Page 24 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

W here the stones and twigs had been, there now was ash and singed grass.

“No,” she whispered in disbelief. “No, no, no.”

She looked back at Zarian.

He was deathly still. His head had fallen forward against his chest.

She ran, kneeling beside him, shaking his prone body.

“Zarian! Zarian, wake up.”

He started with a wet, gurgled gasp, dim hazel eyes meeting hers.

“I couldn’t start a fire, Zarian,” she sobbed. “Please, tell me what to do.” He took another shuddering, gasping breath, and Najoom neighed softly in distress.

“Heal … me,” he forced out. “With your … light.”

“What? No, no, I can’t,” she stammered. “My light doesn’t heal. It only destroys. Look,” she said, gesturing to the black soot nearby. “Look what it did. I’ll burn you alive.”

“You can . Try. I know … you can.” He spoke so softly that she struggled to hear him. “Pull out … arrows first. You won’t … have much time … after that.” He pulled in another shaky breath. He grabbed her hand. “But … if it doesn’t … work … take Najoom—”

“No, Zarian, no,” she sobbed, her tears falling anew.

“Ride west until … Sendouk.” A shuddering, labored breath. “Find Jamil. Jewelry district. A shop … Sahar’s Taj.”

Another ragged inhale.

“Go to Baysaht—”

“No!” Layna was wailing now. “No, no, no! Don’t say it!”

She couldn’t bear to hear anymore, the sound of his weakened, dying voice thinking of her, even now. Grabbing hold of the broken shaft in his side, she gently tugged, praying to the sun, the moon, anything that would hear her cries, that it would come out cleanly.

She pulled harder, and it slid out half an inch. Another tug. It didn’t budge. She tried again, and still, it didn’t move. The tip must be barbed. Zarian watched her with dim, hooded eyes.

“Do it.”

She yanked, and the arrow tore free from his flesh, a torrent of blood gushing forth. Layna had braced herself for his cry of pain, but only a quiet gasp escaped him.

Somehow, that gutted her more.

She made quick work of the arrow in his shoulder.

The blood flowed freely from his gaping wounds, and she struggled to swallow the bile climbing up her throat. She closed her eyes and focused on the humming beneath her skin.

It was pulsing.

Writhing.

It was angry .

She called to it, willed it to obey. It fought against her, buzzing louder in her ears, but she pushed down. The humming dimmed, and she could feel the power riding through her bloodstream, matching the rhythm of her heart.

She pictured her veins and arteries, a tangled web of power inside her, and willed the light to flow into her hands. She opened her eyes.

Her palms were glowing.

Ever so slowly, she pressed her hands over his bloodied wounds. His skin didn’t sizzle and burn away—a minor relief.

But she had no idea what to do. She closed her eyes again and focused on his smile, his kiss, his embrace. She willed him to be whole and healed. Layna let her heart overflow with her love for him, until fresh tears dripped down her cheeks and fell to the ground.

Pulling back her palms slightly, she gasped—the gaping wounds were no longer edged in green.

It’s working.

She channeled more force into her hands, keeping her mind fixed on her love. Before her eyes, the open wounds began to knit together, his skin slowly mending itself. In awe, she watched the jagged lacerations from the barbed tips heal.

Najoom snorted loudly, and her concentration broke. The glow died from her hands. She spun her head wildly, afraid someone had found them. But they were alone.

When she turned back, the wounds were slowly reopening. Layna called to the rebellious light again, and it answered without hesitation this time.

She pressed her palms over his wounds and healed him.

She healed him.

When the cuts had closed and a healthy pallor returned to his face, she sat back on her heels.

“Zarian?” she whispered tentatively. Sniffling, she rubbed her nose. Her hand came away slick with fresh blood. Wiping it on her pants, she cupped his face. “Zarian?”

His eyes remained closed, but his chest rose and fell steadily, and his breaths were no longer labored. She splayed her hand over his chest and felt the powerful beat of his strong heart.

Her wide eyes met Najoom’s.

“I did it,” she whispered.

He snorted and lay his head beside Zarian’s legs, seemingly exhausted by the ordeal. A strong wave of fatigue tugged at her limbs, forcing her eyes to droop.

But she couldn’t sleep. Not now. Not when they were so unprotected, so exposed. She’d made enough noise that anyone could be on their way to investigate.

She unstrapped her bow from Najoom’s side and settled beside Zarian, quiver at her hip. Eyes sweeping the darkness in every direction, she vowed to stay awake through the night, in case the bandits found them.

Time blurred, measured only by when her soul needed reassurance that Zarian still lived, which she estimated to be roughly every quarter hour. She’d feel his heartbeat, soothed by its strong, steady rhythm.

Eventually, her eyelids grew too heavy. She set down her bow, rested her head in Zarian’s lap, and fell asleep.