CHAPTER FIVE

A fter their ride through Alzahra City, Layna embarked on a quiet quest for information. She inquired subtly about the prince from the Nahrysba Oasis, but palace servants and courtiers gave vague answers and noncommittal shrugs.

It was as if Zarian had appeared out of thin air.

Unlike typical princes, Zarian did not care for the pomp and ceremony typical of royal life. For instance, at formal dinners, where others basked in the spotlight, he engaged in quiet conversations in the background.

His tattoo, in particular, intrigued Layna. Among warriors and soldiers, such markings were common, symbolizing allegiance or valor, but on a prince, it was a rarity and a bold departure from royal norms. The ink on Zarian’s skin seemed to speak of a deeper commitment, perhaps a personal creed or a significant chapter of his life, making it even more unusual in the context of his royal status.

What life experiences had shaped Zarian into the man he was now? A prince with the markings of a warrior who moved with the ease of a commoner, undaunted by the trappings of royalty.

Layna was convinced that her parents and Lord Ebrahim were not entirely forthcoming about Zarian’s purpose in Alzahra. She had overheard them mention the word “Medjai” a few times, always in hushed whispers, and always stopping abruptly whenever she drew near.

But most disconcerting of all was Layna’s growing attraction to him. There were quiet, unexpected moments when her thoughts would drift to him unbidden. She would recall a charming smile he had given her at breakfast, one that lit up his face with a warmth that radiated directly into her heart. Or she’d remember his laughter echoing in the corridors, a sound that sent her heart fluttering. These small, innocent moments lingered in her mind, stirring unsettling feelings.

Layna reflected on these thoughts early one morning as she walked through the palace gardens. The air was rich with the fragrance of jasmine and roses, mingling with the subtle scent of dew-kissed grass. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of ancient trees, dappling the stone pathways with golden light.

As she wandered along the winding paths, she came across Zarian. He was meditating in a secluded clearing, sitting cross-legged on the soft earth, eyes closed and hands resting on his knees, palms facing upward. The early rays of the sun caressed his face, casting a gentle glow that outlined his sharp cheekbones.

His breath flowed in a measured, calm rhythm. Layna paused at the edge of the clearing, ready to announce herself, when Zarian’s confident voice cut through the silence.

“Hello, Princess. I trust the morning finds you well.” His eyes remained closed, a peaceful picture of tranquility.

A ripple of surprise crossed Layna’s features. She quickly composed herself, smoothing her expression into one of poised neutrality. “Indeed, it has,” she responded, her tone measured and even, as if his awareness of her silent approach was an expected courtesy and not a startling revelation.

Zarian opened his eyes and stood slowly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He began to stretch, extending his arms and rotating his shoulders, loosening the muscles that had remained static during his meditation. Layna’s gaze lingered on his sculpted biceps and forearms, each muscle corded with prominent veins.

The princess drew a deep breath, forcing her gaze away. Her heart quickened against her will. She despised how her body betrayed her with its involuntary attraction, fighting her resolve to keep him at a distance at every encounter.

Gathering herself, Layna measured her next words. “I find myself curious, Prince Zarian. About the Nahrysba Oasis.”

“I think we’re at a stage where we can drop the formalities, no?” Zarian teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He inhaled deeply as he slowly rotated his neck.

“Alright, fine. Zarian, then. Tell me about the Nahrysba Oasis.” Layna tilted her head slightly and crossed her arms over her chest.

“It’s my home,” he said simply. His gaze trailed over her slowly, taking in her loose hair and dusty pink abaya. He gave her a slow, lazy grin. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Layna huffed sharply, her heart somersaulting in her chest. He was distracting her, she was certain of it. “Thank you. But surely you can tell me more.”

He finished stretching and came to stand before her. “What would you like to know, Princess?” he murmured, his voice low and deep.

“What can you tell me about the Medjai?” she demanded, her brows furrowed. “I’ve heard you and Lord Ebrahim whispering about them.”

