CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

L ayna awoke with a strangled gasp. Another vivid nightmare wrenched her from sleep, leaving her heart racing and her nightgown drenched in sweat. The remnants of the dream crawled over her, inescapable needle pinpricks of dread mercilessly stabbing her skin.

With a deep breath, she pushed the covers aside and started her morning routine. Like every other waking moment, her thoughts drifted to Zarian. The previous night had been a revelation—he had spoken of a future together, free from their duties. In the short time they had shared, Layna realized she couldn’t imagine life without him.

But how could she abandon her people, her kingdom, and her family? Her heart clenched painfully in her chest.

As she dressed, her thoughts wandered back several nights, when she had returned to her chambers after a late-night meeting with Lord Ebrahim and her father where they had strategized and counted allies, attempting to anticipate Zephyria’s next move.

Returning to her chambers well past midnight, Layna found Zarian waiting for her. He sat against the frame of the open balcony doors, a shadow against the moonlight, knees drawn up in patient solitude. Hearing her enter, he turned, offering her a tired smile.

The sight of him lifted the weight from her shoulders. Zarian shifted slightly, making space for her in an unspoken invitation. Layna closed the distance between them, nestling herself in the space between his knees, her side pressed against his firm chest, her head finding a comfortable spot on his shoulder.

She breathed in sandalwood and spice, and it felt like home.

He wrapped his strong arms around her, cocooning her in his warmth, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her back. She sighed softly in contentment. They sat in silence, the only sound the gentle rustling of leaves in the night breeze.

Eventually, she broke the silence. “Will you tell me about your brother?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper against his neck.

She felt Zarian stiffen against her. His silence stretched on for minutes, and Layna felt his grip on her waist tighten.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, as if coated with gritty sand. “We were inseparable as children. He was always by my side, like my shadow. But my mother died giving birth to him, and my father…he couldn’t forgive him for that. Sometimes, he couldn’t even bear to look at him.”

Layna listened intently, her heart aching for the young boys they once were. “It must’ve been difficult for him, growing up feeling so unwanted,” she murmured.

“It was. And then there was the matter of succession. I was the heir and not him. That brought its own set of challenges. He always felt the weight of my shadow.” Zarian trailed off, lost in the what-ifs of a past already immortalized in the sands of time. “I wish things had been different. I should’ve done more to protect him, to make him feel loved. I—I should have done more.”

Layna leaned back slightly and cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You were only a child yourself,” she reminded him gently. “You did what you could. No one could have asked for more.” She traced the hollow of his cheek with care. “Do you know where he is now?”

Zarian let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. I tried to find him, but he had vanished. And then my father summoned me back to the Oasis. I hope, wherever he is, he’s found some measure of happiness. The love he was denied growing up. I hope the wounds of the past have healed.” His gaze drifted off into the distance, as if trying to pierce through the night to find his sibling.

Layna’s heart ached for Zarian and his lost brother. She squeezed his shoulder in silent support. “He has you, someone out there who cares deeply for him, wishing well for him. That’s a form of love too, Zarian. And wherever he is, I’m sure he knows that,” she said softly, hoping to offer some peace to the man who held her heart.

Zarian’s gaze locked with Layna’s, the raw anguish sending a sharp pang through her chest. The desolation in his stare was so profound, it felt like her heart yearned to escape her chest and beat in his, just to share his burden. “I truly hope you’re right. Thank you for listening. It means more to me than you can imagine. That I’m not alone.”

Layna sat for a moment in the quiet of her chambers, the memory of their conversation lingering like a tender wound. Her heart ached for Zarian—her strong, gentle man burdened with such deep-seated pain. His brother’s story had unveiled a vulnerability that Layna had sensed, but never fully grasped until now.

How she wished she could erase the shadows of his past, to fill the gaping void left by years of unresolved grief and guilt.

How she wished she could promise him a future together, days and months and years of unconditional, pure love.

Layna arrived at the council chambers, taking her seat across from Zarian. She offered a small smile in greeting, and he responded with a subtle curve of his lips. They tried to maintain some semblance of discretion in front of the council members, at the very least.

Lord Varin rose first, clearing his throat. “The integration of the Oasis’s men with our forces has bolstered our defenses. Their expertise in guerrilla tactics and desert warfare has been invaluable,” he said, his eyes flickering between Layna and Zarian.

