CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

U nder the cool expanse of a starlit sky, the elder brother tread quietly across the sandy training grounds. He had just returned from chaos-stricken Valtisaan, and his steps carried the weight of his weariness. The soft murmur of sand beneath his boots accompanied him as he sought out his younger sibling.

He found him sitting against a low wall sharpening his dagger, the rhythmic sounds of metal scraping against stone filling the night air.

“Brother,” he called softly. The sharpening stopped abruptly. There was a lengthy pause, the silence stretching so long he feared there would be no response at all.

Then, finally, his younger brother spoke without sparing him a glance, “Returned from your latest mission, have you?”

The elder brother exhaled slowly, the tension in his broad shoulders visible even in the dim light.

“You’ll be going on your first mission soon enough,” he said, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “But I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

The younger brother rose with a theatrical groan and faced his brother, defiance oozing from his every pore.

The elder brother’s eyes were serious as he spoke, “I’ve completed recon in Valtisaan. After the removal of the king—”

“You mean assassination,” the younger brother interjected sharply.

Undeterred, the elder brother pressed on. “Valtisaan needs support now, someone to ensure the kingdom remains stable through the transition. You could serve on their council.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “I could talk to Father—”

“You wish to send me away?” his brother cut him off again, his voice heated. The accusation hung heavy between them, the night air thick with unspoken grievances.

The elder brother sighed deeply. “Just hear me out,” he tried again, “this is a chance for you to step out of my shadow. A chance to hold a position of power and truly make a difference. Is that not what you desire?”

The younger brother’s eyes glinted with rage. “You know nothing of what I desire,” he spat. “I don’t need your pity or your handouts. I will carve my own path. Without your help.” His words dripped with acrid bitterness as he began to walk away.

He brushed past, and the elder brother caught his arm. “Wait—”

The younger brother whirled around, his fist connecting sharply with his brother’s face. The sound of bone crunching under impact shattered the night’s calm. The elder brother staggered backward, hand flying to his nose as blood poured between his fingers.

A brief flash of remorse flickered in the younger brother’s eyes, quickly replaced by steely resolve as he turned and strode off into the desert night.

Azhar stood before the mirror in his dimly lit chambers, his reflection a dark silhouette against flickering candlelight. His mind spiraled with the latest news from his spies. Zarian, the epitome of Medjai discipline, and the crown princess grew ever closer, a connection he could only view through the lens of bitter envy.

A cold smile played on Azhar’s lips. His estranged brother, always the paragon of virtue, was captivated by the Daughter of the Moon.

How ironic.

It was a chink in Zarian’s armor, one Azhar was keen to exploit.

The idea that his brother might find happiness and love, luxuries that had always eluded him, gnawed relentlessly at his heart.

It was time to put his plan in motion. He dressed meticulously for the operation, layers of dark, reinforced fabric hugged his muscular frame, while leather bracers shielded his corded forearms.

At the stables, his tempestuous black steed, who Azhar had not bothered to name, awaited. Powerful and restless, it paced the confined space, hooves stamping the ground with loud thuds. Muscles rippled beneath its glossy coat, nostrils flared wide, exhaling sharp snorts that cut through the air.

Riding through Zephyria’s mountainous terrain, his thoughts were consumed with vengeance. Ever since learning of his brother’s feelings for the Daughter of the Moon, Azhar had been haunted by a dark obsession. The idea of claiming the princess, the jewel of Alzahra wrested from his brother’s grasp, became a fixation that fanned the flames of his resolve.

His mind wandered back to his last covert visit to Alzahra, where a glimpse of the crown princess on her balcony had captured his attention. Hidden in the shadows, he observed her, her long brown hair cascading down her back. The sight of her glowing skin, practically shimmering in the soft moonlight, had given life to a new hunger within him, a desire to take .

He imagined countless scenarios, each designed to break his brother’s spirit. Perhaps he’d brutally ravage the princess while forcing his bound brother to watch. Or maybe he would torture her, covering her creamy skin in thousands of small, shallow cuts before plunging his knife into her heart, all while his brother witnessed the cruelty, unable to stop him.

Azhar’s thoughts grew increasingly twisted as the hours passed during his journey. Jagged mountains gave way to rocky terrain, and then the vast expanse of the desert was upon him. He deftly guided his steed through the ever-changing landscape, the horse’s hooves kicking up clouds of sand as they progressed.

Finally, Azhar reached the Zephyrian camp at the border. From a distance, he observed the restless soldiers, their constant pacing and anxious glances betraying their impatience after weeks of idle waiting.

The encampment sprawled with tents and makeshift structures. Soldiers gathered around fires, sharpening weapons and discussing strategies in hushed tones. Azhar rode through the camp with quiet authority, his presence commanding attention. He dismounted, leaving his horse with a foot soldier.

