Page 14 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

I t unfolded exactly as his 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.

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.

Their heavy armor wouldn’t protect them, not when his aim was so precise, each blade sinking in through the narrow gaps between metal.

The men collapsed into the sand with dull, final thuds, their bodies silent. The horses screamed, tearing loose in a frenzy.

The element of surprise was gone. The rest would be harder.

But not impossible.

Not for him.

He spurred Najoom faster, ducking low in the saddle, twin daggers in hand, throwing stars worn like silver rings. His arms moved in a blur, steel singing through the air before finding soft targets—throats, eyes, mouths.

Panic erupted.

Horses reared and bolted.

Men shouted, scrambled, fell.

The caravan’s lead guards finally realized what was happening and yanked their mounts to a stop.

A fatal mistake.

It would make killing them that much easier.

When it was over, the wagons stood still and silent, their canvas flaps fluttering in the breeze.

One by one, the captives emerged—pale, hollow-eyed, their expressions torn between disbelief and fear.

Panting, Zarian stepped toward the nearest man and sliced through the ropes binding his wrists.

“I’ve given you a second chance. Don’t make me regret it,” he said, his voice muffled beneath his scarf. “Do not waste it. Mercy does not grace men twice.”

They hesitated—then courage found them. Some vanished into the night alone, others clung together in silence. A few managed to mount the scattered horses; others walked, limping into the darkness without looking back.

When the last of them had disappeared, Zarian surveyed the carnage he’d wrought. The tale would tell itself—the bandits broke free and overpowered their captors. That, paired with the gold Kharteen had received, would be enough to keep suspicion off his friend.

With one last glance at the bodies and blood soaking the sands, he rode off into the night, a rare peace settling over his chest.