Page 30 of The Moon's Fury

He hated what he was.

Hated that he was so good at it.

The rest of the journey passed in silence. No one dared try again.

They reached the meeting point in Janta, where six Valtisaani men awaited, marked by their shining silver armor. Kharteen approached them, accepting a heavy pouch from one of the men. He tested its weight in his hand, a shadow passing over his face.

“Where is the rest?” he snarled.

“Easy there,” the Valtisaani man drawled, waving a dismissive hand. His heavy armor caught the moonlight, casting sharp glints across the sand. “We’ve set aside an advance for the new project—something our chemists are developing for the Medjai. You’re welcome to confirm with your superiors. All is in order.”

Kharteen bared his teeth, staring down the insolent man.

Zarian gripped his sword, his other hand tightening around a throwing star.

The Valtisaani man looked utterly unfazed, brimming with confidence born from unchecked power.

With a low growl, Kharteen waved a hand at the wagons and stalked back to his horse, mounting up beside him while the Valtisaani men inspected the wagons and their cargo.

Zarian didn’t look at him.

“Thank you,” Kharteen said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

“Never again.”

The man’s terrified whimper reverberated through his skull, refusing to fade.

“What was he talking about?” Zarian asked, shame still coating his throat like bitter poison. “Valtisaan is working on something for the Medjai?”

“That was the first I heard of it. But it can’t be anything good.” Kharteen’s gaze was fixed on the Valtisaani men, who were now giving instructions to the riders hitched to the wagons. He turned back to Zarian. “Where will you go?”

“Home.”

They both knew he didn’t mean the Oasis.

Kharteen’s eyes flicked in understanding. “Be safe, brother.” Without another word, he turned his white mount and disappeared into the night.

Zarian watched as the Valtisaani men circled the caravan, their laughter echoing across the dunes—boisterous, careless, as if this were some twisted game. Rage simmered low in his gut, molten and seething.

Rage at Valtisaan, for committing such horrors without shame.

Rage at the Medjai, for crossing every line in their relentless hunger for power.

And most of all, rage at himself—for serving them blindly for years, a mindless, loyal blade.

He waited—ten minutes, then twenty—a stoic statue beneath the gaze of the moon.

Then, he urged Najoom into a thundering gallop.

He had a caravan to catch.

He tore through the sands like a blade honed on vengeance—cold, precise, and unrelenting. The wind rushed past his face, cool and sharp, whispering its approval in his ears. Ahead, the rear of the caravan emerged, flanked by three Valtisaani men.

They didn’t hear him coming—the thunder of hooves and the groaning wagons masked the storm bearing down on them.

Zarian drew a dagger from his baldric and hurled it with deadly aim.

One. Then another. A third.