CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I n the blistering noon sun, the training grounds were a scorching inferno of sand and stone. The elder brother emerged from the shadow of the palace to find his younger sibling navigating a grueling obstacle course.

The task was to swing across a series of bars, each spaced just out of comfortable reach, demanding precise leaps and iron grips. The sun turned the metal bars into searing rods, but the younger brother persevered, hands desperately clenching and unclenching to maintain his hold.

With each attempt, his raw, bleeding hands slipped from the heated metal, sending him crashing to the ground. His palms were a mess of burst blisters and chafed skin. Still, he picked himself up again and again, driven by a fierce need to conquer the course.

The elder brother, watching with growing concern, stepped forward. “Stop,” he implored. “You’ve pushed yourself enough for today. You can try again tomorrow.”

But his words fell on deaf ears. The younger brother, consumed by the challenge, focused entirely on the taunting bars.

On the next attempt, his grip faltered again, his weakened hands unable to hold on. He fell heavily, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The elder brother rushed to his side, grabbing his arm to help him up.

With a grunt, the younger brother angrily knocked him aside and stormed off.

Left alone in the dust, the elder brother watched his sibling walk away.

Zarian and Layna walked through the palace halls on their way to the council chambers. Layna listened intently as he explained the virtues of meditation.

“Clearing your mind is invaluable,” he explained. “In battle, clarity and calmness can be as decisive as the sharpest blade.”

Layna’s focus, however, was abruptly shattered as they rounded a corner. She stiffened, her eyes wide, and grabbed Zarian’s arm tightly. At the corridor’s far end, a seemingly innocuous cluster of servants bustled about.

Without explanation, the princess quickly shoved Zarian down a side hallway and in through the first door she saw. It creaked open loudly, revealing a storage room. Dust motes danced in the sliver of light from a small window, illuminating stacks of old decorations and rolled-up rugs.

Layna swiftly shut the door, pressing her back against it. Her hands were planted firmly on Zarian’s chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath, while his hands steadied her hips.

The sudden intimacy of their position left her breathless. The heat of his body sent a surge of desire through her. His scent—sandalwood mingled with spice—enveloped her senses, making it difficult to think coherently.

“Layna,” Zarian whispered, his voice low as he scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness. “I don’t mind in the slightest, but this is quite bold of you. Has something changed your mind about us?” He refocused his gaze on her, his voice sounding almost hopeful in the dark. His deft fingers traced winding patterns along her hips and waist.

“I—no, not at all,” Layna hastily replied.

Zarian’s hands stilled, and a glimmer of disappointment—almost devastation—crossed his features. But it vanished swiftly, replaced by his customary lazy grin.

“Then why, Princess, are we hiding in here?” he drawled, the timbre of his voice dropping as he placed his hands on either side of her head, effectively trapping her between his muscular arms.

An involuntary shiver ran through her. His proximity was intoxicating. She swallowed deeply, struggling to regain control over her heart.

“I was avoiding those servants,” Layna explained awkwardly. Zarian raised an eyebrow. “They work in the couriers’ quarters. And they—well, they pity me. I used to visit there quite often, and well, it’s a long story,” she rambled uneasily, his face just inches from hers.

“I see,” he said slowly, his eyebrows shooting up in almost comical disbelief. “Layna, if you wanted more time alone with me, you need only ask.”

Layna huffed and pushed at his chest, putting distance between them.

“That’s not it,” she snapped, cheeks flushing. “I think they’re gone now. Let’s just get to the council chambers.” She cracked the door open, checked the hallway, and hurried out. Zarian followed close behind, a wry smile on his face.

As Layna and Zarian arrived at the council chambers, an air of solemnity had already settled thickly over the room. The usual pleasantries were conspicuously absent, replaced by a tension that weighed heavily on everyone.

Lord Ebrahim wore a grave expression. “My lords, my ladies,” he began uneasily. “We face a predicament. King Jorah has sent a marriage proposal.”

Queen Hadiyah leaned forward. “A proposal? For Layna, I presume? On behalf of his heir?”

Ebrahim hesitated, his eyes flickering to Layna and King Khahleel before returning to the queen. “No, my queen. The proposal is from…King Jorah himself.”

The chamber plunged into stunned silence. Even Burhani was at a loss for words, her mouth parted in shock. Across from Layna, Zarian sat rigidly, murder flashing in his eyes. His jaw clenched tightly, a vein pulsing in his forehead as he tightly gripped the arms of his chair. He looked angrier than Layna had ever seen him.

