CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T hree days after Layna’s awakening, the healers deemed her fit to leave the infirmary. They subjected her to numerous examinations, before finally confirming that aside from noticeable weight loss, she appeared remarkably well.

However, Layna had a blank space in her memory regarding the events of the eclipse. During a final examination, a young healer cautiously asked, “Your Majesty, what is the last thing you remember before waking here?”

Layna paused, reaching back through the fog of lost time. The room faded around her, the memory plunging her back into a moment steeped in fear.

“I was bound to the pillar,” she recounted, her gaze distant. “On the terrace, under a red sky.”

Zarian watched Layna closely, noting the furrows of worry creasing her brow. She wore a new vulnerability, the trauma and grief leaving a deep mark on her spirit. The fiery spark that defined her seemed muted, dimmed by unseen shadows behind her eyes.

Her mental state was fragile, like a vessel weathered by a tempest. Seeing her like this—her inner light barely a flicker—gutted Zarian. At times, she flinched at the sight of him before recognition slowly settled in. Though rare, those moments cut deeper than any pain he’d ever known.

He resolved to be her anchor, to help rekindle her fire, and to stand by her as she navigated the path back to herself.

Zarian walked Layna back to her chambers, his hand gently resting on her lower back. As they neared her chambers, he halted, turning to face her.

“Please consider it again,” Zarian implored. “You can move to a different set of chambers. A new space might shield you from painful memories, somewhere you can feel safe and secure.”

Layna shook her head. “So much has already changed,” she said. “He took my father! I won’t let him take anything else.” She caressed Zarian’s cheek in gratitude. “I appreciate your concern, truly.”

Together, they stepped into her chambers. The soft, warm glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the open balcony doors. Tinga and the servants had meticulously restored the room to its former elegance, erasing any signs of chaos from the attack. Every piece of furniture, every drape, and even the smallest trinkets were placed exactly as before.

They settled on the plush sofa as they had done countless times. “I need you to tell me everything,” Layna said. “I know you’ve been holding back because of my mental state. But I can’t keep wandering aimlessly in this fog until my memory returns. Please. It’s time.”

And so, Zarian told her.

He recounted her bright white eyes, her massive display of power, and her ascension to the sky. Once more, he held back the truth of his own death and miraculous return. She was not yet ready to shoulder that revelation, he told himself.

Their conversation flowed for hours, a cathartic release of words and emotions. He told her of the seven days she remained unconscious, how he kept vigil by her bedside. He spoke of his pain, his fear, and the fierce hope that she would open her eyes and look at him once more.

Never in his life had he wished for anything more fervently.

Layna listened, eyes filled with love and tears, absorbing every detail.

As the night deepened and the candlelight waned, Zarian noticed her fatigue. “You should sleep,” he coaxed gently. “The healers made it clear that rest is paramount for your recovery. Your mind needs to heal before your memories can return.”

Layna’s initial protest faded at the sincerity in his voice. Nodding, she let him guide her to bed.

“Soraya insisted on staying with you,” Zarian said, drawing the covers over her. “She’ll be here when you wake.” Layna nodded and closed her eyes.

Zarian lingered a moment longer before quietly exiting the room, the door closing softly behind him.

In the days following her emergence from the coma, Layna and Zarian tried to weave the fragile threads of their lives back into normalcy. Yet, this fleeting peace was interrupted by the arrival of the Medjai elders, accompanied by King Tahriq.

The air in the great hall was thick with anticipation, as if the very stones of the palace held their breath. Seven elders in pristine robes, most with long white beards, stood before Layna, Zarian, Lord Ebrahim and Hadiyah.

Zarian greeted his father with a cold rigidity. Once, he would have knelt before King Tahriq and received a warm embrace upon rising. This time, however, he remained resolutely upright, offering only the barest nod in acknowledgment, his feet firmly planted by Layna’s side.

The elders silently took their positions before Layna, their sharp gazes fixed unerringly on her. Their probing eyes seemed to wait with bated breath for any sign of the power that had shaken their world.

Unease crawled up Layna’s spine under their blatant appraisal. She stiffened, fingers fidgeting nervously under their gaze.

Zarian’s eyes flicked down to her hands. He edged closer, until the length of his arm pressed against hers. The warmth of his touch grounded her. Layna’s posture softened as she stood straighter, her hands relaxing at her sides.

The elders’ sharp gazes flickered from Layna to Zarian, their expressions shifting from intense scrutiny to staunch disapproval. Deep frowns creased their lined, weathered faces.

Despite their disdain, Zarian remained undeterred. He locked eyes with the head elder, his chin raised in defiance, an unspoken challenge passing between them.

After a tense moment, the head elder relented. “Let us begin,” Zanjeel declared, waving his hand dismissively. “We will only speak with the princess and our prince.”

Hadiyah opened her mouth to protest, but Layna gently laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright, Mama,” she reassured quietly. Hadiyah took a deep breath before giving a terse nod. With a final, lingering glance at the elders, she turned to leave, Lord Ebrahim following close behind. The senior adviser stopped in front of Zarian, locking eyes with him. A brief, silent exchange passed between the two men, and Zarian gave a subtle nod of understanding. Satisfied, Lord Ebrahim followed Hadiyah out of the hall.

The remaining group quickly took their seats. Zarian recounted the ordeal to the elders, piecing together the events as best as he could recall. He again omitted the tale of his death and rebirth, for reasons he did not quite understand. He had kept the full extent of what occurred a closely guarded secret, not breathing a word to anyone.

As he handed the fragmented remnants of the orb to the elders, he watched as their expressions turned grave. Brows furrowed, eyes darkened, and lips tightened into thin lines at the sight of the shattered orb. The old men exchanged worried glances.

