CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T he weathered king stood on a high balcony, overlooking the rocky expanse of his kingdom. He turned slightly as his most trusted general approached.

“How is our guest adapting?” the king inquired, his voice as coarse as the rocks and pebbles that covered the mountains.

“He has exceeded all expectations, sire,” the general replied, a tall man clad in battle-worn armor. “He is exceptionally well-trained and already outperforming our best soldiers.”

The king raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Last night, I left him deep in the forest with nothing but the clothes on his back. By dawn, he had returned with a large deer, killed with his bare hands. And every morning, he runs the mountain course. He’s already set the best time we’ve ever recorded, but I haven’t told him yet. I want him to keep pushing himself.”

A slow smile spread across the king’s lined face. “Excellent,” he murmured. “We made the right decision in allowing him to stay. He could be the weapon we need.”

The general nodded in agreement, his gaze following the king’s over the sprawling landscape.

As he turned to leave, the king spoke again. “Tell him he has the best time. Something tells me it would do him well to hear it.”

Azhar sat alone in Jorah’s old chambers, the ancient orb resting in his hands. Countless days and nights he had spent trying to unlock its mysteries. Yet, it remained inert, a silent enigma cradled within his palms.

Frustrated, he decided upon a new course of action. Perhaps under the moonlight, in the solitude of the wilderness, it might reveal its secrets.

As he headed toward the stables, his stride was purposeful, the orb secured in his cloak. The sight of the stable door slightly ajar stopped him in his tracks—an unusual occurrence at this late hour—and set his senses on edge. Sword drawn, he cautiously entered, his presence alerting the horses, their nickering the only sound in the night.

He inspected each stall carefully, tension coiling tighter in his chest with each step. The stables seemed deserted save for the horses, but his gut was screeching that something was wrong. As he approached the last stall, anticipation sharpened his focus.

Without warning, the door burst open, and a masked figure rushed out, launching an aggressive attack. The assailant aimed his dual blades with lethal intent, but Azhar was a tempest in human form. Swords clashed, metal singing against metal, echoing off the stone walls of the stable.

Azhar parried with a force that sent vibrations up the attacker’s arm. He advanced, his lone blade a blur of deadly precision, cutting through the air with brutal elegance. The attacker tried to retaliate, his swords aiming for Azhar’s vulnerabilities. Yet, Azhar seemed to predict each strike, his countermoves a dance of death that left no room for error.

A second attacker raced into the stables. Azhar was outnumbered, yet unyielding. He moved with a predator’s grace, his attacks carving arcs of silver into the air, each one finding its mark with unerring efficiency.

The frantic whinnying and agitated snorts of the horses filled the air. The attackers were relentless, but Azhar turned their momentum against them, exploiting every falter, every second of hesitation. With a calculated maneuver, he disarmed one assailant and quickly ran him through with his sword.

He cornered the second attacker. His blade was a whisper away from victory. A final exchange, a flurry of desperate defense met with unstoppable force, until Azhar’s sword found its mark and pierced through the assailant’s neck.

Breathing heavily, Azhar stood victorious on the bloody stable floor. Chest heaving, he wiped the sweat from his brow, and sheathed his sword, the cold satisfaction of survival his only companion.

He approached the bodies slowly. Removing the chest plate off one corpse, he ripped its tunic down the front. The Medjai tattoo revealed itself under the moonlight, black ink mingling with crimson blood.

A cruel smile twisted Azhar’s lips.

Leaving the carnage behind, he remained vigilant, the ways of the Medjai echoing in his mind—they often sent three men for a single kill.

He knew there would be one more.

His return to his chambers was cautious, every shadow a potential threat.

And there, as predicted, the third assassin awaited.

Despite his fatigue, Azhar’s strikes were sharp and true, each blow fueled by a lifetime of scorn.

But in the heat of battle, Azhar found himself momentarily bested, his sword knocked from his grasp by a cunning maneuver. The clang of his weapon hitting the stone floor echoed ominously through the chambers, a sound that would have spelled death for a lesser warrior.

But Azhar was no ordinary foe.

His attacker advanced, his blade a deadly promise in the dim light. But Azhar was far from defeated. With the calm of a seasoned predator, he reached down to his boot, his movements masked by the feint of retreat.

In a fluid motion, he drew a concealed dagger. With a swift, practiced motion, Azhar’s arm shot forward. The dagger found its mark, plunging deep into the assassin’s chest.

The impact forced a gasp from the man’s lips, his eyes widening in shock and pain as he staggered back. Azhar watched, an impassive observer to the final moments of his life. The man clutched at the dagger, a feeble attempt to stem the flow of life ebbing away. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, his final breaths a raspy whisper in the night.

Azhar waited a moment, then retrieved his dagger with calm detachment, wiping the bloodied blade on the dead man’s trousers. He stood motionless over the lifeless body.

Have I made you proud now, Father?

He stepped into the dark corridor and called for a servant, his voice echoing sharply against the stone walls.

A gangly boy, no more than fifteen, hurried to his side. “Y-yes, sire?” the boy asked, his voice trembling.

“There are two bodies in the stables and one in my chambers,” Azhar declared. “Take care of them. And have the men sweep the entire castle for intruders. I want no corner unchecked.” Azhar glanced back into his chambers. “And bring me Lords Ebric and Garrisman. Immediately.”

The boy nodded, a quick bob of his head, and rushed off, his steps echoing in the quiet corridor.

Within thirty minutes, Lords Ebric and Garrisman arrived. Their expressions were carefully neutral, but their eyes repeatedly flitted to the pool of blood on the floor, a question in their gazes they dared not voice.

The aftermath of violence lingered in the air.

“Ebric,” Azhar said, “you visited the astronomers today. What have you learned?”

“Sire, I was on my way to see you when the servant came to fetch me. The astronomers have confirmed it.” His eyes darted back to the bloody floor. “The eclipse will take place in three days.”

A chilling smile spread across Azhar’s face. “The time has come,” he rejoiced, his cold smirk not quite reaching his eyes.

Addressing Lord Garrisman with a voice as sharp as a blade, he commanded, “Ride out immediately to the camp. Our full-scale assault begins at once. By the break of dawn, Alzahra shall face its reckoning.” Azhar’s voice grew colder still. “Instruct the generals to divide our forces in half. The first contingent will advance toward Alzahra City from the northwest, leaving a trail of destruction. Show no mercy. Let none survive in their path. Our remaining men will flank from the southwest. Alzahra will be forced to divide their defenses, and as a result, be stretched too thin to offer any real resistance on either front.”

The orders were brutal, a strategy designed not just for victory, but for annihilation. Lords Ebric and Garrisman exchanged a brief look, before nodding in understanding.

As the lords left, the room felt colder. Azhar focused on the orb, its surface still dull in his hands. “Soon,” he whispered, as if it could hear him. “The prophecy will unfold, and all will be as it should.”

In the silence of the night, the stars were indifferent witnesses. Azhar’s plan was set in motion, a grim countdown to a dawn that promised nothing but bloodshed and sorrow.