CHAPTER TWENTY

I n his father’s office, the elder brother sat alone, the hollow chamber lit only by the moon’s scattered rays. His shoulders were drawn tight, head cradled in his hands. His beard had grown out, framing a haggard face marked with dark circles and gaunt cheeks. A perpetual headache throbbed behind his eyes.

The door creaked open, and his father entered with heavy footsteps, lighting a lantern. He turned and gasped, seeing his son in his chair.

“My son. I did not know you had returned.” With slow, cautious steps, the king sat across from him, as if afraid of startling a skittish animal.

The elder brother remained motionless, a statue paralyzed by grief.

“How did your mission in Sendouk fare?” his father asked softly.

Again, there was no response, the oppressive silence bearing down on them.

He tried again, “My son, please. You’ve not been yourself since your broth—”

“The Gundaari,” his son interrupted abruptly without looking up. “Why do we work with them?”

“I—what?” his father asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“The Gundaari,” the elder son bit out through clenched teeth. He finally looked up at his father, disgust and anger swirling in his bloodshot eyes. “They use children in their dealings. Why do we work with them? We should have eliminated them ages ago.”

“It is complicated,” his father sighed. “Our order demands much from us. Oftentimes, we must do things we dislike for the greater good. Yes, the Gundaari are vile criminals, but they have unique access to information. We use that information to protect the balance on a larger scale. It helps us save countless lives. But worry not. Their time will eventually come.”

“How do you live with yourself?” The son’s face morphed into a sneer, disdain dripping from his every pore.

“It is my burden to bear,” his father answered sharply, eyes narrowed. “And, one day, it will be yours. I may be the king, but even I must answer to the elders.”

He was met with silence.

The father tempered his tone slightly and added, “I see you’ve been frequenting the taverns again. I can smell the ale on you. It’s unfit for the future—”

His son shot to his feet, swaying slightly before furiously sweeping his arm across the desk. Papers, ink pots, and quills flew through the air, scattering like leaves in a violent storm. Ink spilled from fallen pots, and a large black stain spread across the intricately-patterned rug.

His father sat motionless. Grief-stricken eyes followed his son as he stumbled to the door and left without a backward glance.

In the wake of Zephyria’s harrowing attack and the gruesome “gift” sent to Layna, a blanket of worry descended over the palace. The shift resonated deeply with the princess. Each day unfolded in the same dreary pattern: she would awaken from restless sleep marred by nightmares, dress in silence, sit through council meetings focused on war strategies—her gaze carefully avoiding Zarian’s—and flit about the palace like a ghost.

Her relationship with the Medjai prince had returned to being strained and formal. Still grappling with feelings of betrayal, Layna maintained a stubborn distance. Their training sessions, too, had halted while Zarian focused on preparing the guards and fortifying the palace’s security.

The prince had approached Layna several times, apologizing and attempting to mend the chasm between them. Each time, he was met with harsh words and a sharp rebuff. On his third attempt, Layna had drawn her sword. He took the hint and ceased his efforts after that.

She clung to her anger like armor, squashing any softer emotions that surfaced. Layna reminded herself daily of his lies, using them as a shield to guard her heart.

Late one afternoon, Layna lounged on Soraya’s bed, a deep furrow creasing her forehead. Soraya sat cross-legged on the floor, agricultural drafts and greenhouse designs strewn haphazardly around her.

“I think you should talk to him,” Soraya ventured, engrossed in her work.

Layna exhaled sharply. “Did you miss the part where I said he came here to kill me?”

“Yes, that was bad,” Soraya admitted, looking up at her sister. “But that was before he knew you! He would never harm you now.” Soraya raised an eyebrow. “And why haven’t you told Baba about that? He would’ve executed Zarian by now.”

Layna’s silence was telling.

“You still want to be with him,” Soraya guessed. “And you’re struggling to keep ignoring him.”

“He lied to me,” Layna replied lamely, crossing her arms.

“So did Baba and Mama,” Soraya countered. “For years . It seems you’re holding him to a different standard.”

“It’s not the same,” Layna retorted. “They were trying to protect me—”

“So was Zarian,” Soraya cut in gently.

“ No , he was protecting the prophecy! He’s been lying since he came here and pretended to care about—” Layna broke off, her breaths shallow as she avoided her sister’s knowing gaze.

Soraya moved to sit beside her on the bed, her expression one of understanding as she grasped her sister’s hand.

“Layna, I know you’re hurt, but I think some of your anger might be mingling with older wounds. At least speak with him?”

Suspicion clouded Layna’s features. “Did he put you up to this?”

“No. But he’s not himself either. It’s absolutely killing me that my two favorite people in this palace are so miserable. He’s devastated about hurting you, Layna. He’s really fallen for you. And a handsome man like Zarian…” Soraya trailed off. “He could have his pick of the women on this entire continent. Burhani certainly doesn’t hide her interest in him. Do you want to see him with her ? And those scribes who loiter around the grounds while he’s training the guards—surely you’ve noticed? And—”

“You’ve made your point,” Layna snapped, irritation flashing in her eyes. “I wonder if all those women would still want him if they knew he was a lying, murderous Medjai.”

Soraya sighed and returned to her greenhouse designs.