Page 141 of The Moon's Fury

He considered his words. Did he want another presence between him and Soraya, now when they were free to explore whatever had taken root between them?

Of course not.

But he’d be a fool to turn down another sword and the formidable warrior who wielded it.

Zarian might actually kill him.

“All right,” he agreed.

They fell into companionable, familiar silence, until his insufferable friend felt the need to break it.

“So…” Kharteen glanced pointedly at Soraya’s slumbering form, then back at him, brows raised in question.

What could he say? That something unspoken tethered them, fragile and precious, but noble Soraya had wanted to bury the ashes of her first love before something new bloomed between them?

And now, any beginning would likely be held captive by the sorrow of her mother’s death.

So he said nothing, staring into the fire, his lips pressed into a straight, hard line.

Kharteen understood his silence well enough, because he said, “I envy you and Zarian.” Amused eyes scanned the tense set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. “And, somehow, I also don’t.”

55

Laynawalkeddowntheinn’s carved steps alone. Their time in Tarakshan was coming to an end, and Zarian had left earlier to scout out the path ahead.

Reaching the final step, she peered around the wall—the front desk was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, she headed toward the stables. Najoom’s large form came into view, his black coat returned to its lustrous, shiny state. Straw rustled underfoot as she padded over to him, offering an apple. He snorted, gobbling it up and nuzzling her palm.

The inn door opened behind her. “Mornin’, Miss Ahna!” called Lash. Shafts of sunlight illuminated the stable through slats cut into the roof, lighting up Lash’s blond locks like a halo. He carried a small basket with him. “Have time to peel potatoes with me?”

Layna glanced at the basket—she had never peeled a single thing in her life.How hard could it be?“Sure,” she said, her smile tentative. Lash led her inside, through the carved, winding halls of the mountain inn.

He must have noticed her glancing around because he said, “Fear not, Lasha’s at the market.”

A small archway led into a modest kitchen. With twinthunks, they sat at a small, round table in the corner and set to work. Lash easily peeled five to Layna’s one, but slowly it came easier.

“Don’t tell me Zem does all the cooking,” Lash teased, glancing at her fumbling with the small knife. “He must really love ya.”

A bright laugh escaped her lips. “He’s going to throttle you one day.”

Lash clicked his tongue, waving a dismissive hand. “Naw. I’ve gotten thrashed plenty for my big mouth. If he was gonna deck me, he’d have done it already.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, marked only by the dull thudding of Lash’s knife against the cutting board as he began dicing the potatoes.

She watched him quietly, the earnest youth who concealed sorrows behind jokes.

“What do you wish for yourself, Lash?” she asked.

His hands froze. He didn’t meet her gaze.

“To be a warrior.” His voice was tentative, wistful, as if he feared speaking the words aloud.

Tarakshan was known for its tough warriors, built like the mountains themselves. Most were hired by towns to maintain order—men of the city watch. Some joined Tarakshan’s army. Even fewer still were selected as palace guards.

Lash resumed cutting. “But we all have our paths.” His smile brimmed with sadness. “Lasha keeps insisting I join a camp, but they cost loads. And the training lasts two years. I wouldn’t make any money ‘til after that.”

“Where is the training camp?”

“There’re several, but there’s a decent one half a day’s journey from here. Meals, lodging, everything. And they basically beat ya ‘til yer black and blue every day.” He gave her a rueful smile.“Ya might’ve noticed—we haven’t been getting many travelers lately.”