Lord Saldeen stood next. “Regarding public morale…the people are understandably anxious. We’ve been circulating stories of our soldiers’ bravery and the unique alliance with the Oasis. However, I propose King Khahleel address the people. It would help improve spirits.”

“A sound idea,” King Khahleel said. “Make the announcement. Lord Ebrahim, prepare the speech.”

“Of course. I’ll have Burhani draft it. She’s made great strides in her lessons,” Lord Ebrahim responded, a proud smile on his face. Burhani remained expressionless.

Layna stood next. “Baba, I have my assembly with the people today. It’s a chance to address their concerns.”

“Excellent point, Layna. Your meetings have always helped bridge the palace and our citizens. It’s an invaluable platform, especially now.”

Attention shifted back to Lord Ebrahim, who reported, “Our envoys have returned from the neutral kingdoms. Most understand Alzahra’s plight, but the combined might of Zephyria, Valtisaan, and Ezanek has made them hesitant to support us openly.”

A hush settled over the room, a collective moment of quiet disappointment.

“Except Baysaht,” Lord Ebrahim announced. “King Nizam will send 250,000 soldiers.”

A murmur of surprise swept the room.

Lord Varin exclaimed, “That’s nearly half his forces!”

“Indeed,” Lord Ebrahim confirmed with a small smile. “This could very well swing the tide in our favor.”

“Did King Nizam ask for anything in return?” Queen Hadiyah asked, glancing at Layna with concern. “A trade treaty or, perhaps, some sort of alliance?

Lord Ebrahim shook his head. “No, surprisingly, he did not. At least, not yet.” His eyes, too, darted to the princess.

Layna’s expression remained unreadable. The room buzzed with discussion, but she sat still, her gaze distant.

Zarian watched her closely. She had told him of her halted courtship with Nizam. What should have been a moment of unbridled relief, instead stirred a swarm of emotions within him—jealousy, concern, and a protective instinct over Layna.

Baysaht’s substantial military support was unexpected. What motivated such a grand gesture?

To her credit, Layna maintained an unreadable facade. Her expression revealed none of the conflict that Zarian knew must be roiling beneath.

The council, buoyed by the news of Baysaht’s support, swiftly moved into strategizing. Plans were drawn and logistics debated.

But throughout it all, Zarian’s mind was elsewhere.

In the palace’s great hall, Layna’s monthly assembly had gained new significance. The tension and uncertainty wrought by the war drew an unprecedented number of citizens. Faces of hope, fear, and worry crowded every inch, many standing shoulder to shoulder as seating fell short.

Layna was a vision of dignified grace in her midnight-blue abaya. She had forgone a crown, yet her presence was no less commanding. There was an innate regality to her, her composed posture and sweeping gaze leaving no doubt of her position.

Off to the side, Zarian remained vigilant, his keen eyes scanning the crowd for signs of trouble.

A middle-aged man, worry lining his face, approached. “Princess Layna,” he began, his voice clear over the crowd, “we hear tales of the war and of lives lost. How do we hold hope?”

Layna met his gaze. “Your concerns are valid. But let me assure you, we stand united, stronger than we’ve ever been. Our forces fight not just for land but for the very essence of Alzahra—a belief in peace and justice. Together, we will weather this storm. The Oasis has sent us 10,000 strong, well-armed men,” she said, glancing down at Zarian. “Their training and expertise have been vital.”

Her words settled over the crowd, offering a flicker of warmth against the chilling fears of war.

No sooner had the man returned to his place, than a woman made her way forward. She wore a deep red scarf over her hair, its ends tucked into the neck of her tunic. Her steps were determined, her face marked with a deeper, more personal anguish.

“Princess,” she said, her voice trembling, “my son is a soldier. Each day without word torments me. When will he return home?”

“Your son is a hero,” Layna declared. “His bravery is the shield that protects Alzahra. I cannot promise you that fear will not touch our hearts. But know that your son, and every man who stands in defense of our homeland, holds my deepest respect and gratitude. We owe them our continued hope and support.”

The woman, eyes brimming with tears, nodded in silent thanks before stepping back.

As the meeting progressed, Layna addressed each concern with grace and wisdom.