Zarian’s expression remained carefully neutral. He paused, considering her question. “What exactly do you wish to know about the Medjai?” he asked evenly, his voice almost challenging.

Layna met his gaze squarely as she pressed further. “Who are they?”

Zarian watched her for a long, silent moment, so long that Layna thought he might not answer at all. Then, a decisive look crossed his face before he finally spoke. “The Medjai are an ancient order. They are keepers of peace, tasked with maintaining the balance of our world. Their allegiance is to the realm itself, not to any one ruler or nation. Except the Oasis, I suppose.”

His eyes searched her face intently, though Layna couldn’t discern what he hoped to find.

Her mind raced back to a childhood memory, a fragment of a conversation she once overheard with Soraya. They had hidden behind a tapestry, listening to their father speak with a mysterious visitor about the Medjai and some sort of prophecy. Her parents had also mentioned something about a prophecy on the day that Zarian first arrived.

“I’ve heard rumors about the Medjai and their connection to a prophecy,” she remarked casually. “Is there any truth to these tales?”

Zarian again studied her, his expression unreadable. “Prophecies are complex, Princess. They can be both a guide and a riddle.”

Layna exhaled sharply in frustration at his continued evasion. “Your tattoo. Is it related to the Medjai?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Zarian’s features, quickly replaced by a playful smirk. “Princess—when, might I ask, did you have the opportunity to see my tattoo?”

Layna felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. She had seen it that first evening when he was training, his tunic cast aside, revealing the intricate ink on his skin. “It—it was on the training grounds. You were training. Without your shirt,” she stammered, her cheeks reddening.

Zarian’s smile broadened as he observed her, but he offered no further inquiry, allowing the moment to pass. “Yes, it’s related to the Medjai. It symbolizes a commitment to something greater than myself.”

Before Layna could interrogate further, Lord Ebrahim approached. “Princess Layna, your presence is requested in the council chamber.”

“Of course, Lord Ebrahim,” she agreed. Turning to Zarian, she said, “We’ll continue this conversation another time.” With that, she followed Lord Ebrahim, her mind still mulling over the enigma of the Medjai and the prince who stood apart from the rest.

As she walked alongside Ebrahim, her thoughts lingered on her conversation with Zarian. His connection to the Medjai, his indifference to royal norms, and his enigmatic tattoo painted a picture of a man who was something more than a prince. The more she learned about him, the more she realized how little she knew.

Layna addressed the senior adviser. “Prince Zarian mentioned the Medjai at the Oasis,” she remarked. “There’s much I wish to understand about them. They seem shrouded in mystery. Could you enlighten me?”

Lord Ebrahim studied her closely, eyes slightly narrowed behind his spectacles. He ran a hand over his short, white beard before finally responding. “The Medjai have been allies to our monarchy for centuries. Their wisdom and role as guardians have been crucial. Most kingdoms work with the Medjai in some shape or form, but we generally try to limit knowledge of their existence.”

Layna listened intently, her thoughts racing. “If the Medjai have been such critical allies, why was I not taught about them in my lessons? It seems like important knowledge for a future queen.”

Ebrahim glanced at her, his expression a mix of understanding and regret. “Princess, the Medjai are enigmatic, operating in the shadows to protect the continent. They are secretive about their work, history, and methods. It’s a delicate balance—knowing of their existence and influence, yet not fully understanding the depth of their involvement. The decision to keep details discreet was to protect their anonymity and efficacy. However, I agree that perhaps we should have provided you with more knowledge and shared some of their ancient texts from the library.”

Layna found his last admission odd. She had spent countless hours in the library but never encountered any texts about the Medjai, which now seemed like a glaring omission in her education.

Had it been intentional?

Nonetheless, she absorbed his explanation, puzzle pieces slowly fitting together in her mind. The Medjai’s existence as shadowy protectors and Zarian’s presence in Alzahra were somehow intertwined.

