CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A s the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, Azhar and his men approached Alzahra City’s main checkpoint. The moon, unusually large and lingering, cast an eerie glow, painting the sky an otherworldly shade of pink.

Azhar surveyed the surroundings, his gaze settling on the moon. “Listen, men, and listen well,” he commanded, his voice clear over the sounds of the waking city. He quickly outlined their strategy. His men nodded, faces set in determination.

With a subtle signal, twenty of his men, disguised as commoners, approached the busy checkpoint. They moved with the unassuming gait of merchants, though their horses were laden with weapons instead of wares.

Despite the early hour, a line had already formed at the gate, mostly travelers seeking rest and merchants eager for trade. The tension among the Zephyrians was a silent undercurrent, invisible to the unsuspecting guards who watched over the throng.

In a sudden, orchestrated chaos, the tranquility shattered. The remaining ten Zephyrians thundered over the dunes toward the city walls. The furious rumble of hooves was the first warning, swiftly followed by the whistling death of arrows, arcing through the sky toward the guards. Panic ensued as arrows found their marks, throwing the city’s defenders into disarray.

Caught unaware, the guards yelled orders drowned out by the panicked crowd as they scrambled to respond. The checkpoint became a scene of chaos, with civilians caught in the confusion and guards abandoning their posts to counter the Zephyrians’ swift advance.

Azhar seized the moment. “Follow me,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. His men urged their horses forward through the now-unguarded entrance, slipping into the city with the other people escaping the attackers.

As they rode deeper into the city, one of Azhar’s men voiced his confusion. “Sire, I thought the plan was to join the others and attack the guards from behind,” he blurted. “Our men will be killed.”

Azhar glowered at him, and the man shrank under the weight of his glare. “The plan has changed,” Azhar snarled viciously.

The Zephyrians continued toward the palace, splitting into smaller groups as they neared.

Approaching a side gate, Azhar’s group was met by a young palace guard. With a nervous nod, the guard silently allowed them entrance.

“Your timing is perfect,” he said. “The head guard started making inquiries. They suspect another traitor alongside Lord Varin.” His fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the hilt of his sword.

Azhar’s face split into a menacing smile. “It’s too late for Alzahra. You will be rewarded handsomely,” he assured. “Is everything according to plan?”

“Yes,” the guard confirmed. “Most of the palace will be asleep for a while longer. Only a handful didn’t drink the water.”

“Good,” Azhar said, cold determination in his voice. He addressed his men, “Go. Kill King Khahleel and end his pitiful reign. Our little spy here will guide you.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “But capture the queen alive,” he added. “I will send her piece by piece to Shahbaad. It’s the least I can do for old Jorah.”

Turning back to the traitorous guard, he ordered, “Open the gates for my remaining men. Kill anyone in your path.”

Azhar reached into his cloak and withdrew the orb. Wrapped in layers of black fabric to conceal its bright glow, it shone with a fierce, pulsing light. He looked at the eerie pink sky and took a deep breath.

It was time.

She was suspended in a void, a realm where reality blurred at the edges. Falling, plummeting through infinite darkness, her screams evaporated in the air. The sensation of freefall consumed her, a sharp tug in her gut, an eternity passed in mere moments. And then, abruptly, swift impact—her breath stolen by the sudden, jarring halt.

Blink.

She inhaled deeply, and the air was rich with sandalwood and spice. Groggily, she opened her eyes, finding herself in an unfamiliar bed, the warm glow of sunlight dancing through sheer curtains. She was laying on a bare chest, solid and warm, marked with the unmistakable Medjai tattoo. Looking upward, she saw the peaceful, sleeping face of Zarian, a tranquility in his features she had never witnessed in waking life.

Blink.

In the hush of twilight, pain throbbed through her wrist, a sharp whisper of hurt. Zarian, shadow and light, sat across her, splinting her wrist. His fury blanketed them, his expression thunderous, a muscle in his cheek still pulsing with untamed fury—yet his hands on her were as gentle as a soft desert breeze. A cut marred his cheek, a dark bloom, but it was the storm in his eyes, fierce and protective, that captured her breath. She reached out, her movements slow, tentative. Her fingers brushed against his cheek, attempting to soothe the maelstrom within him. Zarian paused, his stormy gaze locking with hers. His jaw unclenched ever so slightly, the angry muscle in his cheek stilling under her touch.

Blink.

