Page 29 of The Moon's Fury

This was starting to get old.

“Get off my bed,” he snapped, shrugging his cloak and tossing it over a chair. Irritation prickled at his neck—Kharteen had found himagain. But he wasn’t surprised. His friend was the Medjai’s best tracker.

Kharteen grinned, propping himself on one elbow. “I’ll make this quick, you miserable grouch. I gave you the illusion of a choice back in Adrik. I’m not leaving without you.”

There was no sound, save the rustling of tents in the desert breeze.

The smile vanished from Kharteen’s face, and his nostrils flared as he fought to remain composed. “Please, Zar. I can’t do this alone.”

Zarian didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on unstrapping his weapons, laying them aside one by one. He hadn’t made up his mind. The thought of serving the Medjai, of being their obedient blade for even one more breath, twisted something in his gut. But the idea of letting his friend walk into danger alone twisted it worse.

“What would you need from me?” he asked finally.

“They’re moving the men tomorrow night. I’ll take the front, you ride at the back. The Valtisaanis will meet us in Janta and handle the rest. You’d return in two days. Probably sooner on Najoom.”

Zarian considered his words, jaw clenched tightly.

Kharteen sighed. “I wouldn’t be here if I had another option. I despise this just as much as you.”

The desperation in his friend’s voice tipped the scale.

“All right. I’ll help.”

The moon hung high and bright as they tore across the sands, Zarian’s black stallion galloping next to Kharteen’s white mount—twin specters of death thundering through the night.

They reached the landmark: two jagged stones jutting from the sand like sharp fangs. Beside them sat six large wagons,canvas-laden and hitched to restless horses, each with a lone rider. The air was thick with tension—hoofbeats drummed against the earth, sand swirled, and even the heavy silence felt like a scream.

A chill scraped through Zarian’s gut.

He didn’t need to see what lay inside the wagons. The stench of fear was enough—the breathless dread of futures already buried.

Zarian tugged his scarf higher, concealing his face as they stopped near the wagons. A cloaked man waited, turban carelessly wrapped, posture taut with tension.

Kharteen dismounted and exchanged a few clipped words. The man nodded fervently, as if eager to rid his hands of whatever—whoever—he’d just delivered. The turbaned man vanished into the night, and Kharteen swung back onto his horse without a second glance.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice grim.

Zarian gave a single nod, though dread curdled his stomach.

A whip cracked through the air, followed by a frantic whinny.

They were off.

14

Itunfoldedexactlyashis friend had said—Kharteen took the lead, riding at the front of the caravan of unfortunate souls, while Zarian trailed behind, eyes scanning for any escapees. Every so often, the flap at the back of a wagon would lift, revealing a desperate face—eyes wide with fear, teeth clenched around a strip of ragged, silencing cloth.

At the sight of Zarian’s unsheathed sword, they’d disappear back inside the dark.

Two hours in, one of the men made a break for it—leaping from the fourth wagon and tumbling hard into the sand. He scrambled to his feet, bound hands stretched out in front of him as he ran.

Zarian cursed under his breath, yanking Najoom’s reins and giving chase. Kharteen halted the caravan, dust rising around the wagons as they came to a stop.

It didn’t take much—Zarian was off his horse in seconds, closing the distance with ease. He seized the man by the arm and dragged him back to the wagon.

“Next time, I’ll kill you,” he hissed, shoving him back inside. The captive whimpered, collapsing in the shadows.

Guilt surged like bile in Zarian’s throat—raw, bitter, consuming.