CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A weary figure sat alone. The private chambers, spacious and adorned with fine artifacts, spoke of a lineage that had ruled the land for generations. Tall, arched windows draped with richly embroidered curtains framed views of the sprawling oasis and the desert beyond, the sands glowing under the moon’s silvery light.

A solemn adviser entered, breaking the heavy silence. “Your Majesty, our trackers have located him in Zephyria. Shall we send three men and…finish this?”

The king sighed, fatigue settling deeply into the lines of his face as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No,” he finally responded, his voice laced with a heavy sadness. “Leave him to his fate.”

The adviser cautiously added, “Shall I inform the young master?”

The king’s response was sharp, a swift command born of a father’s protective instinct. “No! No, do not tell him,” he said firmly, his gaze distant. “He would seek him out, attempt to bring him home. He cannot see the boy is past saving.”

The adviser bowed silently and retreated, leaving the king alone with his regrets.

In the heart of Zephyria, the night held its breath. The castle, a ruthless fortress of stone and ambition, stood imposing against a backdrop of jagged mountains.

Silent as a shadow, Azhar crept through the cold corridors. He arrived at Jorah’s chambers. The faint glow of flickering candles cast dancing shadows across the walls. The old king sat upright in his large bed, his gaze fixed on a small trinket box in his hands.

Jorah delicately pinched a lock of wavy, brown hair between his fingers, lifting it close to his face. With a deep breath, he inhaled its scent, eyes closing as he allowed the illusion of a faint fragrance to envelop him, drenched in reminiscence and melancholy.

As Azhar entered, the king carefully placed back the lock of hair, setting the box aside. “Come, my son, what brings you here at this hour?”

Azhar approached and sat on the bed. Slowly, he clasped Jorah’s frail hand within his own. “You took me in when I had no one. When I had nothing,” Azhar began, his voice low, eyes downcast. “I am indebted to you. For as long as you live.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Jorah’s lips. “You have served me well, my son. It has been an honor to have you in my life,” he remarked, love evident in the warmth of his voice, as he placed a hand on Azhar’s shoulder.

“It’s been an honor for me as well. But now, consider my debt fulfilled,” Azhar said, his voice flat.

Confusion flickered across Jorah’s face, a question forming in his eyes.

But it was too late.

In one swift, merciless motion, Azhar drew his dagger across the king’s throat. Crimson blood spurted from the gash, splattering Azhar’s face and staining the rich linens.

Azhar watched, emotionless, as Jorah’s life ebbed away, the king’s hands clutching futilely at his wound, pitiful confusion clouding his eyes.

With the same cold detachment, Azhar retrieved the orb from its hidden spot in Jorah’s chambers, its surface gleaming in the candlelight. Without a backward glance at his adopted father’s lifeless body, he exited the chamber, disappearing as silently as he had arrived.

The following morning, Azhar wasted no time in consolidating his power. After Jorah’s body was discovered by a panicked servant, he immediately summoned the council. He stood before them, not as the heir, but as the man who would lead them through the war ahead.

In the solemn assembly, Azhar’s posture was a study in contrasts. Clad in traditional mourning blacks that draped heavily over his shoulders, he stood with a quiet dignity, his head bowed in mock reverence for his murdered father. Yet, the defiant set of his jaw and his calculating gaze spoke of his newfound power.

His voice carried a subtle tremor as he declared, “Alzahra stands accused of the most heinous betrayal against our kingdom. They have assassinated our king. My father.”

A stunned silence blanketed the room.

“My heart is heavy with grief, but I must do my duty. I must guide Zephyria through these dark times,” he continued, his gaze sweeping across the room, meeting the eyes of each council member in turn. “I vow to avenge my father’s death and to continue in the pursuit of his ultimate goal—the destruction of Alzahra.”

One by one, the council members rose from their seats, their movements deliberate. They knelt before Azhar, heads bowed in allegiance.

“We pledge our loyalty to you, King Azhar,” they intoned, their voices merging into a single declaration of unity.

Azhar stood tall, accepting their oaths with a nod. He was no longer just Azhar, the unwanted stray taken in by Jorah.

He was the ruler of a mighty kingdom.

In shadowed corridors, Lords Garrisman and Ebric talked quietly, far from prying ears.

“Have we any evidence of Alzahra’s hand in Jorah’s murder?” Lord Ebric whispered. His gaze darted about, vigilant for any lurking eavesdroppers.

Lord Garrisman glanced around before leaning closer. “Does it truly matter? We all know Jorah longed for war with Alzahra. He had been orchestrating it for months. Now, we’re merely awaiting confirmation of the eclipse before launching our attack.”

Lord Ebric shifted uncomfortably. “Still, without proof can we really—”

Garrisman cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Listen, Ebric. It would be wise for you not to question Azhar’s claims too closely. The man is ruthless, perhaps a touch unhinged. Questioning him, especially now, could be unhealthy for you.”

Lord Ebric’s eyes widened behind his spectacles, the unspoken threat hanging between them like a noose. “I understand,” he stammered. “We must stand united behind our new king.”

Garrisman nodded, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Exactly. Azhar’s path is now Zephyria’s path. We march to war under his banner, for better or worse.”