Page 94 of The Moon's Daughter
She had to.
With a silent apology in his eyes, Jamil continued, “We were able to rescue the queen. She was terrified, of course, but unharmed. After that, we searched for you and Layna. I found you both on the terrace. Sarnab, Kharteen, and Dhil were with me.”
Zarian’s expression grew pensive, his mind racing. “I think the water was spiked with something. That’s why I felt so disoriented, why I woke so late.”
The two Medjai shared a knowing look. “Neendakhi,” they said simultaneously. Zarian sighed deeply, cradling his head in his hands.
“That makes sense,” Jamil remarked. “We found a palace guard in the gardens, stabbed to death. He must have drugged the water and opened the gates for the Zephyrians. It seems they disposed of him as soon as he served his purpose. A fitting end for a traitor.” Jamil leaned closer to Zarian. “Now, your turn. What happened?”
A young healer entered, arms full of fresh supplies. Seeing Zarian awake, he hurried over and greeted the two men. He began checking Zarian’s vitals, his hands moving with practiced motions as he conducted a swift but thorough examination.
Zarian, for his part, endured the scrutiny with resigned patience. Once satisfied, the healer gave Zarian a nod of approval and left them to their privacy.
The prince inhaled deeply. “I awoke much later than expected. I noticed a horse tied up right in the middle of the gardens. That was the first sign. That, along with my disorientation and headache, I just knew something was wrong. I rushed to Layna’s room, but I was too late.” His voice cracked as he continued, “She had been captured. I found her restrained on the terrace…by Zaarif.”
Jamil’s mouth fell open. “Zaarif? But how?”
“Azhar,” Zarian corrected, a hard edge in his voice. “The new king of Zephyria, that was Zaarif.” He paused, letting Jamil absorb this revelation. “And he had the orb. He used it to bind Layna to the pillar.” Zarian’s eyes clouded over, the weight of painful memories pulling him back.
“We fought,” he said simply, looking down at his lap. “Then, at the eclipse’s peak, the prophecy unfolded. The Daughter of the Moon was unleashed.” He hesitated. “She—she dealt with Azhar. She did what I couldn’t. She used her light against him. The bones on the terrace are his.” Jamil winced and placed a hand on Zarian’s shoulder.
Zarian continued, omitting his own death and miraculous revival, his mind still grappling with that reality. “She levitated into the sky, using her power fiercely, but it was all a haze to me.” His eyes met Jamil’s. “When she returned to the terrace, she was Layna again, but she collapsed. The power was too much.”
Concern washed over his features as he looked at Layna. “I could do nothing but hold her,” he whispered.
“You did everything you could,” Jamil reassured, squeezing Zarian’s shoulder. “All that matters is that you’re both safe.” He paused, thinking. “I can’t believe that Azhar was Zaarif. All this time. Do you think your father knew?”
“He must have known,” Zarian snapped, voice brimming with resentment. “He concealed Zaarif’s whereabouts for years. He knew, and still he chose silence. Leaving me in the dark at such a pivotal moment…it’s unfathomable.”
“I am truly sorry, brother.” Jamil paused and looked at him closely, observing, not for the first time, the absence of any visible wounds. “You mentioned that you and Zaarif fought?”
“Yes,” Zarian replied flatly, his gaze dropping to the floor, a shadow of pain flickering across his face.
Jamil watched his friend closely for several heartbeats but didn’t press further. Instead, he rose to his feet. “The queen will be coming soon to see Layna. She’s shown incredible strength through all of this. Managing a war-torn kingdom while grieving her husband.”
His gaze flickered between Zarian and Layna. “I must return to the Oasis. I’ll inform your father of what has happened. And…I’ll bring Soraya back. She should be here.” Zarian, lost in thought, didn’t respond. “Will you be alright?” Jamil pressed, a deep crease forming between his brows.
Zarian nodded. “Thank you, Jamil. For everything.”
Days passed, but Layna remained deeply asleep. Zarian, steadfast and unwavering, barely left her bedside, his vigil a constant through the days and nights that followed. The world outside continued its relentless march, but time stood still for him, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity.
He watched her, hope and despair battling within him, clinging to the slightest movement, a twitch of her hand or a flutter beneath her eyelids, as signs she might return to him.
Soraya arrived at the palace in time for her father’s funeral. It was a modest affair. Historically, royal funerals were grand public events, a celebration of the monarch’s legacy, but a private event felt more appropriate given the recent tragedies.
With heavy hearts, Hadiyah and Soraya arranged the somber ceremony. Soraya, speaking both for herself and for Layna, shared a heartfelt tribute to their father. Both mother and daughter lit the funeral pyre, standing together in tears until the flames died.
During the funeral, Zarian stayed by Layna’s side in the infirmary, tightly gripping her hand, silently urging her to open her eyes. His heart ached knowing she would deeply regret missing her beloved father’s farewell.
After the funeral, the queen and Lord Ebrahim, with Burhani’s assistance, assumed the mantle of leadership, working tirelessly to begin healing and rebuilding Alzahra.
Word soon arrived at the palace, a whisper of victory from the northeast: Baysaht’s forces defeated the second Zephyrian faction.
Yet, an eerie silence hung over the fate of the southeastern troops. No tales of battles won or lost reached their ears—it was as if the very sands had conspired to keep their fate a secret.
Rumors fluttered like uneasy birds through the palace and markets. Wandering souls spoke of a fantastical event—the desert itself rising in fury, sands parted by the hand of a vengeful goddess, swallowing the southeastern army whole.
These storytellers, with wide eyes and trembling voices, were met with disbelief. Laughter and dismissal followed their accounts, their stories too wild to be taken as anything but the ramblings of those touched by the desert’s hot sun.