Page 36 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

T he next morning, the trio rode into the capital city of Shahbaad, a sprawling, jeweled serpent beneath the bright sun.

Emerald-green banners, tattered and dusty, draped over narrow alleyways, their silver embroidery dulled by the soot of countless fires.

The scent of spice and sweat clung to the air, mingling with something sharper—the tang of metal, a whisper of danger.

Jamil scanned the streets for threats. There were fewer guards than he expected—he vaguely remembered the unrest the Medjai had cultivated in Shahbaad.

He kicked himself for never questioning the Medjai’s dedication to “balance.” In theory, it made sense no kingdom or person be allowed skewed power, but he realized now it was the Medjai controlling the narrative, shaping the world to serve their interests.

Whatever those might be.

The Medjai had given him, an orphaned child, a home and a purpose, and he had followed them blindly.

But he saw them clearly now for the monsters they were.

And he had a new purpose.

He glanced at Soraya. Her knuckles were white on Zar’s reins as they trotted through the marketplace, the golden sun baking the worn cobblestone streets. The scent of sizzling lamb and spiced oranges wafted through the air, mingling with the sharp tang of fresh citrus piled high in woven baskets.

But something wasn’t quite right.

People moved through the market with hasty footsteps.

Many skipped haggling altogether, quickly pressing coins into merchants’ hands and leaving without a word.

Eyes flicked to rooftops, toward the few guards stationed at the street’s end.

Even the clang of coins felt subdued. The city was holding its breath.

No one paid them a second glance.

Shahbaad Palace loomed over the city. Its gray stone walls were weathered, streaked with dirt and neglect. The emerald domes appeared dull, and winding vines curled along the outer walls, spilling into the courtyard where weeds pushed through cracked flagstones.

Two guards manned the gate, idle and bored. Hadiyah dismounted and approached them.

“Open the gates. King Dharaid’s daughter has returned.”

The guards shared a bemused look, then burst into laughter. Hadiyah glowered at them, and they quickly fell quiet.

Jamil didn’t blame them—he knew firsthand the heavy weight of her glare.

“I am Hadiyah, widow of King Khahleel of Alzahra, mother of Queen Layna of Alzahra, and daughter of King Dharaid. I was born, raised, and wed in this palace. Open the gate immediately .”

The guards shared another look, uncertain this time. One of them nodded to the other, and he slowly opened the gate.

Soraya looked at him.

That was their cue.

With a snapping of the reins, they took off. Behind them, Hadiyah shouted, “Stop them!”

An arrow whizzed past his head, followed by a pained whinny. In the distance, he heard Hadiyah shout, “Don’t shoot at them, you flaming donkeys! That’s my daughter!”

Soraya wasn’t riding beside him any longer.

One of the guards had aimed true, and an arrow protruded from Zar’s hindquarters, slowing him down. The brown stallion was shaky on his legs, whinnying in distress.

“Moons,” he swore and doubled back with Ahmar. Soraya’s panicked gaze met his. The guards seemed to have found their senses and were calling for help. “We have to leave him. Come on.”

She dismounted and clambered up behind him. Soraya had barely situated herself when he snapped the reins, urging Ahmar into a furious gallop.

She pivoted in the saddle, facing the palace. “I’m sorry, Mama!” she yelled. “I love you! I’ll come back! Don’t worry!”

They left Shahbaad behind.

They rode the entire day and well into the night, putting as much distance between them and Shahbaad as possible, only stopping briefly for Ahmar to rest.

“All right?” he’d asked her during a short stop. She was lost in her thoughts, chewing the inside of her cheek as she often did. Another nervous habit of hers he’d come to know. Her answering nod was unconvincing, and he found himself wishing for the right words to soothe, to comfort.

He came up empty.

Now, he stoked the fire, rotating the rabbit on a makeshift skewer. He chanced a look at Soraya, sitting beside him. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left Shahbaad.

Did she regret her decision?

Would she ask him to take her back to her mother?

Was she nervous —

“I named him after Zarian, and now he’s probably dead,” she blurted out.

He furrowed his brows “I — what?”

“Zar,” she explained, worried brown eyes meeting his. “He was Zarian’s namesake. Do you think it’s an ill omen?”

“I’m sorry about Zar,” he murmured, berating himself for not saying something earlier—he knew she had grown attached to the temperamental horse.

