CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

T he council chamber was awash with mid-morning sunlight, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The air was tense as the council members took their seats around the large table.

King Khahleel stood, his gaze sweeping across the room. “I have grave news. Lord Varin has betrayed us. He is an agent for Zephyria.”

A tangible shock rippled among the council members. Disbelief and outrage mingled in the air.

Before the murmurs grew, Lord Ebrahim stood, his expression grim. “To make matters worse, Zephyria launched an attack at dawn on our southeast and northeast borders. We’ve split our forces to protect the villages on both fronts.” His voice was steady, but the underlying concern was unmistakable. “Significant casualties have been reported. I await more news from our scouts.”

Lady Mirah spoke next. “We must fortify our key villages. Holding them will give us leverage to push back.”

Queen Hadiyah, her brows furrowed, added, “Send messengers to our allies. Urge them to hasten their aid. Every moment counts now.”

Lord Ebrahim continued, “Shahbaad sends resources but no soldiers. They have their own political tensions. And Bilkaan will secure our coast should Ezanek attack by sea.”

The council turned their attention to the promise of Baysaht’s 250,000 men. The sheer number brought a glimmer of hope. “Baysaht’s army is mobilizing,” Lord Ebrahim continued. “However, it will take days for them to join our men in the northeast. We must hope our men can hold off the Zephyrians until then.” Lord Ebrahim’s final words were a somber reminder. “Your Majesty, the city awaits your address in a few hours. They look to you for reassurance.”

King Khahleel nodded as he addressed his council. “We face a trial that will test the very core of our kingdom. But we stand together.”

The capital’s city square, usually a lively hub, was tense with anticipation. A raised stand had been erected, a temporary throne for the royal family, who sat in dignified silence against the city’s backdrop.

Below, Zarian stood among the crowd, scanning the sea of faces for any sign of threat. The atmosphere was charged, a collective breath held in anticipation of the king’s address. Zephyria’s morning assault had sown seeds of unease, leaving the citizens frightened, their murmurs a restless whisper on the wind.

King Khahleel rose, commanding silence with his presence alone. “My beloved citizens,” he began, “before we discuss the war, let us first turn our attention to a rare event—an eclipse, set to grace our skies the day after next.”

“It is a spectacle of nature’s design, yet it comes with dangers. Our astronomers advise caution. Please, stay within your homes if you are able, and keep your eyes averted from the sky until it has passed.”

“Now, the grave matter on all our minds. The war. I know it has brought worry to your hearts and doubt to your minds. But hear me now: Alzahra will stand together. We will show our enemies the might of our unity!”

Zarian’s gaze found Layna. Her face was a mask of poise, every inch the future queen, a composed exterior that he knew concealed a raging storm.

“The Nahrysba Oasis has sent us 10,000 men,” Khahleel continued. “Shahbaad and Janta have provided ample resources, weapons and food, and Bilkaan has secured our coast. Together, we are stronger than ever.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd, but still, an undercurrent of unrest remained.

And then, Khahleel delivered the news that turned the tide of the gathering. “And now, King Nizam of Baysaht is dispatching 250,000 soldiers to aid us.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then the crowd erupted in applause and loud cheers.

A voice began to chant, “King Nizam!” The name was picked up, echoed by more and more voices until it became a beat, “King Nizam! King Nizam! King Nizam!”

Khahleel remained stoic, his expression betraying nothing. Yet, there was a subtle lift in his demeanor, a hint of satisfaction that his people were reassured. His speech had successfully rallied the people, lifting spirits and reaffirming their unity.

Long after the crowd dispersed, the echo of “King Nizam” still lingered, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to synchronize with Zarian’s heartbeat. It reverberated through his chest, tightening a noose around his heart.

King Nizam.

King Nizam.

King Nizam.

Later in the day, Layna sought refuge in the hidden library beneath the palace. Descending the narrow stairway, the cool air of the underground chamber greeted her. Surrounded by the wisdom of the ancients, she felt a connection to her kingdom’s history, a thread that tied her to the long lineage of rulers.

Some nights, when the weight of destiny felt too heavy, she would lose herself in the texts until exhaustion claimed her. Zarian often found her asleep amidst the scrolls, her face pressed against the brittle pages. Layna marveled at the history hidden here, the secrets of the ancient Medjai scattered across the continent.

