CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T he relentless sun beat down on the sprawling training grounds as the eldest brother engaged in a grueling regimen of combat exercises. He was tall, his muscles well-defined from years of rigorous training, and he moved with precision and power. Stubble darkened his jaw, lending him a handsome ruggedness that drew many admiring eyes. Again and again he struck the training dummy, the determined thud of his fists the only sound in the heavy silence.

His concentration was broken by the hurried approach of his closest friend, his boyishly handsome face red with exertion. Frantic gestures accompanied a torrent of words, each one a hammer blow to the elder brother’s heart.

Without hesitation, he sprinted, dread slithering in his veins and winding around his heart, sweat dripping down his back. Bursting into his father’s chambers, he confronted him, his voice raw with emotion.

“Father, what have you done?”

His father, seated behind a massive desk, regarded him with a calm, resigned gaze. “I did what I had to,” he replied simply, steepling his hands. “No longer is he a stain on our order.”

Anguish and disbelief warred within the elder brother. “It wasn’t his fault! You failed him as a father,” he jabbed an accusing finger, “and I—I also failed him.” Without waiting for a response, he stormed out of the chamber.

Returning to his room, he found utter chaos. His belongings were scattered, curtains torn, furniture overturned, drawers emptied haphazardly.

But it was the sight above his bed that halted him in his tracks, a sight so horrendous it froze the very air in his lungs.

There, nailed by the ear to the wall, was the head of Sultan, his beloved dog. Its lifeless eyes stared back at him in accusation, as dark blood dripped onto his pillow.

He collapsed to his knees, a silent scream of horror welling up inside him.

Nestled within the verdant Nahrysba Oasis, the throne room was a marvel of ancient craftsmanship. Carved from the heartstone of the Oasis itself, the walls told tales of the Medjai ancestors, shimmering under the caress of sunlight that danced through the lattice windows.

The room was suffused with the delicate scent of jasmine and myrrh, mingling with the cool hint of the Oasis’s waters, carried in by the gentle breeze. At the room’s heart stood the throne, a masterpiece forged from desert ironwood.

King Tahriq sat immersed in discussion with his council. “Is there any news on the location of the orb?” he questioned, gazing down at his council. “Or about the Medjai that have gone missing?”

“No, Your Majesty. We are still awaiting news.” His senior adviser spoke with urgency. “But recent reports from our scouts bring troubling news. The unrest in the regions bordering Alzahra grows more pronounced.” He hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I know we have waited to gauge the situation, but we’ve found evidence suggesting that…your younger son is actively involved.”

King Tahriq’s expression darkened. The adviser paused, carefully measuring his words. “Also, there has been a disturbing discovery—Saahil’s body was found at the edge of the Oasis. His throat was slit, similar to the Thessani librarians. We have no proof, but…” the adviser trailed off.

The room grew colder with each word, the implications settling over the room like a shroud.

Tahriq’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his throne.

“You were right. We should have acted sooner,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I never should have let him live. To think that he would go to such lengths.” The king sighed deeply, his shoulders tensing as he struggled to contain his mounting rage.

Another adviser interjected hesitantly, “Your Majesty, perhaps the time has come to inform Prince Zarian. His brother will inevitably head to Alzahra. He must be prepared for what may come.”

King Tahriq’s countenance darkened at the suggestion, his mind casting back to a day long past, etched in the chambers of his heart with shame and regret. He remembered Zarian’s outburst, the raw pain when he learned of his brother’s banishment. The memory of his steadfast son’s voice cracking under the weight of betrayal haunted him.

“No,” Tahriq said firmly, the command slicing through the air. “Do not inform him.” Reopening old wounds would ignite a fire that could consume what little peace remained in his son’s heart. “Instead, send three of our most trusted men to Zephyria. End this.”

It had taken ages for Zarian to recover from the loss of his brother, and he was never the same. A new, fierce anger had taken root inside him, always simmering just beneath the surface. Tahriq couldn’t bear to inflict any more pain on him.

Another adviser knocked on the heavy door before entering quickly. “Sire, Jamil has returned.” Tahriq waved him in.

Jamil approached and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty,” he began. “As you know, Ezanek and Valtisaan have aligned with Zephyria. Their combined forces now significantly surpass Alzahra’s army. And to make matters worse, King Jorah proposed marriage to Princess Layna. King Khahleel was furious and sent troops to their border in response. It appears war is imminent.”

King Tahriq’s concern deepened. Turning to his advisers, he asked, “How many men can we send to Alzahra?”

“After considering those on active missions, perhaps a little over 10,000,” the adviser responded after a moment of calculation. “The rest are too scattered across the continent to return in time.”

