Page 28 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

T he cramped shop was dimly lit with only a handful of lanterns, the flickering light casting shadows into the corners.

There was a small display of tiaras and headpieces on one side.

Another case held rings, some plain, simple bands and others inlaid with large, sparkling stones.

He eyed the rings before his gaze caught on a smaller display along the back wall.

Five gleaming daggers were set against a black velvet backdrop, some embedded with precious gems, others carved with delicate filigree.

All of them were exquisite, but his eyes kept returning to the one on the far right.

The hilt was a simple, muted gold—ornate and regal.

The pommel bloomed like a crown, swirled with intricate patterns.

Its blade glinted like moonlight.

The dagger was small—too small for him.

But perfect for Layna.

He sensed movement behind him and spun, grip tight on his sword.

“Good evening, sahib ,” said a short, bearded man, dressed in a white thobe. “Apologies, I was opening new stock in the back. How might I help you?”

Zarian studied him closely. He had been expecting someone else.

“I seek that which the night conceals,” he said, voice low.

The man’s eyes widened. He bowed deeply.

“Of course. Follow me, sahib .” He walked through the gauzy curtains covering a back door leading farther into the shop.

As they walked down the dark, narrow hallway, Zarian asked, “How long have you worked here?”

“Two years. Baran hired me when I had nothing. I am indebted to him.” The man glanced back. “And Baran is indebted to you. What you did for his son—”

“Has anyone else used the phrase?” His jaw clenched at the reminder.

The man shook his head. “Just you, sahib .”

They reached a door, and it creaked loudly as the man opened it. “I’ll be out front if you require anything.” He handed him a lantern and disappeared back down the hall.

Zarian set the lantern on a small table. The tiny room was sparsely furnished: only a small bed, a table and a rickety chair. Precariously stacked crates and trunks teetered against the back wall.

He didn’t waste another minute.

Sorting through the boxes, he soon had a pile of throwing stars, small knives, and daggers.

There was a working crossbow and two full quivers of arrows, along with a set of knuckle dusters.

In one trunk, there were two baldrics, one with a chainmail lining.

Hidden beneath a stack of trousers, Zarian found four worn pouches, heavy with coin.

He pocketed two of them, then sat at the table to pen a note.

With a sigh, Zarian folded the note and sealed it with wax. He winced as he pressed his thumb into the hot, viscous liquid, then carved two straight lines into the cooling wax. His fingers hovered, uncertain, before slowly tracing a third adjacent line.

He didn’t relish the idea of remaining in any place for so many days, least of all in Sendouk. Memories burned him like hot coals on his back, until he would willingly peel off his skin for any sort of relief.

But he had to give Jamil time to catch up.

He walked back to the front.

The man was seated behind the main counter examining a ring with a magnifying glass. He rose when Zarian entered.

“All in order, sahib ?”

Zarian pressed the sealed parchment into his hands.

“You will hear the phrase again soon. Green eyes and a long, white scar on his face. Give this to him.” The man nodded fervently. He disappeared beneath the counter, the click of a winding lock echoing.

Glancing around the shop, his eyes darted between the displays, collections of sparkling rings and necklaces and daggers.

The man rose, note secured.

Zarian pointed to a display. “How much for that?”

After Zarian left, Layna flung herself onto the bed, sinking into the soft mattress with a contented sigh. Her back and thighs ached from constant riding.

But while her body rested, her mind created chaos.

Where were Soraya and Mama now?

Her mind raced with possibilities until her mounting anxiety sent her powers swirling into a sandstorm. The buzzing in her ears intensified as it always did when her emotions ran rampant.

But the mental exercises Zarian had forced on her during their journey had helped immensely. Closing her eyes, she sought out the agitated light, soothing it with deep breaths and contented thoughts. The pulsing eased, and a rush of satisfaction washed over her.

She could do this.

An idea sparked in her mind. Searching the room, she found parchment paper in a drawer. Tearing into pieces, she dropped the shreds into a small pot.

She closed her eyes.

She took a deep breath.

She called to her light.

The three bright, coiling rivers twisted and pulled, vying for her attention. She focused on the bright, thrumming cord, urging it to separate from its sisters and flow into her fingertips.

And it did.

She could feel the crackling power flowing through her veins at her command .

Her fingers tingled, then glowed brighter.