“Thank you, Lord Ebrahim. Your insights are always enlightening.”

Lord Ebrahim chuckled softly. “It is not my insights, Layna. You’ve always been intelligent.” He patted her head affectionately. “Never doubt your instincts. You have a good heart and a sharp mind. You will find your way as you always have.”

Layna smiled. “Thank you.”

“I received a letter from General Idhaan, by the way,” Lord Ebrahim mentioned as they rounded a corner. “He asked about you, as usual. He wanted to know how your sword fighting is progressing.”

Idhaan had been her first instructor in her teenage years. He was eventually promoted and stationed far from the palace. Yet he never failed to check up on his favorite pupil.

“I’ll have to write to him and let him know I can best Soraya now!” Layna said, prompting a shared laugh between her and Ebrahim.

They arrived at the council chambers and took their seats at the round table. The chamber, with its high vaulted ceilings, large windows, and ornate tapestries, was abuzz with the low murmur of the advisers gathered around the massive table.

Layna’s heart sank at the sight of Burhani. As if sensing her presence, Burhani’s eyes flicked up, her gaze narrowing as she glanced between Layna and Lord Ebrahim. Burhani pursed her lips, a shadow of irritation crossing her face that she didn’t bother to mask.

As Layna settled into her seat, her gaze swept across the council members, each representing a crucial pillar in Alzahra’s governance. The council was a diverse assembly of wisdom and strategy, guiding the kingdom through times of peace and conflict alike.

There was Lord Varin, the master of war. A short man with broad shoulders, he had spent decades serving Alzahra’s military. As the commander of the kingdom’s forces, he was responsible for its defense. Though Alzahra had enjoyed prolonged peace, the growing tension with Zephyria thrust Varin back into the limelight, shifting his focus from theoretical strategies to actively preparing for the looming specter of war.

Lady Mirah, the master of coin, was a woman of sharp intellect and shrewd economic insight. Her expertise in trade, finance, and economic policy had steered Alzahra through seasons of scarcity and abundance alike. She managed the kingdom’s treasury, ensuring that its resources were allocated wisely.

Next to her sat Lord Saldeen, the master of internal affairs. His jurisdiction covered the well-being of Alzahra’s citizens and the running of day-to-day operations. From maintenance and infrastructure to law enforcement and public health, Lord Saldeen’s domain was vast.

And, of course, Lord Ebrahim, the senior adviser with decades of service, was the keystone of the council. His vast knowledge spanned across all aspects of the kingdom’s affairs. He oversaw the council’s deliberations, ensuring every decision was made with the kingdom’s best interests in mind.

King Khahleel, with Queen Hadiyah by his side, presided over the meeting, his expression grave. “The tensions with Zephyria continue to escalate,” he announced.

Lord Ebrahim unfurled a map across the table, tracing the boundary line. “Reports indicate that Zephyria has been amassing troops along our eastern border. They have also been turning away more and more caravans from our agreed trade routes. Their intentions are unclear, but we must be prepared for any eventuality.”

Lord Varin spoke next. “We must strengthen our defenses and consider a show of force. Zephyria respects strength. Alzahra cannot appear weak.”

Queen Hadiyah interjected, “While we must protect our kingdom, we should also explore diplomatic channels. War is costly, not just in resources, but in lives.”

The room hummed with a chorus of agreements and dissenting views, a mixture of strategy and caution.

Listening closely, Layna keenly felt the weight of her future responsibilities. She had been trained in the art of warfare since adolescence, but the stark realities were evident in the council’s deliberations.

“My lords, my ladies,” Layna spoke up, standing to address the council members. “Let’s not abandon hope for peace. Perhaps an envoy to Zephyria could provide clarity on their intentions. It may avert unnecessary bloodshed.” She paused to gather her thoughts. “We should also strengthen our resources for healing should conflict arise. I suggest we ask Princess Soraya and her greenhouse attendants to increase the cultivation of medicinal plants. It could be vital in supporting our army’s healing needs.”