Zarian’s kiss, searching and intimate, his lips sticky sweet, enveloped her senses. Breaking away, she playfully licked the corner of his mouth, her hands tightly gripping his tunic, a teasing smile on her lips. His eyes darkened as he looked down at her, and the swirling desire within them sent a shiver through her.

Blink.

They stood in a vast room, empty and abandoned, moonlight filtering through tall windows. Here, Zarian was her trainer once more, guiding her in close combat—not with swords, but with wits and agility, teaching her to face stronger, larger adversaries. He darted behind her and secured one muscular arm across her chest, immobilizing her, while the other wrapped tightly around her waist. She quickly broke the hold, just as he taught. Turning to face him, she was pleased by the clear pride on his face.

Blink.

She awoke disoriented in a cramped room. Zarian had not returned. Did he leave her here? Her heart hammered against ribs, each beat echoing her growing anxiety. The silence suffocated her, wrapped around her lungs like a vise and squeezed. Her eyes scanned the room again and again and again as if she might conjure him with sheer force of will. But then, finally, the door opened with a gentle click. Zarian entered, the air around him alive with a delicious, spiced aroma. He was carrying bags of food, his face wary in the low light. Relief washed over her in an overwhelming rush, her heart slowly settling back into a normal rhythm.

Blink.

Her heart seized painfully; Zarian stood before her, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth, the vibrant light in his hazel eyes dimming to a haunting emptiness. The sight struck her like a physical blow, pain sharp and immediate in her chest.

Blink.

They were aboard a small rowboat. Under the sun’s relentless blaze, Zarian rowed with steady, powerful strokes, the corded muscles in his arms glistening in the heat. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing a path down his determined face. He smiled at her, warm and weary. She raised a skein of water to his parched lips, watching hungrily as his throat bobbed as he gulped it down. She insisted again that he allow her to row, even for a few minutes, but again, he immediately refused.

Blink.

Zarian knelt, chest bared and vulnerable. He gasped for air, a desperate, futile struggle for life. He swayed, struggling to stand, only to collapse with a loud thud she felt in her bones. Blood seeped from his mouth down over his neck, staining his lips a gruesome red. She screamed and screamed and screamed.

Blink.

On a secluded rooftop under the night sky, she looked at Zarian as he moved above her, moonlight illuminating his handsome face. Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, forehead pressed against his, legs twined around hips, pulling him closer, still closer, forever closer. He buried his face in her neck, breath hot against her damp skin, his movements becoming erratic. Her back arched off the thin mattress, mouth open in a silent scream.

Blink.

Zarian, consumed by a blinding white light exploding from his eyes and mouth, his body contorted in electric pain. The light flared, brighter and hotter and hotter and brighter, an unforgiving, all-consuming, hope-shattering inferno that reduced him to nothing but charred bones. The image etched itself into her mind with cruel clarity.

Blink.

His beautiful hazel eyes, unseeing and lifeless. Zarian!

Blink.

Please, Zarian! No! Mournful eyes locked on her, he tried to speak, but all that emerged was the gurgling sound of blood.

Blink.

No! Zarian! No!

Layna awoke with a strangled scream, jerking upright as if trying to physically escape her nightmare. Her heart raced, a wild drumbeat against her chest, her skin slick with cold sweat. The terror felt so vivid, so tangibly real, that the boundary between dream and reality blurred. The room spun around her, a dizzying whirl of shadows and shapes as she fought to steady her breathing.

A noise from the balcony cut through her disorientation. Hope surged through her as the double doors swung open, flooding the dark room with blinding sunlight. Squinting against the glare, she saw a tall, muscular figure silhouetted against the brightness.

“Zarian!” Layna’s voice broke with relief, a strange, panicked worry churning within her as she rose unsteadily from the bed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I love you, too!” She stumbled forward, driven by a need to affirm her choice, to cling to the reality she wished for. She wrapped her arms around him and poured out her heart. “Please forgive me for taking so long. Let’s leave. Let’s leave right now. I don’t care where, as long as we’re together.”

She buried her face in his neck, seeking comfort in his familiar scent, but a momentary stutter of her heart signaled that something was wrong. His scent was foreign to her, and his embrace felt different—his body stiff, his response not the warm comfort she expected. Layna’s unease deepened as his hands traveled down to her backside, tightly gripping her to the point of pain.

