Page 93 of The Moon's Daughter

For now, he focused on their survival and the warmth of Layna in his arms.

Numbness enveloped Zarian, a protective shroud against the reality unraveling around him. Time lost meaning as he sat on the terrace, cradling Layna in his arms, the world reduced to the space they occupied. He sat counting her breaths for hours, or perhaps only moments, until Jamil breached his bubble of isolation, snapping Zarian back to some semblance of awareness.

Zarian’s gaze lifted to meet Jamil’s, instantly wary of the three men behind him. He tightened his hold on Layna as he drew her closer to his chest, prepared to shield her from any threat, real or perceived.

With gentle insistence, Jamil helped him stand, his voice laced with concern as he suggested someone else carry Layna to safety. Zarian didn’t speak but refused to relinquish his hold.

He could not bear to let her out of his arms.

The memory of his failure, of seeing Layna in peril while he could do nothing but die, haunted him. He clutched her close. Her weight in his arms, though a struggle in his weakened state, was one he would carry willingly.

And so, Zarian carried her.

Flanked by Jamil and the other Medjai, he walked through the halls of a palace ravaged by conflict. The corridors were littered with bodies—palace guards who died defending their people, servants caught in the attack, and the Zephyrian invaders who had breached the sanctuary of the palace. Zarian felt a deep, aching gratitude in his chest that Layna, unconscious in his arms, was spared the sight.

Each step toward the infirmary was harder than the last. His body, barely his own, cried for rest, a plea that became harder and harder to ignore.

After what felt like a lifetime, they finally reached the infirmary, and Jamil quickly signaled the healers. Zarian gently laid Layna on an empty bed, her form so light, yet carrying the weight of his entire world.

Then, as if his strength was tethered to her, it waned the moment she left his arms. He sank to the floor, his body surrendering to exhaustion.

Waking with a start, Zarian found himself in an unfamiliar bed. The rough sheets scratched uncomfortably against his skin, and the fresh, earthy scent of herbs bombarded his senses. Blinking rapidly against the bright light, his eyes focused on the gray ceiling.

A sense of ownership slowly returned to him; his limbs felt like his own again, his mind clear of the hazy fog that had shrouded it.

Bolting upright, he scanned his surroundings—a frantic search that calmed only upon seeing Layna asleep in the bed next to his, her chest rising and falling gently. A curtain partially separated their beds from the rest of the infirmary.

His knees buckled as he leaped out of bed.

Steadying himself, he stood beside her. He noted the healers’ handiwork. The remnants of blood and battle were cleansed from her face, her swollen lip now a healing scab, and the bruises that painted her skin in hues of pain were now fading to the purplish blue of recovery.

Exhaustion shadowed her features, making her seem more fragile than he had ever seen her. He reached out, hesitating for a moment before allowing his fingertips to brush against her warm cheek, grounding himself in the reality that she was alive.

He quickly surveyed himself, realizing he was still wearing sleep trousers, his upper body bare. In disbelief, he ran his hands over his abdomen and his neck. Despite the uncomfortable tightness of his skin, there wasn’t even a single scar to mark what had transpired.

Zarian turned back to Layna just as Jamil appeared at the infirmary doorway. Relief washed over his friend’s face.

“You’re awake,” Jamil noted, a smile breaking through his concern as he approached with a pitcher of water.

“Has she awoken yet?” Zarian asked urgently, his voice rough as if it had been dragged over broken glass. His gaze flickered to Layna’s still form before returning to Jamil.

Jamil’s smile faltered as he poured Zarian a glass of water. “No, not yet,” he replied gently. Zarian drank deeply, the water soothing his parched throat, but his thoughts remained fixed on Layna.

“How long?” Zarian asked between gulps.

“A little over a day,” Jamil responded, nodding toward a pile of clothes on the chair between the beds. “You can change in there.” He pointed to a nearby door. Zarian glanced at the clothes, then back at Layna. Jamil stepped closer. “It’s alright. I’ll watch over her.” Nodding, Zarian headed to get dressed.

Returning in under three minutes, he took a seat beside Jamil. “What happened?” His eyes never strayed long from Layna’s slumbering form.

Jamil took a deep breath. “Your father sent us—about fifty Medjai—to the palace. He said you’d need our help. He didn’t give details, just said it was urgent.”

“When we arrived, the palace was eerily quiet. Practically deserted. We split up immediately, searching for any signs of the enemy or the royal family.”

“We found about twenty Zephyrians scattered throughout. They had already killed the few guards and servants who were awake. We overpowered them easily.” His eyes dropped to his lap, shoulders slumping slightly. “But we were too late. They had already murdered the king.”

Pain darkened Zarian’s features as he glanced at Layna. His heart ached at the thought of the painful loss she would face upon waking.

Shewouldawaken, he told himself.