Page 21 of The Moon's Fury
She’d just spoken his deepest wish aloud, and his mind couldn’t comprehend it.
A disbelieving, hopeful wisp of joy curled around his heart.
He lost the ability to form a coherent sentence.
He didn’t need to, because she pressed her lips to his in a sweet, lingering kiss. Zarian cradled her face and pressed their foreheads together. He kept his eyes closed, fearing if he opened them, she’d vanish and this would all be a fleeting, desperate dream.
But he opened his eyes, and there she was, smiling at him with adoration, as if he were something precious.
As if he were worthy. Deserving.
She pressed another quick kiss to his lips. “I should find Mama before she finds me here. Skip the council meeting tomorrow. It will be tense.”
11
Itwashot.
Burning, searing, so warm she thought she might combust. She tossed and turned on her thin, feather-stuffed mattress, her linen nightgown clinging to her sweaty skin.
She clenched her eyes tighter, wiping her clammy brow, and attempted to find sleep once more.
Flickering lights danced behind closed lids, shaking her senses. She opened them and gasped, her boiling blood frosting in her veins.
Her curtains were on fire.
The hot flames waved at her, as if to say,Hello, friend.
She screamed and screamed and screamed.
A door slammed open, a tight grip on her arm.
Her father yanked her from the room. They ran outside, seeking shelter under the moonlit sky. Their neighbors came in droves, men and boys armed with buckets of water.
They extinguished the fire.
Her cottage would see another day.
But would she?
Narrow shoulders shaking beneath her mother’s arm, she watched as her father thanked their community.
Through the crowd, hateful, dark eyes found her, eyes that had once looked at her with warmth.
She shrank back from their scathing glare.
He leveled an accusing finger, honeyed hair crowning his head in the moonlight.
“Saahira,” he snarled.
Witch.
“Good morning, esteemed council members,” Layna greeted. Her mother and Lord Ebrahim, along with Lady Mirah, master of coin, and Lord Saldeen, master of internal affairs, were assembled at the round table. They had yet to appoint a new master of war—traitorous Lord Varin was still rotting in the dungeon. “I have finished reviewing the peace treaties. All is in order, and Alzahra will receive abundant resources and gold. And while”—her voice wavered—“it can never replace what was stolen, it will help us rebuild.”
Murmurs of assent echoed throughout the room.
Layna took a deep breath, steeling herself.
“I wanted to discuss another important topic—King Nizam’s proposal.”