Zarian watched, his admiration growing with every word she spoke. In her, he saw a true leader—a beacon of hope for Alzahra.

Yet, he felt a twinge of guilt for the selfish part of him that dared hope Layna would set aside her crown and its burdens and choose a life with him instead.

The first time he witnessed Layna hosting her assembly, he had barely known her. Their interactions were rife with tension, her fiery spirit clashing with his teasing attitude. He vividly remembered the stern rebuke she gave him when he stepped in to defend her against a rude foreigner. Her independence had surprised him, her refusal to be seen as needing protection—a trait that had intrigued and challenged him.

How things had changed in just a few short months—now, Layna sought him out first when she felt vulnerable, finding in him comfort, protection, and solace.

Back then, Zarian could never have predicted that he would fall so deeply in love with her, the Daughter of the Moon. Watching her now, he marveled at the emotions she inspired in him.

As the assembly continued, his gaze remained fixed on her, and a silent vow formed in his heart. No matter what the future held, he was completely, irrevocably hers. In her, he found his home.

He chose her.

He could only hope that she, too, would choose him.

Night had enveloped the city by the time Lord Varin entered his home. The day’s events swirled in his mind like a maelstrom—the council meeting, the unexpected news from Baysaht—all played over in his thoughts as he made his way through the dimly lit halls of his residence.

The moment he entered his bedroom, intending to shed the day’s pretenses along with his clothes, he was forcefully thrust against the wall, his face pushed into the cold stone, the cold kiss of a blade pressed sharply against his throat.

“What have you learned?” the voice, dark and gravelly with threat, pierced the silence.

Varin laughed bitterly. “You certainly took your time, didn’t you? And must we always play this tiresome charade? Have I not proven my loyalty?”

The blade pressed harder, drawing a thin line of blood.

“Yes, yes, I have news,” Varin stammered, his earlier confidence evaporating. “Baysaht is sending 250,000 men to Alzahra. It will shift the tide of the war. Our whore of a princess must have spread her—”

The pressure against his throat eased, and then Varin was violently slammed into the wall. He crumpled to the floor.

Dazed and breathing heavily, he struggled to his feet. Varin spun around, his breath catching as he faced a towering figure shrouded in black.

The cloaked man’s posture radiated with unchecked rage, his stance rigid, every line of his muscular body spelling imminent threat. The lower half of his face was hidden, but his unruly hair and his hazel eyes, currently blazing with fury, were unmistakable.

A moment passed—a moment too long—before a chilling wave of recognition washed over Varin. It rooted him to the spot, sending a fearful shiver down his spine and turning his blood to ice in his veins.

“Prince Zarian…” he breathed, disbelief and fear mingling in his voice, eyes wide with shock.

Zarian lowered his mask, revealing his face, his every feature taut with barely contained wrath. His voice vibrated with a cold, seething anger that cut through the air, “I had hoped I was wrong about you, Varin.”

In the tense silence that followed, Lord Varin scrambled for a lifeline. “Wait, Prince Zarian, please,” he pleaded, wringing his hands together. “I can help you! Let me act as a double agent. I’ll feed false information to Zeph—”

Zarian’s fist silenced him with a solid punch, knocking Varin out cold. The crunch of bone felt satisfying beneath his knuckles.

Varin slumped to the floor, a heap of treachery and failed plots, his grand visions for power and wealth dashed in a single moment.

Zarian stepped over Varin’s prone body and exited the house into the cool night. Four trusted members of the palace guard were waiting for him.

“It’s confirmed. Varin is a traitor,” Zarian rumbled. His hands flexed at his sides. “He’s unconscious in the bedroom. Take him to the dungeon.” He paused for a moment, his gaze hard and unyielding. “And there’s no need to be gentle with him.”

The head of the palace guard, Jaffar, nodded solemnly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Consider it done.”

Zarian placed a firm hand on the man’s shoulder in gratitude. Without another word, he turned and made his way back to the palace, his steps quick and determined. The night air cleared his head, but not his heart, which still pounded with rage at Varin’s crude words about Layna.

Upon arriving, he headed straight to the king’s private office where a meeting was already underway. King Khahleel, Queen Hadiyah, Layna, and Lord Ebrahim were gathered, worry blanketing every face.