Layna’s eyes blazed as she fought to keep her own outrage in check at the insulting proposal.

King Khahleel’s face reddened with anger. He pondered for a heart-stopping moment, the weight of his daughter’s future and his kingdom in the balance.

Then, with a voice like thunder, he boomed, “No! Never! This will never happen!” He slammed his fist on the table, startling the council members. “Does that fool think I will sell my daughter? Let there be war! Let that dog bring whatever he can! I will raze his entire kingdom to the ground!”

A heavy silence enveloped the room. Layna’s fiery gaze swept over the council and landed on her mother. Queen Hadiyah was white as a sheet, her usual composure replaced by an unreadable expression. Layna couldn’t quite discern the emotion in her mother’s eyes—was it shock, fear, or something else?

In that moment, Layna recalled her mother’s many lessons about the burdens of leadership, memories pouring cool water over the smoldering fire of her anger. As future queen, her reactions needed to be measured, even in the face of such blatant disrespect.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Layna reined in her emotions and turned to her father, who was still seething with rage.

“Baba, while your anger is justified, we must consider all our options,” she advised calmly. “As much as we abhor this proposal, we must not let emotions cloud our judgment. Our kingdom’s future is at stake. Let’s at least discuss it.”

Khahleel turned sharply, his eyes blazing. “No, Layna! I am still the king. My answer is no.” He faced the council. “Do not respond to the proposal. Instead, send fifteen thousand more troops to our eastern border. That should show them where Alzahra stands.” He took a breath. “If that bastard wants a war, I swear by the moon and sun, I will give him a war!”

Queen Hadiyah, her voice a whisper, reached out in a bid to soothe the tempest in her husband. “Khahleel, please, try to contr—”

Yet her plea dissolved into the thick air as the king dismissed her gesture, rising so abruptly his chair screeched a loud protest on the stone floor. The room constricted further as he stood, a towering figure of fury.

“There will be no further discussion on this matter!” he bellowed. “He could not have you, Hadiyah, so now he seeks to take my daughter? Never . I will not entertain such an outrageous proposal!”

His raw declaration, a revelation veiled in decades of silence, reverberated through the chamber, leaving a palpable shock in its wake.

The king stormed out, his heavy footsteps resonating with rage. The council members sat frozen. Some exchanged furtive glances, acknowledging a truth long suspected but never spoken, while others awkwardly stared at their laps, avoiding the queen’s gaze.

Shocked, Layna sat motionless, still as a statue. Was King Jorah’s hostility rooted in a spurned interest in her mother? The implications shook her to her core.

Following the king’s abrupt departure, a heavy silence settled over the room. Queen Hadiyah, with a resigned sigh, addressed the council.

“We shall reconvene tomorrow. For now, let us reflect on this development.” She rose gracefully, her expression a mask of regal composure, though Layna could see the worry in her eyes.

As the council members dispersed, Layna remained seated. She glanced at Zarian, their eyes meeting before he stood abruptly. His footsteps echoed, each one a sharp, angry staccato, as he left the room.

Layna tried to focus on her tasks throughout the day, but her thoughts remained heavy. She hadn’t seen her mother since the explosive council meeting that morning. The queen had been conspicuously absent around the palace.

Her heart ached for her mother’s comfort and wisdom. The idea of marrying Jorah was abhorrent. Yet, wasn’t her duty to her people paramount? She had the ability to avert the war and to save countless lives. Could she, should she, sacrifice her own happiness for the greater good?

It was time to speak to her mother.

Determined, Layna navigated the palace corridors. Reaching her parents’ quarters, she knocked softly on the heavy door. When there was no response, she slowly pushed it open. Hadiyah was alone, seated by a window overlooking the gardens, lost in thought.

“Mama,” Layna began tentatively, “are you alright?” When the queen didn’t respond, she continued. “What Baba said in the council meeting…is it true?”

Queen Hadiyah sighed, turning to face her daughter. “It’s true, Layna,” she said softly, her eyes reflecting a past, long buried. “As you know, before I was your father’s queen, I was Shahbaad’s only princess.”

A distant look came over Hadiyah as she told Layna of a grand dinner in her homeland, where she first met Prince Jorah.

The grand hall of Shahbaad glowed with the light of a thousand candles, the flickering flames casting a golden sheen over the assembled nobility. At the center stood a young Hadiyah, dressed in her finest silk gown. Her hair, a cascade of dark brown waves, was adorned with jewels that sparkled with every movement.

