Page 17 of The Moon's Fury
This was a terrible idea.
Think, Soraya, think.
“What about a ride through the city?” she suggested, glancing back. “I’ll show you the changes we’ve made to the markets.” But Nizam shook his head, determination clear on his face as he quickened his stride. He was singularly focused on one thing, and one thing alone.
And, unfortunately, Soraya knew what that was.
Zarian is going to kill him. And then Layna is going to kill me.
Her palms began to sweat as they approached the training grounds, the distant sounds of shouting and the clash of swords growing louder with each step. She caught sight of Zarian running drills with the newer guards, sweat glistening on his forehead in the early afternoon sun.
She turned to Nizam and quietly asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“What do you mean?” Nizam feigned ignorance, as if he was not about to poke a lion with a stick. “I merely wish to greet a fellow royal. It would be rude of me otherwise.” He strode toward the gates of the training grounds. She followed him slowly, as if heavy shackles encircled her ankles.
Zarian turned his head as they reached the gate. He held up one hand, signaling a pause in the maneuver. Sheathing his sword, he casually sauntered toward them. To a stranger, he must have appeared unbothered. But he was like a brother to her now, and she recognized the tension in his shoulders, the pulsing vein in his forehead.
So when he stopped before them and flashed a smile that was more a baring of his teeth, Soraya glowered at him.Behave, she indicated with a raised brow.
“Soraya,” he greeted warmly, ignoring the threat in her face. Then he turned, and his smile vanished. “King Nizam. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
As they squared off, Soraya noted the two men were strikingly different. Both were objectively handsome in their own rights, but while Nizam was polished and poised, Zarian was all rough edges and rage. They stood at about equal height, though Zarian’s dark, unruly hair made him appear taller. Nizam wore a pristine, cream-colored formal tunic, while Zarian’s black trousers and loose, sleeveless shirt were covered in sandy dust.
“Princess Soraya graciously gave me a tour of the palace before my private meeting with Layna. I specifically requested to visit the training grounds—this place holds some of my fondest memories from my last visit.”
Zarian raised a brow. “Oh?” He cast disdainful eyes at Nizam’s neatly slicked hair, his spotless tunic. “You don’t strike me as the type to dirty your hands.”
Nizam grinned broadly, casually crossing his arms. “You’d be surprised. But yes,manyfond memories, actually. With Layna.But I’m sure she and I will have time to reminisce later. I’d like to learn more aboutyourrole here. I find it quite unusual that a sovereign crown prince has remained so long in a foreign kingdom.” He cast his gaze around the grounds, arching a brow. “Training their royal guard.”
Zarian hummed, regarding the other man with sharp eyes. Soraya was relieved he didn’t take Nizam’s bait.
Be the bigger man, Zarian. Please.
“I suppose I’ve been in Alzahra for so long, it’s started to feel like home. I might stay here a while yet.” He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and added, “As for training the guard, combat has always been a passion of mine.”
Nizam eyed him closely, trying to discern what Zarian left unspoken. Soraya seized the opportunity and began to steer Nizam away. “Well, we’d better head—”
“How about a friendly sparring match?” Zarian asked, steely hazel eyes boring a hole into Nizam. “Since you have suchfondmemories here.”
Shit.
“Zarian, no,” she gritted out through clenched teeth. “You can’t—”
“Soraya, please.” Zarian didn’t look at her, his stony gaze fixed on Nizam. “King Nizam went out of his way to come greet me. Share hisfond memorieswith me.” His eyes flashed like burning hazel coals. “What kind of prince would I be if I didn’t spare some time for him?”
A muscle ticked in Nizam’s jaw as he assessed Zarian, eyes no doubt taking in his muscled build, the large sword strapped to his waist, a warrior amongst warriors.
“Well? Care to face me in afriendlyduel?” Zarian smirked.
Nizam was silent for several heartbeats, jaw clenched tightly. “Soraya is right,” he finally bit out. “We’ve kept Layna waiting long enough. Perhaps another time.”
Zarian chuckled. “Of course. Tell Layna I said hello. And I’ll see her—”
“At dinner,” Soraya snapped, glowering at him. She grabbed Nizam’s sleeve and tugged him away, her rapid footsteps kicking up clouds of dust. She turned and caught Zarian’s eye and gave him a scathing glare. He had the decency to look sheepish, dipping his chin in apology.
She’d make him pay later.
Layna sat in her office, surrounded by scattered parchments and dried-up ink pots, massaging her throbbing temples. She’d spent the past hour staring at the same line in the peace treaty, her focus slipping like sand through her fingers. With a sigh, she thumbed through the neatly stacked documents—cold, black ink that followed bloodshed—Zephyria,then, Ezanek. The treaty with Valtisaan was missing. Zarian must still have it.