The men gave him a wide berth, conversations halting as he passed. Known for his volatile rage, even the bravest soldiers hesitated to engage him.

His reputation was not unfounded; just two weeks prior, Azhar noticed a young soldier struggling to light a fire. Without a word, Azhar had taken the flint, striking it with efficiency. The sparks caught quickly, igniting into a roaring blaze. Before the soldier could express his gratitude, Azhar viciously grabbed his arm and held it within the flames.

The smell of burning flesh, disgustingly potent, permeated the air. The soldier’s screams of pain echoed through the camp. No one dared intervene. Eventually, Azhar released him, his arm a smoldering mess of melted flesh.

“If you cannot master a simple fire, you are of no use on the battlefield,” he snarled, flinging the man to the ground, ignoring his pitiful sobs.

Azhar moved toward the edge of the camp. As the fires flickered behind him, casting long shadows across the desert floor, he blended into the darkness.

Tonight, his actions would set the course for the impending war, a declaration that would reverberate through the halls of Alzahra.

Azhar, a silent desert shadow, slipped across the border. He easily located his target, the tent of the top general, the information from his source precise.

Inside, the general was alone. It was an oversight that would cost him dearly.

Azhar approached silently from behind, a wraith in the dim light, and with a swift, deep slash, slit the general’s throat. The body crumpled to the ground with a muffled thud, blood pooling rapidly.

Azhar knelt next to the body and continued his work. Brutal, efficient, and devoid of emotion. He moved quickly, completing the gruesome task with a chilling detachment.

Afterward, the desert shadow returned unseen to the Zephyrian camp, his silhouette a dark blur against the starlit desert. The head general greeted him. Wordlessly, Azhar thrust a heavy black bag into his chest.

Glancing inside, the general sucked in a sharp gasp, wide eyes darting to Azhar’s stoic face. He quickly regained his composure and assured, “I will ensure this reaches the palace. You need not concern yourself further. I have prepared the finest tent for your rest tonight. Is there anything else you need, sire?”

Azhar’s expression darkened, a sinister edge creeping into his voice. “Yes. Bring a woman to my tent,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for questions. “Fair-skinned with long brown hair. Make sure she’s there within the hour.”

The head general bowed deeply. “As you wish, sire.” He turned sharply on his heel and hurried away, the bag leaving a trail of dark droplets on the ground behind him.

The next morning, Azhar remounted his horse, his mind consumed with thoughts of Alzahra’s princess. The woman from the night before was nothing more than a mere diversion, a pale substitute for the true object of his obsession. The cool morning air did nothing to quell his twisted desire.

Upon his return to the castle, King Jorah summoned Azhar to his chambers. The king’s chest swelled, and his eyes gleamed with approval.

“You have served me well, my son. I could not have hoped for a better heir,” Jorah declared, his voice laden with a warmth reserved only for his adopted son. “Your actions propel us closer to victory. Our gift has already been dispatched to the princess.”

“Father,” Azhar began, sensing an opportunity. “Let me go to Alzahra alone. I’ll take the orb and return with the princess. You need not expose yourself to unnecessary danger.”

The king regarded his adopted son with a calculating gaze. “Your zeal is commendable. But this task requires control and precision,” Jorah finally said, his posture stiff. “We will go together. Under your protection, no harm shall befall me. The orb’s power is immense, and it requires a firm hand to wield it—my hand. If all goes to plan, I will use it to control her. Besides, there is a reckoning I have long awaited.”

Azhar stared at Jorah, silent and still, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

“But make no mistake, your role is crucial,” Jorah added quickly. “Your courage and resolve have not gone unnoticed. Upon our success, whatever your heart desires will be yours.”

Azhar’s expression remained unwavering. “I desire the princess,” he asserted, his voice a low rumble. “For myself.”

Jorah’s brow furrowed. “Azhar, my son— I need the princess to harness her power once the prophecy is fulfilled,” he explained. He paused for a moment, his mind racing. “But after I destroy Alzahra and control the continent, then—then you shall have her.”

The promise was a hollow one, and they both knew it. Yet, it was a bargain struck in the shadows of ambition and vengeance. Though Jorah loved Azhar like a son, this was the one concession he could not make.

“You’ve done well. But now, you must rest. The war will escalate from here,” Jorah continued. “We must stand ready, my son. Ready to deploy every shred of our cunning, every ounce of our strength. I need you at your peak.”

Azhar met Jorah’s gaze with cold, hazel eyes. “I understand,” he responded. “I will be ready.”

Jorah departed, leaving Azhar to the silence of his chambers. He contemplated how the war would progress. Alzahra would undoubtedly retaliate, and the war would officially begin.

Yet, in the depths of his cold heart, the thought of Layna, a prize to be claimed, provided a twisted sense of anticipation.