CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T he elder brother stepped into his father’s study. The walls were lined with shelves filled with ancient scrolls and books. A large desk dominated the room, cluttered with maps and parchments. The air was thick with the scent of incense. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting a warm glow over the plush carpets.

He approached his father cautiously. “Father,” he began, his voice heavy with worry, “I have concerns about my brother. His heart—it has become hard. I want to help him, but I don’t know how.”

His father looked up with a resigned expression. He sighed deeply, the weight of his crown evident in the lines of his face. “I am not surprised. The boy killed his mother, after all.”

“Father, please,” the elder brother implored. “It was a tragedy, but you cannot blame him. Women often die in childbirth.”

His father’s face contorted with anger as he rose from his seat. “I will hear no more!” he thundered, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “You dare defend him? After he robbed us of her light? His birth was a curse upon this family.”

The elder brother recoiled at his father’s fury, the rebuke cutting deeper than any blade. The gap between them, cleaved by grief and blame, seemed insurmountable.

Silently, he turned away from his father, the king’s harsh words still echoing in his ears. He felt a profound sadness, not just for the loss of his mother, but for the chasm between him, his brother, and their father.

The elder son walked out, his steps measured and heavy, the door closing behind him with a final click.

He sank bonelessly against the cool, stone wall as grief made its home in his heart.

In the seclusion of his quarters, Zarian stood by the window, his silhouette framed against Alzahra’s starlit sky, a kingdom now as familiar as the lines on his palm.

The night was still, but his mind was anything but.

His role here had been clear—to protect Princess Layna and ensure the prophecy came to pass, and if needed, protect the balance by any means necessary. His gut twisted painfully as he recalled his father’s parting words.

Neutralize her .

The first time he saw Layna, she was a vision of strength and beauty on the training grounds, her sword furiously swiping through the air. Her spirit had captivated him, a flame that burned bright and fierce.

There was a resilience in her beyond physical strength. Her attitude was a blend of defiance and self-protection, a shield she wielded as deftly as her sword. Zarian had been amused, and yet, enraptured by her. He sensed that behind her tough exterior, she was safeguarding her heart, perhaps from past hurts or the heavy expectations placed upon her as crown princess.

Zarian sat on the edge of his bed. It was large and stately, befitting a guest of his rank, with a solid wood frame. The bedspread was rich with hues of deep blues and golds. But the room, for all its comforts and elegance, was a gilded cage, confining him with his own abrasive thoughts.

He sat with his head cradled in his hands. Layna—with her guarded heart and her fierce independence—captivated him.

She was no longer his mission.

Layna was the woman who owned his soul.

She had swept away the grief and pain that had taken root inside him and claimed his heart as her home. He longed to tell her how deeply he felt for her, how her every laugh healed something he hadn’t known was broken.

But she would refuse to believe him, and he couldn’t blame her. Could he ever bridge the chasm his duty had created?

Regret suffocated him.

Their dance at the royal ball was a turning point. As they moved together, the moonlight seemed to cast a spell over Layna. Her movements were graceful and fluid, and in her eyes, Zarian was lost. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of them in their moonlit sanctuary. He had felt a profound connection, a pull toward her that eclipsed his duty.

Training with her had only deepened his feelings. Recalling the moment he pinned her beneath him, he couldn’t escape the intensity that had surged through him.

He didn’t want to.

The physical closeness had ignited a fire within him, a smoldering heat that he struggled to keep at bay.

With each session, he grappled with his growing feelings. When he was close to her, guiding her movements, feeling the warmth of her skin, he was acutely aware of the line he was treading. It was a dance of restraint and desire, one as dangerous as their sparring.

Despite her dedication to her own duty, he knew that she, too, craved his presence and touch. He had struggled to conceal his smiles when she would deliberately falter stances that had given her no difficulty earlier.

Then, there was their kiss, the moment his discipline had faltered under the weight of his desire. That kiss had unraveled him, laying bare the depth of his feelings.

Sleep had eluded him as he replayed that moment over and over in his mind, frustration and longing and want churning within him like a raging sandstorm.

Again and again, his mind came back to his father’s warning about “neutralizing” Layna if she lost control. It haunted him. The thought of harming her was unbearable. Impossible. Unfathomable.

He’d let the world burn first.

Before meeting Layna, Zarian had merely gone through the motions of life, fulfilling what was expected of him, blindly carrying out what was commanded of him. But now, his heart yearned for something more, a different path—one he could walk alongside her.

But Layna’s trust was broken. Her words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the pain his secrets had caused.

How could he protect her when she saw him as an enemy? He had lost both her trust and respect.

It was a bitter draught to swallow.

Zarian let out a deep sigh. The path ahead was rife with uncertainty, but his resolve was clear. He would protect Layna, and perhaps, in time, find a way to mend the trust that had been broken.

In the quiet of the night, with the moon as his witness, Zarian made a silent vow.

He would stand as the shield against any storm that threatened Layna. For her, he would walk through fire.

To hell with the balance.