“Z…Zarian?” she asked hesitantly. With dawning horror, she realized it wasn’t the morning light blinding her, but a bright, unnatural glow from within his cloak. Fear snaked up her spine as she met his gaze—hazel eyes like Zarian’s yet frosted with a coldness she had never seen before.

As he lowered his mask, revealing his face, Layna’s breath caught.

This was not her Zarian.

The man before her bore a striking resemblance, a near mirror image, but there were small, subtle differences that became more pronounced the longer she looked.

Objectively, he might have been more handsome, the cut of his jaw sharper, the line of his nose straighter. But his eyes, so similar yet so fundamentally different, glinted with a cruelty that chilled her very soul.

“You’re…you’re his brother,” she breathed in both realization and accusation.

The man’s smile was malicious. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Princess. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he rumbled, his voice filled with dark promise. “I look forward to thoroughly making your acquaintance.”

Zarian’s eyes slowly fluttered open. His mind felt blanketed by an unsettlingly deep slumber. His head pounded, each beat a hammer blow. A disorienting confusion clouded his senses.

Rising slowly, regret from the previous night consumed him like a persistent fog. He trudged to the balcony, hoping fresh air would clear his head.

The sky was an eerie pink, casting the world in a surreal light. Both the sun and full moon hung in the sky, a sight that felt ominous instead of awe-inspiring.

It was unnatural, the sun’s early light mingling with the moon’s pale glow, marking the day of the eclipse. Realization dawned on him, cutting through his disorientation—the eclipse was today.

He had overslept, the critical moment was near, and Layna was alone .

Turning, he caught sight of a horse hastily tethered to a gate—clearly out of place in the gardens below.

Panic spiked through him.

His gaze landed on the unassuming pitcher of water by his bed.

Zarian snatched up his sword and bolted through the halls, his feet slapping against the cold stone, his bare chest heaving. Dread coiled within him, a serpent preparing to strike, propelling him forward.

He had to find Layna.

The palace corridors were eerily silent, the usual morning bustle absent. The silence screamed louder than any commotion.

Something was deeply wrong.

Where there should have been sounds of servants preparing for the day, there was only a heavy, oppressive stillness, as if the palace’s very soul had been paused.

He reached Layna’s room and found the door unsettlingly ajar. Inside, the chaos struck him like a physical blow.

It was a scene of violence. An overturned chair, its companion pushed askew, a half-torn curtain dangling from its rod, fluttering in the breeze from the open balcony doors.

Layna had fought desperately against a much stronger assailant.

He ran back into the deserted hallway, heart pounding frantically against his ribcage. Every step felt like a race against the sands of time, each grain slipping hopelessly through his fingers.

Further down, the sight of a shattered vase halted him. The scattered fragments across the marble floor spoke of a brutal struggle.

Zarian’s eyes caught sight of a door further down the corridor, haphazardly thrown open. It led to the rooftop terrace.

He flew up the narrow staircase. Time was running out, and Layna, the heart of his world, was at the center of this nightmare.

Reaching the terrace, the strange pink morning light cast ominous shadows on the cold stone floor. The terrace spread wide and desolate, a stark expanse of stone framed by the sprawling city. Two pillars stood silhouetted in the unnatural light, both haunting and strangely beautiful.

Zarian’s heart stopped.

His eyes were deceiving him.

Layna was tied to one of the pillars, not with rope, but with what looked like bright, pulsating light.

Her arms were bound above her head, thick ropes of light winding tightly around her wrists. Two more bright cables encased her waist and knees. She was suspended, her toes frantically brushing the ground for stability.

Her beautiful face was a canvas of fear. A livid bruise spread darkly across her cheek, while her lower lip was split and oozing fresh blood. An angry red welt marred her forehead.

The sight of his love, so cruelly treated, ignited a maelstrom of fury within him, scorching through his veins with the promise of vengeance.

“Layna!” he called out, unsheathing his sword as he stepped closer.

“Zarian! Wait, it’s—” Her warning was cut short as another voice, chillingly familiar, halted him in his tracks.

“Hello, brother. It certainly took you long enough,” Azhar said, emerging from behind the second pillar. The morning light played off his form, casting him in a silhouette both familiar and utterly alien to Zarian.

No.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Zarian’s mind struggled to accept who stood before him.

Frozen in shock, he took in the sight of the man he once knew. His brother had aged, the years etching themselves in new creases around his eyes and mouth. His physique was more imposing, muscles honed from years of combat.

