Page 90 of The Moon's Fury

“You’re insane!” the Medjai shouted as Zarian pinned him to the ground. “She’ll kill us all! She’ll destroy the balance!” he choked as Zarian pressed his knee down on his windpipe, thrusting his dagger into his neck.

“Fuckthe balance.”

His gaze snapped to the Daughter. Two more men lay in heaps of charred bone and ash. One of the remaining Medjai lunged, seizing her by the throat. A harrowing scream tore from his lips as her light scorched his hands, flesh peeling away in smoking tendrils. Still, he held on, teeth clenched in agony—but it was useless. Her fire consumed him, and he never stood a chance.

He was just a man.

She was a goddess.

She gripped the man’s neck with one hand and levitated into the air, lifting him effortlessly with her. His legs kicked, gasps turning to strangled wheezes as his feet left the ground. The Daughter’s face was a terrifying mask of fury, her fingers digging deeper into the charred remains of his throat. Blood trickled from her nostrils, twin streams against her pale skin. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flung his lifeless body to the ground.

She unleashed another furious cry, raw and unrelenting. At first, the glow beneath her skin was a mere flicker, but it swelled, spreading like fire through her veins. Within moments, every inch of her radiated blinding light, pulsing, searing—ready to explode.

A chilling realization dawned on him.

Shit.

He glanced at the remaining Medjai, flinging daggers at her up in the air. One of the men lost his nerve and bolted for the door.

He never made it.

The Daughter reduced him to a burnt corpse within seconds.

She glowed brighter. Zarian tracked Kharteen—his friend’s arm was badly burned—then, his eyes found Dharaid, crouchedbehind the table. He’d knocked it on its side and was using it for cover. The poor father had dragged Hadiyah’s body beside him.

Zarian glanced back at the Daughter, floating in the air, a fearsome spectacle of power.

She didn’t need his protection.

But Layna’s grandfather did.

“Kharteen!” he called over the chaos. “Take cover!”

Zarian darted behind the overturned table, covering Dharaid with his body seconds before a massive explosion tore through the room.

The walls shook, dust falling from the ceiling in a gray, grainy mist. Zarian’s bones rattled furiously like a child’s toy, the metallic tang of blood blooming in his mouth.

The light disappeared as quickly as it had exploded.

There was a loud thud.

He shot to his feet. Without the Daughter’s glowing light, the room felt dark and oppressive. Charred piles of bones littered the floor, embodiments of violence ended in violence.

The front of the table was charred and crumbling, burned from the heat of her light.

In the center of the room, Layna’s body lay sprawled on the floor. In a heartbeat, Zarian vaulted over the table and knelt beside her. His heart kicked against his chest, furious and afraid, as he rolled her onto her back, pulling her head into his lap.

Dark, wet blood coated her face and seeped into her hair, glistening red streams flowing from her nostrils, eyes, even her ears. With shaking fingers, he searched for a pulse, terrified of finding stillness.

He sagged with relief when the thrum of lifeblood pulsed beneath his fingers.

She was alive.

His Layna was alive.

Footsteps approached him, and he snarled, unsheathing a dagger, ready to end whoever wished her harm.

“Easy, easy,” Kharteen murmured, holding up one hand in surrender. With his uninjured arm, he supported Layna’s grandfather.