Her suggestion was met with thoughtful nods around the table. However, Lord Varin seemed less receptive, his expression one of thinly veiled displeasure.

King Khahleel looked at his daughter with pride. “Wise counsel, Layna. Lord Ebrahim, arrange for an envoy to meet with Jorah and his heir. But we will also prepare our defenses, as Lord Varin suggests.” He turned to address his daughter. “And, Layna, speak to Soraya about the medicinal plants.”

As the council meeting moved toward its conclusion, Layna whispered in Lord Ebrahim’s ear, “I thought King Jorah had never taken a wife. How, then, does he have an heir?”

“Indeed, your understanding is correct,” Lord Ebrahim responded, adjusting his spectacles. “Jorah has never married. However, several years ago, he made a surprising declaration, naming a young man called Azhar as his heir. This was done without any explanation.” He paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. “Jorah’s heir has been removed from the spotlight, never attending formal events or entertaining royal visits. The general consensus is that Azhar is Jorah’s illegitimate son. Though Jorah has never publicly acknowledged Azhar as his blood, he has granted him significant power and authority.”

Layna mulled over this information, along with the looming threat of Zephyria, as the council meeting ended. The possibility of war cast a dark cloud over her heart.

“Layna,” Lord Ebrahim said, interrupting her musing. “Burhani and I are having lunch today to celebrate her success in Janta. Would you like to join us?”

Layna glanced between them, catching Burhani’s faint frown and the simmering intensity in her eyes. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to,” she replied with a polite smile. Burhani exhaled, her tense shoulders relaxing, though she did not bother acknowledging Layna.

Exiting the council chambers, the weight of her destined crown felt heavier than ever.

As Layna left with Lord Ebrahim, Zarian’s gaze lingered on her retreating figure. The first time he saw her, she was practicing her swordplay on the training grounds, her aggression and skill evident even from a distance. Her fierceness had intrigued him, so different from the usual demureness he associated with princesses.

Her fiery anger remained vivid in his memory, the flare of indignation in her eyes, upset at feeling scrutinized. Despite her fury, he was drawn to her raw, unfiltered emotions. Against his better judgment, he found himself increasingly provoking her with teasing remarks, hoping to peel back her royal facade and reveal the woman beneath.

Yet, beneath his attraction, Zarian felt a deep respect for her. He recalled how she had presided over the assembly with a remarkable blend of empathy and diplomacy. It was clear she wasn’t just fulfilling a ceremonial role; she was genuinely invested in the well-being of her kingdom and its people.

Her hands-on approach was impressive. Unlike other royals who relied heavily on advisers, Layna availed herself to her subjects. She wielded her position with a sense of responsibility and care.

Then there was her reaction when he questioned her about his tattoo. The delicious blush that colored her cheeks when she’d revealed her observation of him was a moment of unintended intimacy. Her almond-shaped eyes had widened, a soft flush spreading across her face as she quickly turned away, flustered. It was a glimpse into her vulnerable side, one she tried desperately to conceal. Despite his better judgment, Zarian wanted to strip away her barriers to truly see her .

His thoughts turned to his mission, casting a shadow over his contemplation. It was concerning that she knew about the prophecy, though he’d have to gauge the depth of her knowledge.

Despite his attraction to Layna, Zarian couldn’t afford to let his personal feelings interfere. He had never struggled so much to remain detached. Instead, he found himself doing the complete opposite and constantly flirting with her. The pull was irresistible.

His role as a Medjai, in protecting the balance, was a burden he had carried since adolescence. Zarian reflected on his journey that led him to Alzahra.

In the scorching heat of the Nahrysban desert, a young Zarian faced the relentless trials of Medjai training. His instructor, a hardened warrior with eyes like polished steel, was a man of few words, but each carried the weight of centuries of tradition.