As Zarian entered, Layna’s face caught his attention. Her brows were knit together, and her lips were slightly parted, as if she were about to speak. Her eyes, wide and troubled, searched his face for answers. The sight of her, so beautiful yet so concerned, melted the remnants of his anger, replacing it with a strong urge to comfort.

“What happened, Zarian?” King Khahleel asked, a deep crease between his brows.

“Varin is indeed a traitor,” Zarian reported. “He’s been feeding information to Zephyria. The guards are bringing him to the dungeon now. Jaffar will begin interrogating him tonight.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. King Khahleel’s face hardened, the betrayal of a council member a harsh blow.

Layna remained silent, her worried eyes locked on Zarian.

Queen Hadiyah brought up another pressing matter. “With Layna’s nightmares becoming more frequent, has the time not arrived to inform the council about the prophecy and the eclipse? They will be blindsided.”

King Khahleel, after a moment of consideration, responded decisively. “No. We do not fully understand what will happen. We cannot afford to trust anyone outside of this room.”

“Does Burhani know about the prophecy?” Layna asked, turning to Lord Ebrahim.

“No. And I will keep it that way,” the senior adviser assured. “We can break the news of Lord Varin’s betrayal to the council tomorrow. Perhaps, we’ll have more to report after his interrogation.”

After the meeting, Layna retired to her quarters. She went about her nightly routine, slipping into a lilac silk nightgown. Despite the late hour, sleep seemed an elusive companion.

As she pulled back her bed sheets, a faint sound from the balcony caught her attention. She approached the balcony doors, hope fluttering within her as she saw a familiar figure climb over the railing, the moonlight casting his shadow into the room.

“Zarian!” Layna’s voice cut through the quiet of the night, her face lighting up as if kissed by the sun’s first rays. “I didn’t expect you tonight. I thought you’d be in the dungeon.”

The prince smiled, one that spoke of weariness, but also of an affection that refused to be dimmed.

“I wanted to see you,” he said simply, stepping into her room. “The dungeon can wait.”

His gaze slowly trailed over her body, lingering on her curves. The moonlight filtered through the pale fabric, outlining her silhouette in a way that left very little to his imagination. Warmth ignited within him, and he swallowed deeply, his mouth suddenly dry.

Layna recognized the hunger in his gaze. She closed the distance between them. “Zarian,” she whispered, gently touching his cheek. “From the depths of my heart, thank you. You handled the matter with Varin for me, just as you promised.”

Zarian smiled down at her, brushing back a lock of hair from her face.

“Of course. I am yours.” He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his racing heart, but her proximity made it nearly impossible. He could feel the heat emanating from her, and it was wreaking havoc on his self-control.

Layna reached for his hand. “Come,” she said softly. “Tell me everything.” Zarian followed, settling down next to her on the thick carpet. Layna leaned back against her bed, her nightgown draped tantalizingly over her form.

Zarian struggled to focus as he recounted the night’s events, his eyes often wandering over Layna’s curves. He was careful to shield her from Varin’s venomous words. Layna listened intently, her gaze locked on him.

As Zarian concluded his tale, she sat back in disbelief. “You punched him? In the face?!” Her laughter filled the scant space between them. “Impossible.”

Zarian adopted a mock-offended expression, raising an eyebrow in indignation.

“My dear Layna—I am first and foremost a warrior ,” he asserted with playful sternness. “There is no one I haven’t bested in a swordfight, including you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

A happy laugh escaped her again, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “Forgive me, my strong, formidable prince. I didn’t mean to insult your prowess. Sword fighting is different. It’s an art, more of a dance. I just can’t imagine you punching someone like in a common tavern brawl. You’re the gentlest man I know.”

Zarian twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “You bring out the best in me, Layna,” he said softly, his smile slowly fading. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

Layna’s smile turned coy, her gaze steady on his. Leaning in, she whispered seductively, “I want to learn exactly what you’re capable of.” She sat up on her knees, moving closer to him, opening her arms in invitation.

Zarian gripped her hips and pulled her close. His usual restraint, worn thin by the flimsiness of her nightgown, threatened to snap under the weight of his desire.

Layna’s breath hitched as he held her against his strong form, her hands instinctively rising to rest on his chest.

