Page 88 of The Moon's Daughter
Azhar managed to knock Zarian back. His voice dripped with contempt as he said, “Is this truly your best effort, brother? At this pace, you won’t survive long enough to watch me have Layna.”
“Don’t. Say. Her. Name,” Zarian snarled through clenched teeth. His face was a mask of pure fury, veins bulging in his neck, as he circled his brother, waiting for the next attack.
When Azhar struck again, he countered the onslaught with a fearsome roar. Their movements blurred, each parry and thrust a deadly dance of steel.
Azhar’s mocking laughter was cut short as Zarian launched himself forward. The loud clang of metal against metal echoed off the terrace’s stone floor. Each strike Zarian delivered was met with an equally powerful counter from Azhar.
Spinning quickly, Azhar landed a long, shallow cut across Zarian’s abdomen. The sight of bright blood seeping from the wound sent a jolt of fear through Layna. He was at a steep disadvantage without armor. Layna’s heart ached as she watched, utterly helpless, her eyes wide with terror.
Despite the wound, Zarian continued circling, searching for an opening.
Overhead, the sky darkened, the impending eclipse casting an ominous red glow over the terrace.
Azhar continued to goad Zarian, malice coating every syllable, unleashing a lifetime’s worth of resentment. “Perhaps, once I’ve grown bored with her, I’ll leave you her head, like I did with that hound of yours. Did you ever find his body, by the way?” He chuckled darkly.
The taunt hit its mark, igniting a furious fire within Zarian. With a roar of rage, he furiously launched himself at Azhar. Their swords met with a deafening clang, but Zarian fought with a vengeance that caught Azhar off guard.
In a swift movement, Zarian disarmed Azhar, sending his sword clattering to the terrace floor. He landed a deep, searing cut across Azhar’s arm, slicing through leather and flesh and muscle, drawing a furious bloom of blood. Azhar cried out in pain and grabbed his wounded arm, his face contorted in agony.
As Azhar stumbled backward, reaching for his fallen sword, Zarian made a decisive choice. He dropped his own weapon and lunged forward, pulling Azhar back in a fierce grip. Without hesitation, he delivered a powerful punch to his brother’s face, splitting his lip and drawing blood.
Zarian didn’t stop.
A hard jab to the stomach forced Azhar to double over in pain. Zarian tackled him to the ground, swiftly climbing atop him. A flurry of punches followed, each one landing with precision and force on Azhar’s face.
“You will never lay a hand on her again!” His roar was primal, a man protecting his woman.
Azhar, cunning even in desperation, managed to seize Zarian’s hand and bit fiercely, tearing off a chunk of flesh from his palm. Zarian’s cry of pain halted the attack, and Azhar managed to shove him off.
As both men regained their footing, Azhar’s bruised and bloodied face bore the evidence of Zarian’s fury.
Layna watched with a surge of hope. Her gaze drifted upward, the sky a canvas of anticipation. The eclipse was imminent, the moon inching closer to concealing the sun, slowly tinting the world in darkness.
Azhar reclaimed his sword. His stance was unsteady, the arrogance of his earlier taunts replaced with grim silence. The brothers engaged once more, swords clashing in a deadly dance. Zarian, seemingly oblivious to the pain in his hand, easily found his rhythm and quickly disarmed Azhar again. Azhar’s movements were sluggish, his defenses slowly crumbling.
“I searched for you. I wanted to bring you home!” Zarian shouted, circling his brother slowly.
“It was never my home,” Azhar spat. He furiously attacked again. “Father made sure of that!”
He tried to keep up with Zarian’s sword, but his steps were unsteady, his reactions slow.
With a swift maneuver, Zarian swept Azhar’s legs from beneath him, pinning him to the ground, his sword a hair’s breadth from sealing his fate. Yet, as he gazed down at his brother’s battered face, a twisted mirror of his own, an unwanted emotion clouded his judgment.
In that brief, suspended moment, with the eclipse painting the sky in shades of prophecy, Zarian’s resolve wavered.
This hesitation, a moment’s mercy born of the remnants of brotherhood, opened a fatal window.
Azhar seized his chance, drawing a hidden dagger and striking with lethal precision. He jammed the dagger deep into the side of Zarian’s neck and viciously pulled downward.
Zarian’s sword fell from his fingers as he staggered backward, clutching the gaping wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood.
Layna’s screams pierced the air, a harrowing echo of heartbreak and chaos.
“Zarian! Please, Zarian! No!” Despair and denial collided in her voice, her soul reaching out to him even as the bindings of light held her fast. “No! Zarian! No!”
The sky over Alzahra City transformed into a deep red canvas. The sun, fiery monarch of day, and the moon, ethereal guardian of night, met in a rare embrace. The light dimmed and the very air held its breath. An otherworldly twilight descended. Time itself seemed to pause. The sun’s bright light flared around the moon’s silhouette, a ring of radiance glowing in the sky. Stars, usually hidden by daylight, twinkled into visibility.
Layna could only watch helplessly as Zarian’s lifeforce drained away. He fell to his knees, his mournful eyes locking onto hers for one last, regret-filled moment. He tried to speak, but only the chilling, gurgling whisper of blood escaped his lips. His body collapsed onto the cold stone floor, a pool of blood slowly forming around his head.