“Focus, Zarian! Anticipate, react, survive!” his instructor bellowed as Zarian navigated grueling exercises designed to push him beyond his limits.

The training was not just physical, but mental and psychological as well. Zarian learned to endure extreme temperatures, trekking barefoot across burning sands, honing his body to withstand thirst and fatigue. He practiced combat in blinding sandstorms and learned to use his other senses when sight failed him.

“Your enemy is not always seen, but felt,” his instructor said as Zarian learned to fight blindfolded, relying on intuition and the subtle cues of wind and sand.

Equally brutal were lessons in strategy and tactics. He studied ancient texts by moonlight, memorizing the histories of kingdoms and the intricacies of court intrigue. He was taught the art of diplomacy and deception, skills as crucial as swordsmanship for a Medjai.

“Remember, your mind is your greatest weapon. Use the element of surprise. Never let your enemy see you,” the instructor often reminded Zarian, stressing the importance of cunning and intelligence.

Zarian also underwent spiritual training, meditating under the sun’s morning light, learning to quiet his mind and connect with the deeper currents of the world.

His instructor often spoke of the weight of their duty, “As Medjai, we are the unseen guardians. Our sacrifice is silent, our battles unknown, but our resolve must be unwavering.”

As the training intensified, his body, mind, and spirit melded into a singular force, a weapon tempered by will and discipline. He learned to endure pain without flinching, to face fear without faltering.

“You must be prepared to do whatever it takes,” his instructor warned, his voice as hard as the desert rock. “Guarding the balance is our ultimate duty.”

Those words were etched into his mind, a constant reminder of the path he was destined to follow.

Zarian’s mind journeyed back through time, the memories of his rigorous training vivid and unyielding. The years blurred together, a tangle of discipline and commitment and loneliness.

Then a few months ago, everything converged in a pivotal moment.

Zarian listened intently to the Medjai elders as they spoke of the signs that had already come to pass and the one still to come. “The birth of a girl under the moon’s blessed light, the rare celestial alignment on the eve of the equinox, and now the impending eclipse,” Zanjeel, the head elder recounted, his weathered, stern face grave.

“Each sign has unfolded as prophesized,” another elder added. “The Daughter of the Moon is among us. The time has come for us to return to Alzahra.”

His father, King Tahriq, turned his attention to Zanjeel. “And what of the earthly moon?”

“It is hidden, safely ensconced far beyond the reach of those who would seek to misuse its power,” Zanjeel assured. “By the moon, it will remain undisturbed until the end of days.” The head elder continued, “Prince Zarian, you must––”

“Protect the princess,” King Tahriq interjected quickly, earning a sharp glance from Zanjeel. “I will send an envoy to inform King Khahleel of your arrival.” Tahriq placed a hand on Zarian’s shoulder. “Ensure the prophecy is fulfilled, my son. And if her powers threaten the balance…then neutralize her.

“I will not fail, Father,” Zarian vowed, bowing his head, his fingers twitching slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, Zarian saw a shadow flicker near the window, but when he turned his head, it was gone. It was merely an errant play of light, the fire’s dancing flames casting shapes into the chamber’s corners.

King Tahriq placed a firm hand on Zarian’s shoulder. “Remember, as Medjai, we value the balance above all. Protect the princess and earn the trust of her father. Ensure the prophecy comes to pass. Guard the balance from anything and anyone that may threaten to destroy it.”

Zarian glanced at the head elder, who stood tense with his lips set grimly, before turning back to his father and accepting his mission.

Now, under the vast sky, he reflected on his journey. From the intense training of his youth to this moment of destiny, his path had been clear.

But now, as he watched the stars, Zarian felt conflicted about what path he wanted to walk.

Sighing, he shook off these thoughts and reminded himself of his duty. He needed to focus on the path laid out for him by fate.

What he wanted was irrelevant.