CHAPTER TEN

I n the shadowed embrace of rugged terrain, where the desert’s sandy whispers met the stoic silence of rocky, majestic mountains, a young man found himself at the crossroads of destiny. The land here was harsher, more unforgiving than the oasis he had fled, its beauty as perilous as the secrets it hid.

With only the moon to guide his weary steps, he collapsed near an outpost, the weight of his choices bearing down like the storm clouds overhead. As consciousness slipped from his grasp, the last thing he saw was a group of armored riders approaching, their shadows merging with the night.

He awoke on the carpeted floor of a dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of burning wood. At the room’s center sat a weathered figure, clad in dark robes.

“You’ve wandered far from any known path,” snarled the figure. “I am known to execute trespassers.”

The young man struggled to his feet. “So be it. I have left nothing behind worth returning to.” The bitter words scraped like shards of glass against his bone-dry throat.

The dark figure’s eyes narrowed, sensing untold stories in the young man’s lack of concern for his life. “And what would you seek here, hmm? Sanctuary? Or perhaps…revenge?”

The question hung in the air.

The young man’s silence spoke volumes.

The dark figure leaned forward, firelight casting fleeting shadows across his lined face. “I can offer you both,” he promised, a slow, cunning smile spreading across his angular features. “But allegiance comes with a price. Serve me, and you shall have your sanctuary…and, perhaps in time, your revenge.”

The young man’s heart pounded. Here was a chance to redefine his destiny, to carve a path where he was not overshadowed by a legacy he had grown to resent.

“I will serve.”

The kingdom of Zephyria unfurled in rugged splendor under an overcast sky. Here, the terrain was harsh, with jagged peaks clawing at dark clouds that perpetually gathered overhead. The air was cooler, scented with rain and pine, a cool contrast to its arid neighbor.

Jutting from this brooding landscape stood the Zephyrian castle, a monstrous fortress of stone and iron, its sharp towers piercing the fog.

In the castle’s highest tower, Azhar stood alone. His chambers were sparsely decorated, save for walls adorned with fearsome weapons and the mounted heads of several unlucky animals. The dim light of dusk cast long, eerie shadows, intensifying the grim, vengeful presence of the trophies. The only luxury was a large desk, covered with scattered parchments and maps in organized chaos.

With cold hazel eyes, Azhar gazed out a narrow window at the darkening sky, as rain sluiced against the glass. With one final look, Azhar turned and made his way to King Jorah’s council chambers.

The council chamber was a cramped room, dominated by a long, dark wooden table where Jorah and his advisers were already seated. The low murmur of discussion ceased as Azhar entered, leaving only the rhythmic sound of rain against the windows.

“Ah, my son,” Jorah greeted with a rare smile. “Join us. We were just deliberating on Alzahra.”

Azhar took his seat, his eyes scanning the maps spread out before them, detailing Alzahra and Zephyria, the contentious border highlighted.

“We must tread carefully,” an adviser said. “The eclipse approaches, and with it, the prophecy. Our timing must be precise.”

Azhar spoke, his voice a low rumble. “Have the astronomers determined the exact timing of the eclipse?”

“Not yet,” responded Lord Ebric, adjusting his spectacles. “But they are tirelessly studying the stars for signs.”

Lord Garrisman, the kingdom’s war general, spoke next. “Sire, we are meeting with envoys from Ezanek and Valtisaan tomorrow to discuss our joint strategy.”

Jorah’s eyes shone with glee. “Outstanding, Lord Garrisman. These alliances are pivotal. We will tighten the noose around Alzahra.”

Garrisman bowed slightly. “I cannot take all the credit, sire. Azhar’s information was instrumental in fostering the deal with Valtisaan.”

Jorah nodded, a look of pride on his face. “I expect no less from my son. Well done, Azhar.”

Azhar ignored Jorah’s praise, his mind racing. “We need to draw more of Alzahra’s soldiers away from the palace. I know just the thing. We’ll send a message—something personal. And then when we finally strike, the palace will be near defenseless.”

The council murmured in agreement as Azhar explained his plan, an idea taking root. Jorah nodded. “Proceed with caution, Azhar. Let the shadows be our allies until the eclipse reveals our path.”

As the meeting adjourned, Azhar felt a surge of anticipation. In the dark game of war and prophecy, he would finally have his revenge.

After the council disbanded, King Jorah retreated to his chambers. His quarters offered a sweeping view of the rugged landscape below. Jagged mountains framed the horizon, their peaks piercing the shadowy sky. Rolling hills dotted with tall, ancient trees stretched beneath the twilight, while a silver river wound through the valleys, catching the last glimmers of the sun’s rays.

The familiar smell of burning wood greeted him. His joints creaked loudly as he settled into his high-backed chair with a weary sigh. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm glow that did little to dispel the chill of solitude that was his constant companion.

Jorah contemplated the journey that had led him here. The first time he heard the prophecy of the Daughter of the Moon, it had come from an adviser recently returned from Thessan. At the time, Jorah dismissed it as a fanciful legend, a story spun by zealots clinging to the shadows of the past.

But then Azhar entered his life, dropped at his feet by fate’s hand, and corroborated the tale. The young man, with his dark past and seething hatred, had unknowingly filled a void in Jorah’s life. There was a kinship in their shared experiences of abandonment, forming a bond stronger than the usual ties between king and ward.

In Azhar, Jorah saw a reflection of his younger self—hurt, spurned, and driven by a desire to prove himself against the world’s scorn. Surprisingly, he found not just a tool for his ambitions, but someone he genuinely cared for, a son in all but blood.

Jorah’s thoughts turned to the war. The prophecy, once a tale he scoffed at, was now a beacon guiding him toward his fate.

It was only fitting that now, decades later, he would take both Khahleel’s daughter and her power.