Page 31 of The Moon's Daughter
Layna stopped before him, eyes downcast.
“Zarian,” she began slowly. “I must apologize. My behavior last night…it wasn’t appropriate. I can’t allow personal feelings to cloud my judgment. I have a duty to my kingdom.”
She looked up and saw a flicker of pain cross his eyes, quickly concealed behind a mask of impassivity. He inhaled deeply as if gathering his strength.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Princess,” he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the dusty ground. His voice wavered slightly as he spoke. “I am the one who overstepped. I am bound by the creed of the Medjai, and I cannot let my feelings interfere either.” He took a steadying breath. “I will remain professional going forward.”
Layna managed a sad smile. “Thank you. That’s all I can ask.”
She turned and walked back to the palace, alone.
Watching her leave, a cutting sense of loss wrapped itself around Zarian’s heart. Her words echoed in his mind, a bittersweet symphony of what could have been and what must be.
He watched as she receded into the distance, each step taking her further and further away from him. His heart constricted tightly in his chest, and his eyes burned.It’s just sand, he tried to convince himself.
Blinking rapidly, he returned to his practice. Zarian’s movements carried a new intensity, each fearsome strike a release of his pain. He had to keep his focus, not only for his mission, but for Layna as well. Protecting her from his own heart was now a part of his duty.
The path of the Medjai was one of sacrifice.
And so, as Layna surrendered to her duty, so too would he.
After all, she had already made the choice for him.
CHAPTER TEN
In the shadowed embrace of rugged terrain, where the desert’s sandy whispers met the stoic silence of rocky, majestic mountains, a young man found himself at the crossroads of destiny. The land here was harsher, more unforgiving than the oasis he had fled, its beauty as perilous as the secrets it hid.
With only the moon to guide his weary steps, he collapsed near an outpost, the weight of his choices bearing down like the storm clouds overhead. As consciousness slipped from his grasp, the last thing he saw was a group of armored riders approaching, their shadows merging with the night.
He awoke on the carpeted floor of a dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of burning wood. At the room’s center sat a weathered figure, clad in dark robes.
“You’ve wandered far from any known path,” snarled the figure. “I am known to execute trespassers.”
The young man struggled to his feet. “So be it. I have left nothing behind worth returning to.” The bitter words scraped like shards of glass against his bone-dry throat.
The dark figure’s eyes narrowed, sensing untold stories in the young man’s lack of concern for his life. “And what would you seek here, hmm? Sanctuary? Or perhaps…revenge?”
The question hung in the air.
The young man’s silence spoke volumes.
The dark figure leaned forward, firelight casting fleeting shadows across his lined face. “I can offer you both,” he promised, a slow, cunning smile spreading across his angular features. “But allegiance comes with a price. Serve me, and you shall have your sanctuary…and, perhaps in time, your revenge.”
The young man’s heart pounded. Here was a chance to redefine his destiny, to carve a path where he was not overshadowed by a legacy he had grown to resent.
“I will serve.”
The kingdom of Zephyria unfurled in rugged splendor under an overcast sky. Here, the terrain was harsh, with jagged peaks clawing at dark clouds that perpetually gathered overhead. The air was cooler, scented with rain and pine, a cool contrast to its arid neighbor.
Jutting from this brooding landscape stood the Zephyrian castle, a monstrous fortress of stone and iron, its sharp towers piercing the fog.
In the castle’s highest tower, Azhar stood alone. His chambers were sparsely decorated, save for walls adorned with fearsome weapons and the mounted heads of several unlucky animals. The dim light of dusk cast long, eerie shadows, intensifying the grim, vengeful presence of the trophies. The only luxury was a large desk, covered with scattered parchments and maps in organized chaos.
With cold hazel eyes, Azhar gazed out a narrow window at the darkening sky, as rain sluiced against the glass. With one final look, Azhar turned and made his way to King Jorah’s council chambers.
The council chamber was a cramped room, dominated by a long, dark wooden table where Jorah and his advisers were already seated. The low murmur of discussion ceased as Azhar entered, leaving only the rhythmic sound of rain against the windows.
“Ah, my son,” Jorah greeted with a rare smile. “Join us. We were just deliberating on Alzahra.”