Page 76 of The Moon's Daughter
Zarian poured a glass of water for himself and offered one to Jamil. With a dramatic sigh, he began painstakingly dusting off his bed.
Jamil rolled his eyes.
“You were at the Oasis longer than I expected,” Zarian said, sitting on the bed. “Did you see Soraya? How is she?”
Jamil leaned against the wooden bed frame. “She’s safe and happier than I expected. She’s quite adamant that you keep Layna in good spirits.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Her exact message was, ‘Ensure my sister remains happy, or else you’ll answer to me.’”
Zarian chuckled affectionately, shaking his head.
“And she’s thrown herself into life at the Oasis with surprising zeal, especially where our agriculture is concerned. She’s brimming with ideas,” Jamil added, a note of admiration creeping into his voice.
Zarian observed his friend closely. “And how is Almeer?” he asked casually.
The mention of Almeer drew a shadow over Jamil’s features.
“He’s been…ordinary,” Jamil began begrudgingly. “He mostly spends his time with Soraya or keeps to himself. No odd contacts or other behavior. It’s unlikely that he’s working for Zephyria.” Jamil glanced away for a moment, a flicker of frustration—or perhaps disappointment—crossing his face.
Zarian nodded thoughtfully. “I’m grateful for your change of heart,” he finally said.
Jamil’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Unfortunately, our reconciliation was not the reason for my visit. Prepare yourself. The elders have confirmed it. The eclipse will occur in three days’ time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The weathered king stood on a high balcony, overlooking the rocky expanse of his kingdom. He turned slightly as his most trusted general approached.
“How is our guest adapting?” the king inquired, his voice as coarse as the rocks and pebbles that covered the mountains.
“He has exceeded all expectations, sire,” the general replied, a tall man clad in battle-worn armor. “He is exceptionally well-trained and already outperforming our best soldiers.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Last night, I left him deep in the forest with nothing but the clothes on his back. By dawn, he had returned with a large deer, killed with his bare hands. And every morning, he runs the mountain course. He’s already set the best time we’ve ever recorded, but I haven’t told him yet. I want him to keep pushing himself.”
A slow smile spread across the king’s lined face. “Excellent,” he murmured. “We made the right decision in allowing him to stay. He could be the weapon we need.”
The general nodded in agreement, his gaze following the king’s over the sprawling landscape.
As he turned to leave, the king spoke again. “Tell him he has the best time. Something tells me it would do him well to hear it.”
Azhar sat alone in Jorah’s old chambers, the ancient orb resting in his hands. Countless days and nights he had spent trying to unlock its mysteries. Yet, it remained inert, a silent enigma cradled within his palms.
Frustrated, he decided upon a new course of action. Perhaps under the moonlight, in the solitude of the wilderness, it might reveal its secrets.
As he headed toward the stables, his stride was purposeful, the orb secured in his cloak. The sight of the stable door slightly ajar stopped him in his tracks—an unusual occurrence at this late hour—and set his senses on edge. Sword drawn, he cautiously entered, his presence alerting the horses, their nickering the only sound in the night.
He inspected each stall carefully, tension coiling tighter in his chest with each step. The stables seemed deserted save for the horses, but his gut was screeching that something was wrong. As he approached the last stall, anticipation sharpened his focus.
Without warning, the door burst open, and a masked figure rushed out, launching an aggressive attack. The assailant aimed his dual blades with lethal intent, but Azhar was a tempest in human form. Swords clashed, metal singing against metal, echoing off the stone walls of the stable.
Azhar parried with a force that sent vibrations up the attacker’s arm. He advanced, his lone blade a blur of deadly precision, cutting through the air with brutal elegance. The attacker tried to retaliate, his swords aiming for Azhar’s vulnerabilities. Yet, Azhar seemed to predict each strike, his countermoves a dance of death that left no room for error.
A second attacker raced into the stables. Azhar was outnumbered, yet unyielding. He moved with a predator’s grace, his attacks carving arcs of silver into the air, each one finding its mark with unerring efficiency.
The frantic whinnying and agitated snorts of the horses filled the air. The attackers were relentless, but Azhar turned their momentum against them, exploiting every falter, every second of hesitation. With a calculated maneuver, he disarmed one assailant and quickly ran him through with his sword.
He cornered the second attacker. His blade was a whisper away from victory. A final exchange, a flurry of desperate defense met with unstoppable force, until Azhar’s sword found its mark and pierced through the assailant’s neck.
Breathing heavily, Azhar stood victorious on the bloody stable floor. Chest heaving, he wiped the sweat from his brow, and sheathed his sword, the cold satisfaction of survival his only companion.