Bright red scratches marked his face, a vicious bite mark marred his neck, and dried blood encircled his nostrils—details that, under different circumstances, might have given Zarian a grim sense of satisfaction knowing Layna had fought back so fiercely.

His brother’s eyes held a cold, ruthless gleam, a far cry from the boy he remembered from childhood.

“Zaarif?” Zarian’s voice was laced with disbelief and a rising anger. “Zaarif, what have you done?”

The man before him scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “ Zaarif .” He spat on the ground. “Even the name they gave me was a pale imitation of yours. Zaarif is dead. I’m Azhar now.”

The revelation hit Zarian like a thunderclap, leaving him reeling. His brother’s new identity, his betrayal, merged into a singular point of pain. His mind worked frantically.

Zaarif had been in Zephyria all this time.

“Yes, that’s right!” Azhar crowed, seemingly pleased at Zarian’s astonishment. “I’m the new king of Zephyria. The conqueror who brought Alzahra to its knees. The man who will harness the power of the moon’s Daughter. If only Father could see me now,” Azhar proclaimed, his voice laced with bitter triumph. “Well…I suppose he’ll see soon enough.”

Zarian, still grappling with shock, implored, “It’s not too late, Zaarif. Stop this now. Let her go,” he said in a desperate plea to reach the brother he once knew.

“ Let her go ? Before I’ve had the chance to sample her myself and discover what has so enthralled you? She must be absolutely exquisite to lead the righteous son astray.” Azhar’s words dripped with venom. “After all, I’ve taken your leftovers my entire life.”

He clamped his hand around Layna’s face with deliberate roughness, fingers digging in painfully. “In due time, my little wildcat,” he sneered. “First, we need your power to reveal itself.”

“Don’t touch her!” Zarian’s roar was visceral, torn from the depths of his soul. His fury, the raw fear for Layna’s safety, vibrated through the air.

Azhar smirked in a cruel mimicry of brotherly affection. “Try and stop me, brother. I’m eager to see if you can best me now.” His eyes glinted with malice, arms spread in open challenge.

Clad only in his sleeping trousers, Zarian gripped his sword tightly. Azhar, fully armed and dressed for combat, presented a stark contrast.

Zarian bent his knees and raised his sword.

He waited.

With a roar, Azhar rushed forward and Zarian raced to meet him head on. Their swords clashed loudly as the brothers locked blades, each struggling to overpower the other.

Azhar managed to knock Zarian back. His voice dripped with contempt as he said, “Is this truly your best effort, brother? At this pace, you won’t survive long enough to watch me have Layna.”

“Don’t. Say. Her. Name,” Zarian snarled through clenched teeth. His face was a mask of pure fury, veins bulging in his neck, as he circled his brother, waiting for the next attack.

When Azhar struck again, he countered the onslaught with a fearsome roar. Their movements blurred, each parry and thrust a deadly dance of steel.

Azhar’s mocking laughter was cut short as Zarian launched himself forward. The loud clang of metal against metal echoed off the terrace’s stone floor. Each strike Zarian delivered was met with an equally powerful counter from Azhar.

Spinning quickly, Azhar landed a long, shallow cut across Zarian’s abdomen. The sight of bright blood seeping from the wound sent a jolt of fear through Layna. He was at a steep disadvantage without armor. Layna’s heart ached as she watched, utterly helpless, her eyes wide with terror.

Despite the wound, Zarian continued circling, searching for an opening.

Overhead, the sky darkened, the impending eclipse casting an ominous red glow over the terrace.

Azhar continued to goad Zarian, malice coating every syllable, unleashing a lifetime’s worth of resentment. “Perhaps, once I’ve grown bored with her, I’ll leave you her head, like I did with that hound of yours. Did you ever find his body, by the way?” He chuckled darkly.

The taunt hit its mark, igniting a furious fire within Zarian. With a roar of rage, he furiously launched himself at Azhar. Their swords met with a deafening clang, but Zarian fought with a vengeance that caught Azhar off guard.

In a swift movement, Zarian disarmed Azhar, sending his sword clattering to the terrace floor. He landed a deep, searing cut across Azhar’s arm, slicing through leather and flesh and muscle, drawing a furious bloom of blood. Azhar cried out in pain and grabbed his wounded arm, his face contorted in agony.

As Azhar stumbled backward, reaching for his fallen sword, Zarian made a decisive choice. He dropped his own weapon and lunged forward, pulling Azhar back in a fierce grip. Without hesitation, he delivered a powerful punch to his brother’s face, splitting his lip and drawing blood.

