Page 72 of The Moon's Daughter
“Indeed,” Lord Ebrahim confirmed with a small smile. “This could very well swing the tide in our favor.”
“Did King Nizam ask for anything in return?” Queen Hadiyah asked, glancing at Layna with concern. “A trade treaty or, perhaps, some sort of alliance?
Lord Ebrahim shook his head. “No, surprisingly, he did not. At least, not yet.” His eyes, too, darted to the princess.
Layna’s expression remained unreadable. The room buzzed with discussion, but she sat still, her gaze distant.
Zarian watched her closely. She had told him of her halted courtship with Nizam. What should have been a moment of unbridled relief, instead stirred a swarm of emotions within him—jealousy, concern, and a protective instinct over Layna.
Baysaht’s substantial military support was unexpected. What motivated such a grand gesture?
To her credit, Layna maintained an unreadable façade. Her expression revealed none of the conflict that Zarian knew must be roiling beneath.
The council, buoyed by the news of Baysaht’s support, swiftly moved into strategizing. Plans were drawn and logistics debated.
But throughout it all, Zarian’s mind was elsewhere.
In the palace’s great hall, Layna’s monthly assembly had gained new significance. The tension and uncertainty wrought by the war drew an unprecedented number of citizens. Faces of hope, fear, and worry crowded every inch, many standing shoulder to shoulder as seating fell short.
Layna was a vision of dignified grace in her midnight-blue abaya. She had forgone a crown, yet her presence was no less commanding. There was an innate regality to her, her composed posture and sweeping gaze leaving no doubt of her position.
Off to the side, Zarian remained vigilant, his keen eyes scanning the crowd for signs of trouble.
A middle-aged man, worry lining his face, approached. “Princess Layna,” he began, his voice clear over the crowd, “we hear tales of the war and of lives lost. How do we hold hope?”
Layna met his gaze. “Your concerns are valid. But let me assure you, we stand united, stronger than we’ve ever been. Our forces fight not just for land but for the very essence of Alzahra—a belief in peace and justice. Together, we will weather this storm. The Oasis has sent us 10,000 strong, well-armed men,” she said, glancing down at Zarian. “Their training and expertise have been vital.”
Her words settled over the crowd, offering a flicker of warmth against the chilling fears of war.
No sooner had the man returned to his place, than a woman made her way forward. She wore a deep red scarf over her hair, its ends tucked into the neck of her tunic. Her steps were determined, her face marked with a deeper, more personal anguish.
“Princess,” she said, her voice trembling, “my son is a soldier. Each day without word torments me. When will he return home?”
“Your son is a hero,” Layna declared. “His bravery is the shield that protects Alzahra. I cannot promise you that fear will not touch our hearts. But know that your son, and every man who stands in defense of our homeland, holds my deepest respect and gratitude. We owe them our continued hope and support.”
The woman, eyes brimming with tears, nodded in silent thanks before stepping back.
As the meeting progressed, Layna addressed each concern with grace and wisdom.
Zarian watched, his admiration growing with every word she spoke. In her, he saw a true leader—a beacon of hope for Alzahra.
Yet, he felt a twinge of guilt for the selfish part of him that dared hope Layna would set aside her crown and its burdens and choose a life with him instead.
The first time he witnessed Layna hosting her assembly, he had barely known her. Their interactions were rife with tension, her fiery spirit clashing with his teasing attitude. He vividly remembered the stern rebuke she gave him when he stepped in to defend her against a rude foreigner. Her independence had surprised him, her refusal to be seen as needing protection—a trait that had intrigued and challenged him.
How things had changed in just a few short months—now, Layna sought him out first when she felt vulnerable, finding in him comfort, protection, and solace.
Back then, Zarian could never have predicted that he would fall so deeply in love with her, the Daughter of the Moon. Watching her now, he marveled at the emotions she inspired in him.
As the assembly continued, his gaze remained fixed on her, and a silent vow formed in his heart. No matter what the future held, he was completely, irrevocably hers. In her, he found his home.
He chose her.
He could only hope that she, too, would choose him.
Night had enveloped the city by the time Lord Varin entered his home. The day’s events swirled in his mind like a maelstrom—the council meeting, the unexpected news from Baysaht—all played over in his thoughts as he made his way through the dimly lit halls of his residence.
The moment he entered his bedroom, intending to shed the day’s pretenses along with his clothes, he was forcefully thrust against the wall, his face pushed into the cold stone, the cold kiss of a blade pressed sharply against his throat.