Then there was Prince Jorah. His entrance had been nothing short of regal, his tall, lean frame moving with a confidence that effortlessly parted the sea of guests. His features were sharply defined, a sculptor’s dream, with an aquiline nose and shrewd, piercing eyes. Those eyes found Hadiyah across the room, locking onto hers with an intensity that drew her to him. On his finger, a silver ring bore the falcon sigil of Zephyria, its wings spread wide in conquest.

As they dined, Jorah was the epitome of charm and wit. He spoke eloquently of the future, of an alliance that would bring their kingdoms into a new era of prosperity. But it was not his words that captivated Hadiyah; it was the way he looked at her, as if he had been searching for her for an eternity.

In the months that followed, their courtship was a whirlwind of stolen moments and shared dreams. Jorah was attentive, sharing stories of his travels, painting vivid pictures of distant lands and cultures, igniting in Hadiyah a curiosity and desire for adventure.

During a private walk in the gardens, under a canopy of stars, Jorah took her hand, sliding off his ring and pressing it into her palm. “A promise,” he said softly, “of a future together.”

“We courted for a year. I…I loved him,” Hadiyah continued, eyes downcast. “But my father decided a union with Khahleel of Alzahra was a stronger match. It tore at my heart, but I did my duty.”

She paused, her gaze drifting to a portrait of King Khahleel. “And in doing so, I found a truer love with your father. Khahleel showed me a depth of kindness and compassion that I hadn’t known with Jorah.”

Hadiyah sighed. “All these years, I emphasized the importance of a strategic marriage to you. My hope was to shield you from the heartache I endured with Jorah.” Her mother smiled at her sadly.

Layna listened intently, her mind racing with questions. “Do you think Jorah was always this evil? Or did losing you change him?”

Her mother shook her head. “I often wonder about that myself, Layna. Was the man I knew just a facade, or did heartbreak twist him into the man he is today? I don’t know. But I do know his proposal now is not about love or even politics. It’s about revenge.”

Layna took her mother’s hand. “Thank you, Mama, for sharing this with me. Understanding the history helps, even if it doesn’t change our situation.”

Hadiyah nodded, squeezing her daughter’s hand. “We must be cautious. Your father’s anger is understandable, but we must think strategically. This is a game of chess, not sand rugby.”

Layna nodded in agreement. Glancing toward the clock, she realized it was nearly time for her training with Zarian. Rising from her seat, she embraced her mother tightly before excusing herself.

After the council meeting, the day passed in a blur of briefings with security advisers, but nothing had managed to quell Zarian’s simmering rage.

In one meeting, he snapped at a junior adviser for a minor oversight in the palace security log, his voice harsher than intended. The young man recoiled, eyes wide, and Zarian had to grit his teeth to refrain from apologizing.

As he walked through the halls, his fingers kept clenching and unclenching into fists, tension visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. Passing servants and guards gave him a wide berth.

Now, as he approached his chambers, the council meeting replayed in his mind, the ridiculous proposal fueling the fire of his anger. The hours had done nothing to lessen his fury, and he knew he needed to release it before it consumed him.

Inside his chambers, he hastily scribbled a coded note for Jamil. The words were brief but urgent.

With the note securely folded, Zarian slipped out and headed to the palace gardens. He strode with purpose to a secluded spot and concealed the note under a large rock, confident Jamil would find it on his nightly rounds.

As Zarian left the gardens, anger swirled unchecked within him. His fury was directed at King Jorah for daring to propose such a humiliating union.

But another part, a part he was reluctant to acknowledge, was directed at Layna for even considering the thought of marrying the old tyrant. The thought of her sacrificing herself, playing the dutiful princess to avert a war, ignited a fierce protectiveness in him. But alongside that protectiveness was a sense of betrayal he didn’t fully understand.

She doesn’t owe me anything , he reminded himself. I have no right to her.

Still seething, Zarian arrived at the training grounds, fists clenched as he watched Layna approach.

“Princess,” he greeted tightly. “Shall we begin?”

Layna nodded distractedly, lost in her own thoughts.

As they began sparring, Zarian’s movements were intense, his instructions sharp, his usual patience replaced with an acrid urgency. Each parry and thrust were an outlet for his anger and frustration.

Their swords clashed, echoing across the grounds. Zarian was aggressive in his strikes.

He swiftly disarmed Layna, sending her sword flying. Zarian swept her legs out from under her, sending her crashing to the ground before pinning her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the earth.

But unlike the first time, there was no moment of charged tension or lingering gazes. He quickly rose, resuming his stance.

As Layna stood, brushing off the dust, Zarian watched her with piercing intensity. His voice, when he finally spoke, dripped with bitter sarcasm.

