Page 21 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

T he high-backed throne was stiff and unyielding, sending a dull ache shooting through Zanjeel’s spine.

How had Tahriq managed to sit in this flaming thing for hours?

The adviser before him droned on about trivial matters—plans to bolster the Oasis’s economy, minor treaties, and the progress of some agricultural project.

Zanjeel didn’t bother suppressing his yawn.

No wonder the Medjai elders of old fell into the practice of instating a monarch to handle day-to-day ruling matters.

It was a shame Tahriq was no longer fit for the task.

“—the Gundaari will be sending another fifty boys. We are making space in the training barracks now—” Zanjeel waved impatiently, urging him to hasten his report.

“The unrest in Shahbaad is progressing well. Just a few missing palace guards, and now rumors have spread that Dharaid was executing them for sport. Many have resigned.”

“Excellent. What about Valtisaan? Are more laborers needed?” Zanjeel asked. His lips twisted with displeasure at the thought of the rogue kingdom. Tamzin had grown too bold, agreeing to a war with Alzahra against the Medjai’s wishes. He would need to be handled.

“Yes, sire. A new group was scheduled to arrive, but they never made it. We are investigating. And we’ve already dispatched more recruiters across the kingdoms for the next ... phase of the project.”

“And the orb?” Zanjeel asked, his voice quiet. “Have we managed to repair it?”

“No, sire. It was shattered the day of the eclipse. We have the shards, but…”

Zanjeel hummed, stroking his long, white beard. The orb wielded tremendous power over the Daughter of the Moon—and somehow, the bitch had destroyed it.

No matter.

They would find her.

And one way or another, they would erase her chaos from the world.

“And, sire,” the adviser added cautiously, “another three Medjai did not return from their missions.”

Zanjeel leaned forward, a crease marring his brow. “Where were they stationed?”

“Two in Baysaht and one in Tarakshan, sire.”

He scowled. Nearly forty men had vanished now. Where on the moonsdamned continent were they disappearing? Before he could question further, another adviser rushed in, panic etched across his features. Zanjeel had been expecting him.

With another wave of his gnarled hand, he dismissed the room.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Sire, the news is concerning,” the adviser panted. “The party sent to Alzahra has returned empty-handed. There was no sign of the Moon Queen, her mother, sister, or even the prince.”

Concerning, indeed.

“They were warned. Prepare a team to find them. Dhil will lead.” Zanjeel passed a hand over his beard. “They’ll likely seek shelter in Shahbaad, with her maternal grandfather.”

“And what of Alzahra, sire?”

“I suspect the senior adviser will rule in the interim. What was his name?” Zanjeel snapped his fingers. “Ebrahim. We’ll need to wrangle him into submission.”

This may work out better than expected.

Another kingdom pressed beneath his thumb.

Zephyria, weak from war reparations and with its newly minted King Ebric, desperate for any guarantee of protection.

Sendouk, home of the Gundaari, ruled by power-hungry King Jehan.

Shahbaad, a few well-timed shoves away from collapse.

And now, Alzahra.

“What are you waiting for?” Zanjeel snapped. “Send men to find the Moon Queen and another group to Alzahra to manage affairs.”

The adviser hurried out of the hall, leaving Zanjeel alone.

Well, not quite alone.

A dark, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows.

Zanjeel scowled.

“Eavesdropping again, Ruslayn?” he drawled. “Come forward.”

The hulking man approached the dais and climbed the carpeted stairs, kneeling before him. Zanjeel pushed back the hood, and the man’s long, black hair spilled forth. He raised his head, revealing icy, blue eyes. A thick scar cut through his left eyebrow, reaching his ear.

“How fares the king?” Zanjeel asked, leaning back in the throne.

“He is acclimating well to his new accommodations,” Ruslayn rumbled, his voice dark and low. “The rats are keeping him company.”

Ruslayn hesitated, and Zanjeel knew what he was about to ask.

“Sire, let me lead the men to Shahbaad. I’ll kill the Moon Queen and her protector .” He spat the words out as if they were poison.

Zanjeel regarded the younger man, studying the bulging veins in his thick neck, the wildness in his cold, blue eyes.

“No. Your history with the prince clouds your judgment.”

“He is no longer our prince,” Ruslayn seethed, teeth bared in a snarl. “He is a fucking traitor, and it should be me who kills him.” He inhaled deeply, trying to regain his composure. “Father, please—”

A resounding crack rang out as the back of Zanjeel’s hand connected with his face.

“You overstep, boy,” he snarled. “Remember your place. Too much of your mother in you. And look where that got her.”

Ruslayn wiped the blood from his split lip.

“My decision is final,” Zanjeel continued.

“Dhil will lead the team in Shahbaad. You will not interfere. Control your emotions, boy. You think Zarian weak because of his morals? Your thirst for violence—for flesh—makes you far worse. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to shield you from the consequences of your own actions. And I’ve grown weary of it.”

Chastened, or at least pretending to be, Ruslayn averted his gaze. “Yes, sire.”

Zanjeel dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The tall man stood, but instead of leaving, he opened his foolish mouth once more. “Why did you let the Navrastani girl leave? Her knowledge of the Medjai makes her a threat.”

Ruslayn posed the question casually, but Zanjeel was no fool.

He knew his son.

He had seen Ruslayn’s hungry gaze appraising the earnest, pretty girl as she stood before Tahriq and the elders, informing them of the return of the Moon Queen’s powers.

“Has there been a single moment in your pathetic life when you weren’t ruled by lust?” Zanjeel sneered. “Think, boy. She is Ebrahim’s daughter. If she lives, we can use her to control him—and through him, control Alzahra.”