Page 154 of The Moon's Fury

The Decade-Long Massacre: War Crimes Perpetuated by Sendouk.

Lineages of the Royal Families of the Continent.

But no sign of the Medjai emblem.

The aisle stretched long into the darkness, and her lantern’s flickering glow barely cut through the shadows, leaving the far end hidden from view.

She didn’t see the man until she was nearly upon him.

Swathed in dark robes, he was curled up on the floor. Asleep. She hovered the lantern over him—his face was youthful, shoulder-length blond hair splayed out on the ground, an open book resting beside him. His robes marked him as a Scholar, and his current predicament marked him as a lover of knowledge.

Should she leave him here and move to the next aisle?

The light of the lantern must have been too bright, though, because the man’s eyes slowly opened. He blinked blearily, gasping as his eyes focused on her.

“Who—”

Mindful of the books, she quickly set down the lantern and lunged, straddling his waist, hand over his mouth. He may have been a Scholar, but he was strong enough to roll her over, arms scrabbling for purchase. They tumbled, twisting and writhing until she managed to get behind him, locking her knees around his hips. She wrapped one arm around his throat and used the other to lock it in place and held on for dear life as the man thrashed like the river gators Soraya had once told her about.

Her head knocked into the stone ground, and vaguely, she was aware of sounds of another scuffle, farther away, the shocked, muffled gasps of a surprised man fighting for his life.

Layna struggled to breathe beneath his weight, the muscles in her arms aching from tension.

The man’s struggles weakened as he slowly lost consciousness.

She waited ten more seconds before rolling his prone body to the side. Gasping for breath, she filled her empty lungs.

Silence surrounded her.

Then, four sharp raps rang out—All okay?

She responded with three knocks of her own—Yes.

And with that, she turned the corner and resumed her search.

She had traversed three more aisles before spotting the Medjai emblem, and when she did, her happiness rivaled that of a Bedouin finding water in the desolate desert. She hastily stuffed the scrolls into her satchel, curiosity getting the better of her as she paused to unroll and scan a few.

“…Qamla and Shamsa remained at odds…”

“…orb of Al’Qamzain … staff of Az’Zaabta…”

“…heart’s betrayal darkens night, the Sun shall reveal its burning light…”

There was more information here than she’d dreamed of—therehadto be something about reclaiming her powers.

She reached a section where half the shelf stood bare, the aged wood suspiciously clean—stripped not just of scrolls, but even of dust. A crease formed between her brows, and she wondered who had been here recently. She made it to the end of the aisle, her satchel brimming with every Medjai text she had found.

A cold, sharp voice, faint in the distance, made her blood run cold.

“Hello,Prince.”

That was all she heard before the sharp clang of weapons began a deadly symphony. She tried to discern the sounds to gauge how many men there were.Assess the situation first, don’t just run in blindly, Zarian had told her. As much as she wanted to dart in and help him, realistically, she knew she was not yetready to face a Medjai. If she ran into the fray now, she’d be a liability, likely killed before even reaching him.

A sickening squelch, followed by the whispered groan of a man taking his last breath.

Slowly, she peeked around the bookshelf. Zarian was a blur, fighting five men at once. Two already lay dead, blood staining the floor in a dark pool. She watched, heart in her throat, as Zarian slayed another man, large sword slicing through the man’s abdomen and emerging from his back.

One of the attackers managed to cut into Zarian’s arm while he yanked his sword free. Blood bloomed from his bicep, but the wound didn’t faze him as he ducked and rammed a dagger into the other man’s chest.