“If you plan to rule Zephyria, you might want to improve your technique,” he mocked, the corners of his mouth curving into a sardonic smile. “At this rate, you’ll hardly impress King Jorah.”

The words hung in the air. For a moment, Layna stood in shock, seemingly taken aback by the venom in his voice.

Her eyes narrowed and her shoulders stiffened as if bracing for a blow. She drew a sharp breath.

“Perhaps,” she retorted, her voice surprisingly steady, “but, luckily, I have you to teach me.” Her chin quivered slightly, and Zarian felt like camel dung scraped off an old, worn boot.

But then the violent tide of his anger rose up once more and pulled him back under. He was powerless against it. His fury crushed the pang of regret that had bloomed in his chest and forced the apology back down his throat.

Layna took a deep, steadying breath and retrieved her sword. As they resumed sparring, she attempted to use the techniques he had taught her, but Zarian gave her no quarter. His defense was impenetrable, his attacks relentless. Twice more, she found herself pinned and released, each time rising with mounting frustration.

“You’re supposed to train me, not dominate me!” Layna exclaimed, her temper flaring as she angrily picked herself up off the ground yet again. Furious and clearly done with their lesson, she stormed off toward the gardens, leaving Zarian standing alone.

As she strode away, Zarian watched for a heartbeat and then, against his better judgment, quickly followed her, his restraint no match for his anger.

He jogged slightly to catch up with her furious pace and caught her arm, roughly twirling her around to face him, his eyes alight with icy rage.

“How can you even consider marrying King Jorah?” he growled. “You’d be nothing but a puppet, a fucking plaything for him!”

Layna met his gaze fiercely. “I have to do what is necessary for my kingdom,” she countered. “It’s my duty.” She tried to wrench her arm away, but he pulled her closer, fingers digging into her skin, his iron grip unyielding.

“There has to be some limit to duty!” he snapped.

“And what of your duty, Zarian?” Layna shot back bitterly. “Aren’t you prepared to do whatever it takes to uphold your vows to the Medjai? Why do you even care who I marry?”

In that moment, the last shred of Zarian’s self-restraint snapped.

He pulled her into a deep, searing kiss, pouring into it all the words he couldn’t say, all the emotions he couldn’t express. The kiss was a meeting of passion and desperation, a silent confession of his feelings.

Then, he pulled back abruptly, releasing her arm. “Shit, Layna, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

But Layna cut him off, seizing his face and drawing him back into a kiss that was even deeper. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, their lips fused together.

Their kiss deepened, and Zarian gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him. He guided her backward with deliberate steps, lips never parting, until he pressed her against a secluded hedge, hidden from prying eyes.

The force of their kiss escalated with each breath and each touch. Layna’s hands raked through Zarian’s hair and down his muscled back, holding him close, feeling the raw strength beneath his tunic.

Zarian firmly grasped her chin, angling her mouth as his lips grew more demanding, his free hand tracing patterns along her side. He nipped at her lower lip with his teeth, gently tugging, then soothed it with his tongue. Her hands clutched his shoulders tightly, her chest heaving against his as their lips moved in a fierce, passionate rhythm.

She was the scorching desert heat, burning through his veins.

She was the first sip of cool, clear water after a lifetime of thirst.

She was everything.

Zarian was lost in her kiss, and he never wanted to be found. He wanted to drown in this moment forever, tasting her, feeling her, only her.

Only her.

Moving closer, he pressed his leg firmly between Layna’s thighs. The unexpected contact elicited a loud moan from her, a sound that pierced through the haze of his desire.

A sound that brought him back to his senses.

Reluctantly, he broke their kiss, and the pair slowly parted, gasping for breath, foreheads pressed together. Zarian searched Layna’s face, seeking answers to questions unasked.

The world around them slowly came back into focus—the buzzing insects, the distant sounds of the palace, and the inescapable weight of their duties.

Zarian gazed at Layna, his eyes tracing the contours of her face with tenderness. Her rosy lips were swollen, her chin and cheeks marked by his rough stubble. He reverently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her skin. Leaning down, he gently pressed another chaste kiss to her lips.

With a deep, resigned sigh, he trailed his thumb across her cheek in an unspoken apology. Layna leaned into his touch, pressing his hand against her warm cheek.

“Where do we go from here, Layna?” he murmured, his voice a soft whisper of hope.

Layna’s eyes held his, a storm of emotions swirling within them. Zarian thanked the moon that regret wasn’t one of them.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I truly don’t know.”