Zarian bridged the gap between them, his lips soft against hers, moving with a tenderness that contrasted with the strength of his grip. Layna responded in kind, her own lips parting slightly, inviting him deeper into her mouth. His hands tightened on her hips, anchoring her to him, as if he could merge their bodies into one.

Zarian’s tongue brushed against hers, a bold stroke that elicited a soft moan from her, the sound swallowed by the depth of their kiss.

His hand traveled up her back to tangle in her long locks, a silent plea for closeness that Layna eagerly answered, her fingers gripping the fabric of his tunic as she pressed her soft curves against the hard planes of his body.

Their tongues dueled, a sweet exploration that sent shivers down Layna’s spine. Zarian groaned, a rumbling, primal sound that vibrated through them both. She breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his with a delicious friction. Their breath mingled in the scant space between them when they parted for air, only to be drawn back deeper into the kiss.

Layna, emboldened by their passionate exchange, trailed her hand down Zarian’s firm chest, her fingers tracing the ridges of his muscular abdomen through his tunic.

Yet, as she ventured further south, Zarian’s reflexes snapped into action. Without breaking their kiss, he firmly intercepted her wandering hand, guiding it back to rest on his neck, his tight grip conveying a silent message.

Layna panted as she pulled away, a frown creasing her brow as disappointment flashed across her features. Her lips parted, poised to voice her frustration, but Zarian preempted her words with a quick, silencing kiss. Not stopping there, he peppered kisses all over her face, each one soft and light, scattering her thoughts like leaves in the wind until, eventually, her pout transformed into a smile.

He continued, kissing down her neck and tickling her with the stubble along his jaw, until Layna began to laugh. His fingers danced along her sides, finding and exploiting her ticklish spots with a gentle precision that left her squirming in his arms. Her laughter, bright and unguarded, filled the room.

Zarian held her tightly against him as her laughter melted into gentle, contented sighs. He leaned in, his lips tenderly brushing her forehead, then gliding down to caress her nose, before finally capturing her lips in a kiss so soft, so filled with love, that it washed away all trace of her frustration.

Layna gazed up at him, her eyes shining with adoration. “Is this your way of signaling that it’s time for you to leave?” she whispered, her voice threaded with longing.

“Leaving you,” he whispered against her lips, “is the last thing I want to do. But duty calls, even at this hour.” His thumb tenderly traced her cheek. They moved to the balcony, sharing a silent farewell under the moon’s watchful gaze.

He gave her one final kiss, a seal on their passion, before stepping over the railing and disappearing into the night.

Slipping into bed, the silk sheets were cool against Layna’s warm skin. The memory of his lips lingered, his hands exploring the curves of her body with a hunger that matched her own. She tossed and turned restlessly, her nightgown brushing against her sensitive skin, each sensation a reminder of his touch. She was drenched in his intoxicating scent, yet his absence made her ache with desire and frustration.

Why had he stopped?

She traced her lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth against hers. Zarian’s devotion was clear. Yet, when it came to crossing this final boundary, he still held himself back.

Layna wasn’t na?ve. She knew he was experienced—such a man as Zarian, with his handsome features and charm, and more importantly, the anonymity of his missions, would have had no lack of companionship. She tried not to dwell on those who might have come before her, always succumbing to the slithering tendrils of jealousy that twined around her sanity, pulling her down into their green, suffocating depths.

But why not me? The question haunted her amidst the residual heat of their passion.

As her body began to calm and the haze of lust cleared from her mind, her thoughts drifted to the day’s events. Nizam’s offer of 250,000 soldiers—an entire army lent without treaty or alliance—was staggering.

It was an outrageous move, one that would not have been made lightly. Baysaht’s council must have voiced reservations about wagering so many of their soldiers.

Yet Nizam had moved forward with it. Why?

Her personal history with him added to her confusion. What did Nizam’s current gesture signify? And why now? Layna’s mind raced with possibilities, none of which made sense.

An irrational resentment stirred within her—a bitter feeling, not for the aid, but for the vulnerability it underscored. Alzahra’s reliance on Baysaht’s soldiers highlighted their weakness against Zephyria and its newfound allies.

With these thoughts, Layna eventually drifted into a fitful sleep. The night’s events wove through her dreams, a flurry of desire, duty, and the deep, unfathomable game of kings and kingdoms.