“And don’t worry about Zarian. It would take more than an arrow to take him down.

We covered a lot of ground today. We’ll meet them in Sendouk.

” He offered her a smile, hoping it might ease some of her worries.

She smiled back, soft and tentative.

His heart missed a beat.

The fire crackled loudly. “Er, I think the rabbit’s done.” He removed the meat from the skewer and portioned it between them, giving her the tender cuts and keeping the tougher, sinewy pieces for himself.

Soraya frowned at her meal, eyes darting to his plate. With pursed lips, she slid half her portion onto his plate. Grease-slicked fingers brushed against his as she handed it back. His skin tingled where she touched him.

“I’m not some big, muscled warrior. You need the protein more than me,” she said with a playful smile. He could’ve sworn a faint blush warmed her cheeks.

He swallowed, his heart as full as his plate.

They ate their meal in silence. He struggled to string together a sentence and start a conversation, but he closed his mouth each time. He had never been good with words, not like Zarian.

But he needn’t have worried; Soraya had more than enough for both of them.

“How did you join the Medjai?” she asked, blotting grease from her lips. “And don’t say it’s a long story. We have nothing but time.”

He debated evading her question, but stubborn Soraya would only double down.

“My family was from the Oasis. Maybe a thirty-minute walk to the palace. My father was a middle-class blacksmith. We were happy.” Something dark and cold squeezed his heart, and his gaze found his lap.

“I was eight when it happened. I went to play ghommemah with my friends. I was the best at seeking. When I came home, my parents were dead. Murdered.”

Soraya gasped.

He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to continue. “It all happened quickly after that. Debt collectors came and sold our belongings. I stayed with a friend’s family for a short while, but I always felt like a burden. And his father…”

He swallowed. “Anyway, I left. There were plenty other orphans like me in the streets. We survived together, shared our food. Took odd jobs when we could. Begged when we couldn’t.

” The words were harder to say now, less willing to leave his lips.

He’d buried his past so deep inside himself, it protested at being unearthed.

He didn’t dare meet Soraya’s eyes.

Her pity would break him.

“I don’t remember how long I was on the streets—six months?

A year? One night, after a shit day of begging, I headed back to our alley.

I was still hungry, and my lip was split from where some man had backhanded me.

Then another man approached, and right away, I knew he was different.

His clothes looked expensive, and his turban was pristine.

But more than that, his face was kind. Without a word, he bought me food from a street vendor.

“He asked if I wanted a roof over my head and as much food as I could eat. Of course, I said yes. He said he’d take me to the palace, and I would live there from now on. With other boys. But we needed to go right away, otherwise there wouldn’t be any more space for me.”

Jamil took a shuddering breath. “I’m sure you can guess my answer.” From his periphery, he saw Soraya nod.

“What happened next?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

He looked at her, then. Tears shimmered in her large eyes, a few slipping free to trace silent, wet paths down her cheeks. His fingers itched to brush them away, to pull her into his arms and murmur soothing words in her ear.

To tell her not to waste her tears on him.

“He kept his word. Took me to the palace, where I could eat until my belly was bursting. There’s a barracks of sorts within the palace complex for the Medjai. I was with other boys my age. Some I recognized from the streets, some I had never seen before.”

He paused. “I can’t say I was mistreated.

The boys fought among themselves now and then, but the instructors were not heavy-handed.

As long as I followed the rules and trained hard, I had nothing to fear.

In many ways, it felt like a school. We rose at dawn, meditated, ate breakfast, then attended classes—geography, history, mathematics, languages.

I suppose they didn’t want their weapons to be dull in any sense. ”

He cracked a smile at his joke, but Soraya didn’t.

“After classes, we had training. It was grueling. They had to feed us so much, or else we would’ve fainted daily. Strength training, running, combat. It became more intensive as I grew older.”

“Were you unhappy?” she asked softly.

“No,” he admitted. “I grew to enjoy the training—watching my weak body grow stronger. I relished knowing that, soon, no one could backhand me and escape unscathed. At some point, they began teaching us about the ‘balance,’ and how we were charged with guarding it. Sacred protectors, bound by honor. Our order must always come first. And nothing should follow.”

“How did you become friends with Zarian?” Soraya moved closer, until their knees were a hair’s breadth apart. She rested her chin on one hand, waiting for him to continue.