“Then send the orders. We must do what we can,” Tahriq commanded. He watched his advisers depart.

As the room began to clear, Tahriq’s gaze fell upon Jamil, who also stood to leave.

“No, Jamil, you remain,” the king ordered.

The others filed out, leaving only Jamil standing before the king.

King Tahriq considered his next words carefully. “Tell me of Zarian,” he began, his voice quieter. “Do you foresee any obstacles in his path?”

The silence that followed was thick, the very air awaiting Jamil’s response. Tahriq’s gaze, sharp and penetrating, fixed on the younger man, expecting a straightforward answer. The moment of hesitation spoke volumes, a silence that whispered of secrets.

Tahriq’s patience snapped.

“Jamil!” Tahriq’s voice was a sharp crack, echoing off the walls. “Remember where your loyalty lies. The Medjai and your oath come first—not your friendship with my son. Speak plainly.”

Chastened, Jamil met the king’s angry gaze. “Your Majesty,” he said, this time with a clear sense of resolve, “Zarian has developed feelings for Princess Layna. He will protect her, perhaps die for her—but I fear he prioritizes her safety over the balance. If she becomes a threat, I worry he won’t be able to neutralize her.”

Tahriq listened, his expression unreadable.

Love, a perilous distraction, often spelled death for a Medjai.

“Keep a close watch,” the king finally said, his voice low. “And remind Zarian of his first duty—to our order. To the balance.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jamil said, bowing deeply.

He stood to exit the chambers when Tahriq spoke again, “Jamil. Speak of this to no one.” The young Medjai nodded in understanding and excused himself.

Tahriq remained seated. He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Tahriq trudged through the palace corridors, his heavy footsteps echoing off the stone walls. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his crown, tension knotting his muscles.

He reached a pair of imposing double doors, emblazoned with the emblem of the Medjai, a crescent moon cradled within a blazing sun. With a nod, the two guards swung the doors open, revealing the sacred chamber of the elders.

The chamber was sparse, with towering ceilings and high windows framing a stone floor. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting a warm, dancing light. One wall was etched with the names of all the elders since the first generation of Medjai, the earliest inscriptions faded by time’s hand.

The elders served until death, after which the remaining members would select a replacement. The current elders were a blend of middle-aged and old men, their names still crisp upon on the wall: Zanjeel , Hilder , Munta , Zarqi , Kussaam , Jameer , and the youngest elder at only fifty years old, Bowrain .

In the center of the room, an enormous fire blazed, illuminating the weathered faces of the seven elders seated at a long table at the back. Tahriq stepped forward, bowing respectfully.

“I have come to give my report.”

The head elder, Zanjeel, an old man with a long, silver beard and eyes sharp like a hawk, waved him forward. “Proceed, Tahriq. We are eager to hear your account.”

Tahriq detailed the latest developments about Zephyria’s mobilization, the search for the orb, and the missing Medjai.

When he finished, Zanjeel leaned forward. “And what of Zarian? Does he still think his mission is to protect the princess?” the elder scoffed, his demeanor dripping with disapproval.

A flicker of hesitation crossed Tahriq’s face, but he quickly masked it. “Zarian will do what is needed when the time comes,” he said smoothly, meeting their gazes with unwavering conviction. “He is dedicated and has proven himself time and time again. He is a good man.”

“A good man does not make a good leader. You have sheltered him too much,” Zanjeel rebuked sharply. The fire crackled loudly in the center, sparks flying in every direction. “We have disagreed with your decisions regarding both your sons over the years. Our goodwill is limited. Do not test us further.”

Tahriq clenched his fists at the reprimand but remained silent.

Another elder, Hilder, interjected, “I’ve said this before, but this business with the Daughter of the Moon has dragged far too long. We should have taken care of this decades ago, the way your great-grandfather handled the Sun Slayer.” He looked dismissively at Tahriq, disdain etched on his face.

“The Sun Slayer was an unknown peasant girl, not the crown princess of a powerful kingdom!” Tahriq defended, his voice rising in the stark chamber. “This matter is different. We need Alzahra’s support. And with her powers manifesting so late, there’s a good chance she won’t survive the eclipse at all.”

“Still—” Hilder began.

“The kingdoms work with us for now ,” Tahriq interrupted, his features grim. “They will no longer do so if we begin assassinating their heirs.”

“Tahriq is right,” said Zanjeel, placing a hand on Hilder’s shoulder. Turning back to the king, he continued, “Keep us informed.”

Tahriq nodded and turned to leave. As he approached the massive doors, Zanjeel’s voice rang out once more. “Oh, and Tahriq!” he called. “Keep a vigilant eye on Zarian.”

Tahriq hovered by the door. He nodded, his knuckles white.