Returning to his chambers, Zarian felt Layna’s kisses still clinging to him. Entering the washroom, he turned on the cold water and stepped into the shower, hoping to clear the fog of lust clouding his mind.

The cold cascade was a harsh wake-up call, an icy reminder of the restraint he was supposed to uphold, both for his sake and Layna’s. As the water sluiced over him, he chastised himself for his lack of control. He longed to give her everything she desired, but the fear of losing her constantly lurked in his mind, ever-present and mocking, casting a shadow over their moments together.

Dressed and somewhat centered, Zarian headed to the dungeon. Varin, battered but defiant, sat on the floor of his cell.

Jaffar reported, “He’s a stubborn one, Your Majesty. Hasn’t said a word yet, but the night is still young.”

Zarian approached Varin, his steps echoing in the dank cell. The flickering torches cast long shadows across Varin’s face, accentuating the bruises and the defiance that still lingered in his eyes.

“You’ve had a long night,” Zarian began, crossing his arms over his chest. “It can end here if you cooperate.”

Varin, slumped against the cold stone wall, lifted his head slightly, meeting Zarian’s gaze. He remained silent. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes, a stubbornness that had yet to be broken.

Zarian crouched down, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You understand the gravity of your situation. This isn’t just about treason. It’s about survival. Yours and Alzahra’s. Speak now, and you might yet save yourself from a fate worse than this dungeon.”

The silence that followed was thick. Varin’s gaze faltered, darting away for a moment, but still he refused to speak, his lips pressed together tightly.

Zarian sighed and nodded to the head guard. “Keep me informed, Jaffar,” he said as he straightened. Zarian exited the cell, the heavy door closing behind him with a dull thud.

As the prince retraced his steps back to his chambers, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Varin’s silence posed an obstacle, but it was one he was determined to overcome. The stakes were too high, the risks too great to allow one man to stand in their way.

They would break him.

Stepping into his quarters, Zarian froze, eyes widening in surprise.

Jamil was lounging casually on his bed, one arm propped behind his head as he ate a mirsham fruit.

“You’re not the only one adept at scaling balconies,” his fellow Medjai quipped sarcastically.

Zarian chose silence as his response, his expression guarded as he slowly unstrapped his sword and tossed it onto the sofa.

Jamil took a deep breath, the stiffness easing out of him slightly as he rose from the bed. “I want to apologize. It’s been difficult for me to separate Zarian, the Medjai’s crown prince, from Zarian, the man. My friend. I will do better. Let’s move past this.”

Unbridled relief washed over Zarian at his friend’s words. “It took you long enough,” he said, a genuine smile lighting up his face.

Jamil crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. Without a word, Zarian pulled him into a tight embrace.

As they stepped back, Zarian punched Jamil’s arm. “That’s for putting your boots on my bed.” Jamil chuckled, rubbing his arm lightly with a grin.

Zarian poured a glass of water for himself and offered one to Jamil. With a dramatic sigh, he began painstakingly dusting off his bed.

Jamil rolled his eyes.

“You were at the Oasis longer than I expected,” Zarian said, sitting on the bed. “Did you see Soraya? How is she?”

Jamil leaned against the wooden bed frame. “She’s safe and happier than I expected. She’s quite adamant that you keep Layna in good spirits.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Her exact message was, ‘Ensure my sister remains happy, or else you’ll answer to me.’”

Zarian chuckled affectionately, shaking his head.

“And she’s thrown herself into life at the Oasis with surprising zeal, especially where our agriculture is concerned. She’s brimming with ideas,” Jamil added, a note of admiration creeping into his voice.

Zarian observed his friend closely. “And how is Almeer?” he asked casually.

The mention of Almeer drew a shadow over Jamil’s features.

“He’s been…ordinary,” Jamil began begrudgingly. “He mostly spends his time with Soraya or keeps to himself. No odd contacts or other behavior. It’s unlikely that he’s working for Zephyria.” Jamil glanced away for a moment, a flicker of frustration—or perhaps disappointment—crossing his face.

Zarian nodded thoughtfully. “I’m grateful for your change of heart,” he finally said.

Jamil’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “Unfortunately, our reconciliation was not the reason for my visit. Prepare yourself. The elders have confirmed it. The eclipse will occur in three days’ time.”