The head elder cleared his throat. “So, she remembers nothing? Nothing at all?” he inquired, his gaze shifting between Zarian and Layna.

“Nothing,” Layna confirmed, her voice marked with frustration.

The elder’s nod was grave. His sharp eyes remained fixed on Layna. “Since that day, have you felt any hint of the powers returning? Even the slightest trace?”

Layna held his penetrating gaze, her voice unwavering, “No, there has been nothing.”

Still, the elders were not convinced, insisting on conducting their own tests.

What followed was an intrusive, lengthy examination that Zarian watched with growing anger. The elders subjected Layna to a barrage of stimuli—loud sounds, blinding lights, and even physical pain. One elder, Hilder, made a small incision on her palm to observe any unusual healing response.

Zarian’s tolerance dwindled rapidly. He hovered nearby, fists clenched tightly and mouth set in a grim line. When he could bear it no longer, he intervened, his voice vibrating with barely contained rage. “Enough,” he commanded, his deep voice echoing through the hall.

The elders, taken aback by his interruption, shot him scowling looks of displeasure. Zanjeel watched him with a calculating gaze, his eyes sharp like a hawk.

Next, the elders shepherded Layna and Zarian back to the terrace. Layna’s steps were hesitant as she climbed the narrow flight of stairs.

The terrace’s vast expanse unfolded before them, the scene of her transformation starkly unchanged. The sun bore down on the group, but its warmth was useless against the cold apprehension coiling in her belly.

Her heart raced and her head swam. A pounding drum began to beat painfully behind her eyes. As she gazed at the twin pillars, a strong wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

Zarian cast a worried glance in her direction. He placed a reassuring hand on her back, drawing soothing circles until her breathing returned to normal.

Zarian’s eyes fell to the floor where the stones were still stained with soot. He swallowed hard, his chest heavy with grief.

He had buried his brother’s bones in the desert alone.

He didn’t notice Tahriq’s mournful, watery gaze upon him.

One of the elders, Zarqi, swept his gaze across the terrace, pausing at the pillars. Contemplation crossed his weathered features. “Perhaps,” he mused aloud, “we should bind her to the pillar once again. It might serve as a catalyst to reawaken any dormant powers.”

The suggestion hung ominously in the air.

Layna’s breath hitched, dread gripping her at the thought of being helpless once more. The idea of revisiting such vulnerability, bound and exposed, sent a chilling wave through her veins.

Her fears, however, were unfounded.

Zarian quickly stepped in front of her, his eyes lethal with cold resolve. “You will not subject her to that again,” he growled. “Find another method for your evaluations.” He stood unyielding, a physical shield against any threat.

Zanjeel regarded him with disapproval. “Prince Zarian,” he reprimanded sternly, “we are quite disappointed with your behavior. Your defiance raises questions about your loyalty. We begin to suspect you serve another instead of our order.” His sharp gaze flicked to Layna before boring again into Zarian.

The prince did not respond. Instead, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes aflame with silent threat.

Incensed, Zanjeel’s eyes darted angrily to King Tahriq, seeking an intervention, a command to compel the prince to step aside.

But Tahriq remained silent, gaze fixed firmly on the terrace floor. The elders awaited his order, but none came. Tahriq’s scowl deepened, yet he offered no reprimand or support to either side.

The elders found themselves in a deadlock. They were painfully aware that Zarian could strike down all seven of them before they drew their next breath.

Their authority met its match in a man fiercely guarding the woman he loved.

And so, the elders were forced to continue without restraining Layna. They subjected her to more tests across the terrace. At one point, they placed the fragmented shards of the orb in her hands, urging her to meditate. Yet, their efforts were fruitless, and the shattered pieces remained inert in her grasp.

Next, they burned incense, its thick smoke swirling around Layna. The pungent aroma was overpowering, eliciting nothing but a fit of coughing—a decidedly human reaction.

Their examination stretched into the depths of the night, under the silent watch of the moon. The elders hoped the moon’s presence might coax the Daughter’s powers to reveal themselves.

They even ventured to the hidden library, sifting through texts and reciting ancient chants in forgotten tongues over her. Layna listened to the cadence of the unfamiliar words, but the rituals bore no fruit.

No sign of the Daughter’s abilities surfaced.

The extraordinary had given way to the ordinary, leaving the elders baffled, and Zarian barely restraining himself at every turn.

After nearly two full days of exhaustive trials, there were still no signs of the powers that had once surged through the princess.

The elders convened, murmuring among themselves in hushed deliberation.

They finally turned to Layna and Zarian, their expressions solemn. “It appears,” Zanjeel began, “that the power which once resided within the princess has departed. She was destined to wield such extraordinary strength for but a single day.”

Layna exhaled deeply, the tension knotting her shoulders slowly unfurling. Beside her, Zarian’s hand found hers, his grip firm, their fingers intertwining in a silent exchange of relief.

As the elders prepared to depart, King Tahriq sought a moment alone with his son in the courtyard.

Tahriq opened and closed his mouth several times, struggling to find the words to bridge the insurmountable gap between them.

Yet, the apology that was needed remained stubbornly unspoken.

“It seems your heart is here,” Tahriq finally said, eyes flicking to Layna who stood a few paces away by the fountain.

“It is.” Zarian crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze stoic as he regarded his father.

Tahriq chose his next words with care. “Then in your current state, you are of no use to the Medjai. You would be a liability on missions. I command you to remain here and guard our interests in Alzahra,” he decreed, his eyes glistening in the sunlight.

Zarian studied his father. Though gratitude flickered briefly in his heart, it was overshadowed by the pain of Tahriq’s secrets.

The chasm between them was not so easily bridged.

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, Zarian accepted his new charge. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leaving his father standing alone.