Page 4 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)
“ Y ou’ve come seeking your death,” Zarian snarled at the cloaked figure, leveling his sword at the intruder.
The tall, brawny man laughed, his face concealed beneath his hood. “Arrogant as ever, I see.” He raised both hands in mock surrender, unfazed. “You can put that away,” he added, nodding toward the large sword gleaming in Zarian’s hands.
Zarian ignored him, taking a step closer, blade aimed at his face. “What are you doing here, Kharteen?”
The man dropped his hood, revealing a broad, grinning face framed by long, dark hair knotted at the base of his neck.
“I came to see my brother,” Kharteen said, throwing off his cloak. He flopped onto the bed. “Thought you’d be happier to see me, though. My feelings are hurt.”
When Zarian didn’t move, he exhaled a long, deep sigh. With exaggerated care, he began unarming himself, daggers and throwing stars removed from every possible pocket and tossed onto the floor. “Will you relax? You’re acting like Jamil.”
Zarian eyed him warily. Along with Jamil, Kharteen was one of the Medjai that had found them on the terrace the day of the eclipse. He’d helped fight the Zephyrian attackers scattered throughout the palace.
And he was a close friend.
He’d always trusted Kharteen—they’d saved each other’s lives countless times.
But that was before .
Zarian crossed the room with slow, measured steps, heavy with suspicion. He leaned against the bedpost, sword hanging loose in one hand—a casual threat. His gaze locked onto Kharteen, unblinking, waiting for him to reveal his purpose.
“Jamil says you’ve left the Medjai.”
“I have.”
“Your father hasn’t said a word about it. But you’ve been gone so long … the men have started whispering. Some call you a traitor. And Ruslayn?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “He’s reveling in it.”
Zarian’s hackles rose—just the thought of that vile man made his blood run hot. The hatred between them was no secret. The Medjai were manipulative and corrupt, but Ruslayn sullied their name further.
“And you?” Zarian asked, voice low. “Where do you stand?”
“Where it’s safest.” Kharteen drew a deep breath, dragging a hand down his face, weariness creeping into his features.
“I need your help, Zar. There’s a new group scheduled for transport from Janta to Valtisaan—desert Bedouins, captured bandits.
They’re difficult, unpredictable. I need to manage the handover. ”
Zarian stiffened. Bandits were a blight on the desert, targeting caravans and lone travelers—pillaging was their way of life. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for them to disappear in Valtisaan. But still…
“You’re sending them to their deaths,” Zarian said sharply. “Slow, agonizing deaths. They’ll be experimented on, sliced open, all in the name of advancement.”
“I know that,” Kharteen snapped back. “You think I don’t want a different life? I do—just as much as you. But I’m not a prince. I don’t get to just walk away. I’m biding my time.”
A wave of guilt crashed over him. His father must have made excuses for his absence—Kharteen would not be granted the same leniency. No, he’d be hunted down like prey, murdered by the very men he’d once called brothers.
“Can’t one of the other Medjai help you with the bandits?” he asked at last.
“It would raise questions about my competence,” Kharteen replied. “I was tasked alone—and we’re short on men.”
Zarian let his words settle, heavy as they were.
He’d told his father his heart lay elsewhere. And now, every monarch had seen his face. He’d finally emerged from the shadows and into the light.
But could he ever truly leave his old life behind?
“Think on it. You have a few weeks,” Kharteen said, rising from the bed and refastening his cloak. “I’ll find you.”