She pored over the texts. Which Alzahran king or queen had first allied with the Medjai? Did they know of the prophecy? Had a distant ancestor foreseen her role centuries prior, of a descendant destined to bring about something great, perhaps, catastrophic?

The library became her world for hours. Faded ink and dead dialects presented challenges. How much knowledge had been lost to time?

Again and again, her eyes returned to the shimmering lines of the prophecy, the mention of the “earthly moon” sending uneasy shivers down her spine.

Layna sighed heavily. Like every other night, she had learned nothing useful about the eclipse. The dwindling candlelight signaled it was time to retreat.

Returning to her chambers, she looked forward to seeing Zarian. As she waited for him, she reflected on her father’s address, the rallying cry around King Nizam, and the tangled web of gratitude and resentment ensnaring her heart.

That night, Zarian didn’t visit Layna’s chambers. His footsteps guided him instead to the dark depths of the palace dungeon. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint, unsettling tang of rust. Moisture clung to the walls, where the light from flickering torches cast shadows that danced with a life of their own. The corridors echoed with the soft drip of water.

In the heart of the dungeon, Lord Varin’s labored breaths and the clinking of his heavy chains filled the cold, dark space. Draped in shadows that swallowed hope itself, he was a sight of defiant misery. The dungeon’s air was thick and stale, as if the very breeze had been banished from its dank, suffocating depths.

Zarian stood before Varin, his silhouette stark against the flickering shadows. His voice resonated with authority, each word echoing off the cold stone walls. “What have you disclosed to Zephyria? Who are you working with? Are there other spies in the palace?” He fired off his questions, his imposing presence nearly filling the entirety of the cramped cell.

Varin’s response was a stubborn silence, his gaze defiant even in captivity. The only sounds were the distant drip of water and the subtle shift of chains as he adjusted his position.

Zarian’s patience wore thin, the muscles in his jaw tensing. He repeated his questions, his voice a notch colder, a sharper edge to his words, demanding a breach in Varin’s armored silence.

Again, the disgraced master of war offered nothing. Zarian’s patience began to fray at the edges. His cold, ominous voice echoed off the cell walls as he spoke, an icy rage burning behind his eyes. “The palace guards have clearly been too gentle with you. You will find none of that lenience with me. For every unanswered question, I will break a finger. Do not test me.”

Varin scoffed. “Do you think more torture will make me talk? You overestimate your methods.” He smirked at Zarian, revealing a new, bloody gap from a missing tooth giving him a gruesome, patchwork smile. He casually leaned back against the wall and waved a dismissive hand.

Undeterred by Varin’s bravado, Zarian pressed on, his voice a cold command. “Who were you reporting to?”

When silence was again the response, Zarian’s patience evaporated. With deliberate calmness, he firmly grasped Varin’s hand. The chilling sound of his index finger snapping was a harrowing note in the stillness of the dungeon.

Varin’s scream, raw and exploding with agony, reverberated off the ancient stones. Gasping for breath, he howled anew as Zarian viciously twisted the bent finger.

The prince waited until Varin’s screams subsided into sharp gasps. “Are you ready to reconsider, or shall we continue?” he asked icily.

Still, Varin remained silent. Gasping for breath, he fought through the pain, a desperate attempt to protect whatever secrets he still held.

Zarian’s expression hardened. “It seems you need further persuasion.” He tightened his grip, clutching Varin’s wrist with one hand while applying excruciating pressure with the other. The bone gave way with a sickening snap, and Varin’s resolve shattered along with it. His scream pierced the heavy air, echoing through the cell.

Zarian twisted the finger until it dangled loosely. Varin’s body convulsed, arms flailing, as he recoiled from the searing pain. His eyes squeezed shut, face contorted in agony, his free hand clawing desperately at the cold, unforgiving stone beneath him.

“Please, no more!” he choked out through gritted teeth, tears streaming down his face.

Zarian flicked the broken finger for good measure, drawing a strangled gasp from Varin. He loosened his grip and fixed an assessing gaze on Varin’s face. “I will ask again. Who were you reporting to?”

“I don’t know!” Varin gasped. “I don’t know his name. He never showed his face. He would just appear like a shadow.”

“What did you tell him?” Zarian pressed.

