Page 13 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)
T he clang of steel against steel resonated through the thick air. Zarian let out his third sigh in as many minutes, shielding his eyes from the unforgiving midday sun. The heat pressed down on him like a punishment, the sandy earth scorching beneath his boots.
Shade was a luxury at the Alzahran-Zephyrian border.
It had been a week since he’d arrived, and he had yet to witness a hint of the “unrest” Hadiyah had mentioned. A ruse, he now realized—an excuse to convince him to leave Layna. His hands flexed into tight fists, the desire to pummel something raging through him.
He could return to Alzahra sooner.
But that would mean facing her—and the memory of their fight still scraped at his conscience. The time apart had cooled his anger.
Layna was in an impossible situation. Alzahra was emerging from the chaos of war, and she was still learning to wear her new, heavier crown. She had a kingdom to manage while dissenting factions sowed unrest.
Not to mention the return of her powers.
Maybe he’d been wrong to push her. Wrong to demand a choice from someone already buried in responsibilities and uncertainty.
He crossed his arms, redirecting his attention to the sweaty, armored men sparring in the center of the practice circle. The soldiers were strong, disciplined, and respectful. He’d trained with them and introduced new maneuvers, but he wasn’t needed here.
Not like Hadiyah had claimed.
“That’s enough,” he called, wiping sweat from his brow. The men immediately halted, swords falling to their sides. “We’ll resume in two hours.”
His boots sank into the sunbaked sand as he made his way through the camp. Tents in faded shades of burgundy and tan fluttered in the hot, dry wind, and the scent of roasted meat, sweat, and oiled leather clung to the air, mingling with smoke from cookfires scattered throughout the encampment.
The men saluted as he walked past, some sharpening swords, others tending to the horses and camels. He nodded at each of them, his cloak swirling behind him until he reached his tent, its worn, beige fabric blending with the desert.
Lifting the flap, he entered.
He froze. Shit .
Kharteen was sprawled out on his cot.
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 him again . 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.