She aimed her hands at the pot and willed the light to shoot out.

Ten thin beams burst forth, but only nine of them met their mark.

One finger was misaimed, and her light nicked the side of the pot, leaving a bright scratch on the worn metal.

But the shreds of paper didn’t catch fire like she’d hoped—they merely singed. She tried again, this time pointing only two fingers from each hand. The light shot forth, the cables thicker this time, and she kept it flowing until the paper slowly began to curl up.

It caught fire.

A shocked gasp escaped her, and she extinguished the light from her fingers. Dousing the flames with a glass of water, she took a step back.

Her eyes welled with tears, and a strange sensation stirred in her chest. Belatedly, Layna realized it was pride .

It was a rare feeling—typically, her mind focused on the next thing to be achieved or areas where she had fallen short.

But in this moment, she reveled in it, the bright, warm joy in her heart.

In the next heartbeat, though, her joyous tears were diluted with grief—how she wished she could tell Soraya.

The door clicked open, and Zarian entered. A large bag was slung over his shoulder, clinking lightly with every step. In his other hand was a small brown bag, saturated with oil. His posture was stiff, though he masked his tension with a smile.

Noticing her tears, he dropped the bag and reached her in three powerful strides, grasping her chin and tilting her face up. He said nothing, but Layna read the question in his eyes.

“I miss Soraya,” she sniffled.

The hard line of his shoulders softened. He tugged her against him, cocooning her in his solid presence.

“Any word at the jewelry shop?”

“No,” he sighed, rubbing soothing circles on her lower back. “But I left a note. If they reach Sendouk in the next three days, Jamil will find us. Otherwise, we’ll meet in Shahbaad. And—”

He inhaled deeply, then glanced at the stove. “Were you … cooking?”

“I started a fire,” she explained, smiling brightly through her tears. “With my light. And I didn’t burn down the inn.”

His answering smile rivaled her own.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured. “No scrolls, no guidance, and look at you.” She warmed at his praise. “Come, let’s sit.” She followed him to the small sofa, but when she tried to sit beside him, he pulled her into his lap, bringing her legs up to rest on the sofa.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked, twining her arms around his neck. “You’ve been off since we got here.” She massaged the tense muscles at the base of his neck. He groaned, eyes falling shut. When he opened them again, they were filled with sorrow.

“I have memories that haunt me,” he admitted quietly. “I began drinking heavily after a mission here. But let’s not talk about it.” She opened her mouth, question poised, but something in his gaze stopped her.

Perhaps, some doors were better left closed.

She pressed a kiss to his cheek, hoping to offer him some semblance of comfort.

“I have something for you,” he said.

Reaching inside his tunic, he brought out a narrow, black box and placed it within her hands.

He looked at her expectantly, and she slowly opened the lid.

She gasped.

Inside was the most exquisite dagger she’d ever seen. The hilt was a brassy, muted gold, with an embossed filigree design. The blade was thin and straight, glinting in the light. With reverent hands, she grasped it, testing its weight.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Zarian curled her fingers around the hilt, then, with both hands joined, guided the blade to his finger. Realizing his intention, she tried to pull back but couldn’t match his strength. He pierced the tip of his index finger. A drop of blood welled, and she glared at him.

“The first blood you take is mine,” he murmured. He dabbed her lips, then kissed the blood from her mouth. His hazel eyes held so much intensity, she wondered if there was significance behind the gesture. Summoning her light, she quickly healed the small puncture.

“Have you had jalebi before?” he asked suddenly. She shook her head as he reached for the grease-blotted bag, pulling out a bright orange, swirled something . The whorls were sticky, coated in a sugary syrup.

A burst of fresh, sugary flavor filled her mouth as she bit into it—warm, crisp, and impossibly sweet. She handed one to Zarian, who devoured it in two large bites. Then she reached for another, licking the syrup slowly from each fingertip.

The heat of his gaze warmed her skin. He pulled her close, melding his mouth to hers.

Zarian’s kiss, searching and intimate, his lips sticky sweet, enveloped her senses. Breaking away, she playfully licked the corner of his mouth, hands tightly gripping his tunic, a teasing smile on her lips. His eyes darkened, and the swirling desire within them sent a shiver through her.

Jalebi forgotten, he cradled her to his chest and carried her to bed.