was upset, and he had no idea why.
“No,” she finally whispered. “His—his family doesn’t approve of us. Because of the war and all. If I arrive unannounced, I don’t know how he’ll react. I can’t risk it, not with Mama with us.” She quickly added, “I’m surehe’dwant to see me, would want to help. It’s just his family…”
She rose quickly after that, said goodnight, and headed to bed.
He stared at the fire until her gentle snores drifted through the air.
“He’s a fool.”
22
Thewindwhippedthroughher hair as they rode through the rough, dusty terrain. After they passed the major caravan trail that cut through Janta, blessedly without incident, Layna had removed herniqab, savoring the cool breeze on her face. Soon, they’d cross into Navrastan.
The weight of her new quiver, laden with arrows, felt comforting against her back. Zarian had ventured into the markets earlier to secure supplies for their journey to Sendouk and returned with the black leather quiver and accompanying bow.
“In case we need it on the way,” he had said.
She was a skilled archer, though if given the choice, she always favored her sword. Still, the bow rested across her back—a familiar weight she hoped would stay just that: reassurance, not necessity.
They had bid farewell to Hamzh, who had packed them food, several canteens of water, and a heavy pouch of coins that Zarian reluctantly accepted.
“Will you ever tell me what favor Hamzh owes you?” she asked, lips close to Zarian’s ear. The sandy desert had long since given way to cooler, rockier terrain. They were near the Mountains that rose within the center of the continent, spanning from Navrastan, through Zephyria and Tarakshan, reaching the borders of Baysaht and Thessan.
“Maybe one day,” he replied, his deep voice carrying on the wind.
They rode until the edge of the Mountains came into view.
Her breath escaped her.
Towering cinnamon-colored peaks that stretched into the sky, dotted with greenery as if painted by a brush. The view from the peaks must be breathtaking—to see the entire continent spread out before her. A child of the desert, she had never before seen such a sight, not even when she’d traveled for the three Summits in her lifetime.
She must have stared, slack-jawed, for minutes before Zarian asked, “First time?”
Shaken out of her reverie, she laughed in delight. “Yes! They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” Turning back to gaze at the tall, rusty peaks, she added, “Have you ever climbed them?”
“I’ve climbed two peaks on the Baysahtian side. Jamil’s traversed them end to end, though.”