Zarian didn’t stop.

A hard jab to the stomach forced Azhar to double over in pain. Zarian tackled him to the ground, swiftly climbing atop him. A flurry of punches followed, each one landing with precision and force on Azhar’s face.

“You will never lay a hand on her again!” His roar was primal, a man protecting his woman.

Azhar, cunning even in desperation, managed to seize Zarian’s hand and bit fiercely, tearing off a chunk of flesh from his palm. Zarian’s cry of pain halted the attack, and Azhar managed to shove him off.

As both men regained their footing, Azhar’s bruised and bloodied face bore the evidence of Zarian’s fury.

Layna watched with a surge of hope. Her gaze drifted upward, the sky a canvas of anticipation. The eclipse was imminent, the moon inching closer to concealing the sun, slowly tinting the world in darkness.

Azhar reclaimed his sword. His stance was unsteady, the arrogance of his earlier taunts replaced with grim silence. The brothers engaged once more, swords clashing in a deadly dance. Zarian, seemingly oblivious to the pain in his hand, easily found his rhythm and quickly disarmed Azhar again. Azhar’s movements were sluggish, his defenses slowly crumbling.

“I searched for you. I wanted to bring you home!” Zarian shouted, circling his brother slowly.

“It was never my home,” Azhar spat. He furiously attacked again. “Father made sure of that!”

He tried to keep up with Zarian’s sword, but his steps were unsteady, his reactions slow.

With a swift maneuver, Zarian swept Azhar’s legs from beneath him, pinning him to the ground, his sword a hair’s breadth from sealing his fate. Yet, as he gazed down at his brother’s battered face, a twisted mirror of his own, an unwanted emotion clouded his judgment.

In that brief, suspended moment, with the eclipse painting the sky in shades of prophecy, Zarian’s resolve wavered.

This hesitation, a moment’s mercy born of the remnants of brotherhood, opened a fatal window.

Azhar seized his chance, drawing a hidden dagger and striking with lethal precision. He jammed the dagger deep into the side of Zarian’s neck and viciously pulled downward.

Zarian’s sword fell from his fingers as he staggered backward, clutching the gaping wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood.

Layna’s screams pierced the air, a harrowing echo of heartbreak and chaos.

“Zarian! Please, Zarian! No!” Despair and denial collided in her voice, her soul reaching out to him even as the bindings of light held her fast. “No! Zarian! No!”

The sky over Alzahra City transformed into a deep red canvas. The sun, fiery monarch of day, and the moon, ethereal guardian of night, met in a rare embrace. The light dimmed and the very air held its breath. An otherworldly twilight descended. Time itself seemed to pause. The sun’s bright light flared around the moon’s silhouette, a ring of radiance glowing in the sky. Stars, usually hidden by daylight, twinkled into visibility.

Layna could only watch helplessly as Zarian’s lifeforce drained away. He fell to his knees, his mournful eyes locking onto hers for one last, regret-filled moment. He tried to speak, but only the chilling, gurgling whisper of blood escaped his lips. His body collapsed onto the cold stone floor, a pool of blood slowly forming around his head.

Layna’s wail, a sound of pure anguish, filled the sky.

Azhar dragged himself toward his brother’s still form, retrieving his knife from Zarian’s neck with a wet squelch. With concerted effort, he stood slowly, his expression unreadable. Casting a disdainful glance downward, he nudged Zarian’s foot with a contemptuous kick.

Layna’s screams, raw and unyielding, tore through the air, her grief so heavy, so profound it seemed to fracture her very being. A violent storm of emotions raged within her—anguish, despair, and an overwhelming sense of loss that burned through her heart, leaving only ashes behind.

He never knew , she thought despairingly.

He never knew that, in the end, she had chosen him.

The pain of unspoken truths and dreams unlived engulfed her. They had been denied the chance to explore their love, to build a future together.

All that remained was the echo of his name in her cries.

Her anguished screams resonated across the terrace, a lament that pierced the heavens, challenging the cruelty of fate. But even as her voice rose higher, a soul-crushing numbness crept in, a cold embrace that dulled the sharp edges of her pain. With one final, heartrending cry, Layna’s strength waned, and darkness claimed her, pulling her into its depths.

And then, in the desolate silence that followed, something within her stirred—a power, ancient and untamed, called forth from the ashes of her despair.

The Daughter had awakened.