“Mostly things he already knew. About Shahbaad’s resources. And Bilkaan’s naval fleet,” Varin managed through clenched teeth, his breath still heaving. “He…he was interested in the princess, about her activities, and about…her relationship with you.”

The cold resolve in Zarian’s eyes flickered, replaced with a burning intensity. “And what did you divulge about us?” he asked, his voice a lethal whisper.

Varin’s resolve wavered under Zarian’s fearsome gaze. “Just that…the two of you are clearly together and that she…she feels strongly for you. And you for her.”

Zarian stood motionless, eyes murderous, a statue of restrained fury. Without warning, he grabbed Varin’s thumb. The sound of breaking bone was a sickening crack, followed by Varin’s anguished scream.

“I told him nothing more! By the moon and sun, I swear it!” Varin cried out, tears mingling with sweat as he writhed in pain.

Zarian studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Then, quietly, he asked, “And Baysaht? What did you tell him about Baysaht?”

“Nothing!” Varin panted, frantically shaking his head. “He hadn’t visited for weeks before you arrested me. Please, I knew nothing of Baysaht’s involvement until it was announced that same day in the council.”

Zarian roughly grabbed Varin’s chin, fingers digging in painfully, his next question a whisper of steel, “Are there other spies within these walls?”

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered, his voice cracking under the strain. Zarian’s grip tightened on his fingers, a silent warning of more pain to come. “Please!” Varin’s voice rang out desperately, “I swear on my life, he told me nothing of others. I was left to grope in the dark, merely a pawn in his game!”

Zarian’s angry gaze remained unyielding. “Tell me more about this man. What do you know of him? What did he offer you?”

Varin, trembling, attempted to gather his wits. “I…I don’t know much, only that he works for Zephyria. He moved like a shadow. I never heard his arrival. And there were never any signs of entry.” He paused, sucking in a shaky breath. “He promised me wealth. To regain the status my family once held…and a position of power after Zephyria conquered Alzahra.”

Zarian’s mind raced to piece together the identity of this mysterious figure. The promise of wealth and power was a classic motivator, but the efficiency and stealth of this agent spoke of a skill set that was unnervingly professional.

Varin stared at Zarian, eyes wide, braced for more pain. The prince clutched Varin’s hand, the fingers jutting out at gruesome angles, and squeezed tightly. Varin screamed in agony.

Zarian grabbed his face, roughly shaking it. “I’ll be taking my leave now. Answer the guards’ questions, or so help me, you will pray for death.” His lips peeled back in a terrifying snarl. “If I have to come back and see your sorry face again, I won’t be as gentle next time.”

The prince stepped back, leaving Varin’s broken form slumped against the cold stone wall.

As he reached the door, Varin’s voice, laced with pain yet rife with malice, cut through the silence. “It burns your very soul, doesn’t it? Awaiting Nizam’s arrival? For him to come claim what he has bought?”

The words halted Zarian in his tracks. He slowly turned his head, his steely gaze meeting Varin’s. Despite the pain of the interrogation, Varin’s eyes sparkled with a renewed defiance, a dark satisfaction in turning the knife of truth.

Zarian’s expression remained impassive, but the sting of the accusation—a bitter reminder of the debt that now ensnared Alzahra—pierced him. His fingers flexed, and he resisted the urge to turn back and crush Varin’s traitorous face under his boot.

Without a word, he swiftly exited the cell, the heavy door closing behind him with a resounding thud, sealing away Varin and his venomous words.

He stood there for a moment, eyes closed, shoulders slumped under an unseen weight. Inhaling deeply, he straightened and approached the head guard.

“Well done, Your Majesty,” Jaffar said. “Thank you for your help. He was a tough one to break. Your methods are, uh, quite effective.” Jaffar smiled nervously. “You even had me terrified out here.”

Zarian did not respond immediately. “Could any of the palace guards be working for Zephyria?” he finally asked.

“Once, I’d have said no. But in light of recent betrayals,” he said, glancing back at the cell door, “I find myself grappling with doubts.”

“Begin quiet inquiries,” Zarian instructed. “Who among the men could be motivated to turn against Alzahra? Look into personal situations, grudges, debts—anything that could be leveraged.”

“It will be done,” Jaffar nodded.

Zarian glanced back at Varin through the metal bars. “Get him medical attention for his fingers,” he ordered reluctantly, the words tasting of ash in his mouth.