Page 32 of The Moon's Daughter
Azhar took his seat, his eyes scanning the maps spread out before them, detailing Alzahra and Zephyria, the contentious border highlighted.
“We must tread carefully,” an adviser said. “The eclipse approaches, and with it, the prophecy. Our timing must be precise.”
Azhar spoke, his voice a low rumble. “Have the astronomers determined the exact timing of the eclipse?”
“Not yet,” responded Lord Ebric, adjusting his spectacles. “But they are tirelessly studying the stars for signs.”
Lord Garrisman, the kingdom’s war general, spoke next. “Sire, we are meeting with envoys from Ezanek and Valtisaan tomorrow to discuss our joint strategy.”
Jorah’s eyes shone with glee. “Outstanding, Lord Garrisman. These alliances are pivotal. We will tighten the noose around Alzahra.”
Garrisman bowed slightly. “I cannot take all the credit, sire. Azhar’s information was instrumental in fostering the deal with Valtisaan.”
Jorah nodded, a look of pride on his face. “I expect no less from my son. Well done, Azhar.”
Azhar ignored Jorah’s praise, his mind racing. “We need to draw more of Alzahra’s soldiers away from the palace. I know just the thing. We’ll send a message—something personal. And then when we finally strike, the palace will be near defenseless.”
The council murmured in agreement as Azhar explained his plan, an idea taking root. Jorah nodded. “Proceed with caution, Azhar. Let the shadows be our allies until the eclipse reveals our path.”
As the meeting adjourned, Azhar felt a surge of anticipation. In the dark game of war and prophecy, he would finally have his revenge.
After the council disbanded, King Jorah retreated to his chambers. His quarters offered a sweeping view of the rugged landscape below. Jagged mountains framed the horizon, their peaks piercing the shadowy sky. Rolling hills dotted with tall, ancient trees stretched beneath the twilight, while a silver river wound through the valleys, catching the last glimmers of the sun’s rays.
The familiar smell of burning wood greeted him. His joints creaked loudly as he settled into his high-backed chair with a weary sigh. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow that did little to dispel the chill of solitude that was his constant companion.
Jorah contemplated the journey that had led him here. The first time he heard the prophecy of the Daughter of the Moon, it had come from an adviser recently returned from Thessan. At the time, Jorah dismissed it as a fanciful legend, a story spun by zealots clinging to the shadows of the past.
But then Azhar entered his life, dropped at his feet by fate’s hand, and corroborated the tale. The young man, with his dark past and seething hatred, had unknowingly filled a void in Jorah’s life. There was a kinship in their shared experiences of abandonment, forming a bond stronger than the usual ties between king and ward.
In Azhar, Jorah saw a reflection of his younger self—hurt, spurned, and driven by a desire to prove himself against the world’s scorn. Surprisingly, he found not just a tool for his ambitions, but someone he genuinely cared for, a son in all but blood.
Jorah’s thoughts turned to the war. The prophecy, once a tale he scoffed at, was now a beacon guiding him toward his fate.
It was only fitting that now, decades later, he would take both Khahleel’s daughter and her power.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After the royal ball, weeks crept by like the painfully slow crawl of a sahrabeetle. Princess Layna sat solemnly among the council, struggling to concentrate on the discussions that would determine her kingdom’s fate.
As always, her eyes disobeyed her and drifted to Zarian.
He sat across the table, a stoic statue. They had maintained a cautious distance, their interactions strictly professional. A shadow had fallen over him, woven from the same dark fabric that shrouded her own heart.
Layna forced herself to focus on the council’s deliberations. The envoy and his entourage sent to Zephyria never returned, and despite Alzahra’s suspicions of foul play, there was no evidence to implicate Zephyria. In the end, the council ultimately blamed desert bandits for the disappearance.
To make matters worse, their scouts had confirmed what Layna and Hadiyah overheard at the ball: Jorah had secured military alliances with Valtisaan and Ezanek.
King Khahleel’s brow furrowed in concern. “We must prepare for the worst.”
Queen Hadiyah added, “I will write to my father in Shahbaad. Our allies in Bilkaan must also be informed. Their naval fleet could secure our coast.”
Lord Saldeen spoke next, “Has there been any word of potential proposals since the royal ball? An alliance with a powerful kingdom at this juncture could provide much-needed resources. It might even deter Zephyria from escalating matters.”
An awkward silence descended upon the council chamber, threatening to crush Layna under its heavy weight.
No word had come from any kingdom.
She swallowed deeply, her palms sweating, eyes fixed on the table as she felt the council members’ sharp gazes boring into her.