Page 43 of The Moon’s Fury (Moon & Sands #2)

H adiyah—her body—fell to the ground with a sickening thud, blood spewing from the violent gash at her throat.

A horrified, anguished scream rang out. It turned his blood to ice, the marrow in his bones to lead.

Another raw, pain-filled cry shattered the air—the only warning before a shockwave of light tore through the room.

The force struck like a hammer, slamming into him and the men restraining him, sending them all crashing to the ground.

Shielding his eyes against the brightness, he saw Layna—no, fuck , the Daughter—haloed by light.

The face he loved was unrecognizable, contorted with raw fury.

Her eyes blazed, crackling with white-hot light.

She lifted her hands, threw her head back, and unleashed another piercing wail, one that shook the moon and sun in the sky.

The windows shattered.

Colorful glass shards rained down in a mockery of a hailstorm. He shielded his face, arms bearing the brunt of the sharp glass. The Medjai around him regained their bearings and stared at the Daughter, faces twisted with fear.

Good .

The nearest man drew a dagger, blade flashing as he aimed for her.

Snarling, Zarian lunged, slamming into him with bone-crushing force.

They hit the ground hard, but Zarian was faster—gripping the man’s wrist and driving the blade into his neck.

The man gaped, his breath hitching as blood spilled, dark and slow.

His lips parted, voice rasping, “ Traitor …” before the last of his life slipped away.

Another anguished scream tore through his heart, just as a fresh wave of searing light lashed through the room. The dead man’s skin blistered beneath its heat, blackening where it touched. Zarian braced himself, sweat beading at his temples—but the fire-hot energy left him untouched.

There were still eight Medjai left, not counting Kharteen, who had blessedly remained loyal to him.

And all eight of them had their sights set on the Daughter.

She had summoned a radiant barrier, a shimmering shield that pulsed with raw energy.

The Medjai hurled daggers and throwing stars, their weapons slicing through the air one after another—only to melt the moment they met her glowing veil.

The heat of her light was relentless, so fierce that the molten remains of metal pooled at her feet, hissing as they cooled.

He locked eyes with Kharteen, a silent understanding passing between them—an unspoken language forged in blood and darkness.

Without hesitation, Zarian lunged at the nearest man, Kharteen moving in tandem. Zarian recognized his victim—they had shared missions once, in what felt like another lifetime. Zarian couldn’t care to remember his name, not when he wasn’t long for this world.

“You’re insane!” the Medjai shouted as Zarian pinned him to the ground. “She’ll kill us all! She’ll destroy the balance!” he choked as Zarian pressed his knee down on his windpipe, thrusting his dagger into his neck.

“ Fuck the balance.”

His gaze snapped to the Daughter. Two more men lay in heaps of charred bone and ash.

One of the remaining Medjai lunged, seizing her by the throat.

A harrowing scream tore from his lips as her light scorched his hands, flesh peeling away in smoking tendrils.

Still, he held on, teeth clenched in agony—but it was useless.

Her fire consumed him, and he never stood a chance.

He was just a man.

She was a goddess.

She gripped the man’s neck with one hand and levitated into the air, lifting him effortlessly with her.

His legs kicked, gasps turning to strangled wheezes as his feet left the ground.

The Daughter’s face was a terrifying mask of fury, her fingers digging deeper into the charred remains of his throat.

Blood trickled from her nostrils, twin streams against her pale skin.

Then, with a flick of her wrist, she flung his lifeless body to the ground.

She unleashed another furious cry, raw and unrelenting. At first, the glow beneath her skin was a mere flicker, but it swelled, spreading like fire through her veins. Within moments, every inch of her radiated blinding light, pulsing, searing—ready to explode.

A chilling realization dawned on him.

Shit .

He glanced at the remaining Medjai, flinging daggers at her up in the air. One of the men lost his nerve and bolted for the door.

He never made it.

The Daughter reduced him to a burnt corpse within seconds.

She glowed brighter. Zarian tracked Kharteen—his friend’s arm was badly burned—then, his eyes found Dharaid, crouched behind the table. He’d knocked it on its side and was using it for cover. The poor father had dragged Hadiyah’s body beside him.

Zarian glanced back at the Daughter, floating in the air, a fearsome spectacle of power.

She didn’t need his protection.

But Layna’s grandfather did.

“Kharteen!” he called over the chaos. “Take cover!”

Zarian darted behind the overturned table, covering Dharaid with his body seconds before a massive explosion tore through the room.

The walls shook, dust falling from the ceiling in a gray, grainy mist. Zarian’s bones rattled furiously like a child’s toy, the metallic tang of blood blooming in his mouth.

The light disappeared as quickly as it had exploded.

There was a loud thud.

He shot to his feet. Without the Daughter’s glowing light, the room felt dark and oppressive. Charred piles of bones littered the floor, embodiments of violence ended in violence.

The front of the table was charred and crumbling, burned from the heat of her light.

In the center of the room, Layna’s body lay sprawled on the floor. In a heartbeat, Zarian vaulted over the table and knelt beside her. His heart kicked against his chest, furious and afraid, as he rolled her onto her back, pulling her head into his lap.

Dark, wet blood coated her face and seeped into her hair, glistening red streams flowing from her nostrils, eyes, even her ears. With shaking fingers, he searched for a pulse, terrified of finding stillness.

He sagged with relief when the thrum of lifeblood pulsed beneath his fingers.

She was alive.

His Layna was alive.

Footsteps approached him, and he snarled, unsheathing a dagger, ready to end whoever wished her harm.

“Easy, easy,” Kharteen murmured, holding up one hand in surrender. With his uninjured arm, he supported Layna’s grandfather.

With wary eyes, Zarian watched as Dharaid broke away from Kharteen and stumbled toward them. He knelt, wide eyes fixed on Layna.

“It’s true,” he whispered. “The rumors are true.”

He bristled, tightening his grip around Layna. Dharaid passed a gentle hand over her hair before brushing a kiss against her forehead. He took a deep, shaky breath. “Will she wake?” he whispered, his voice hollowed by loss.

“Yes,” Zarian replied without hesitation.

“But—” Dharaid’s eyes tracked the drying blood marring her face, the paleness of her skin.

“She’ll wake,” Zarian said sharply. He huffed a breath, then added more gently, “She will. She’s gone through this before.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. Turning to Kharteen, he asked, “Are there more?”

Kharteen nodded. “We have less than an hour before they arrive.” The Medjai often operated this way—splitting larger missions into two phases.

The first group initiated the plan, while a second followed later, either to eliminate the target if the first attempt failed, or to clean up whatever remained.

It was enough time to bury Hadiyah.

In Shahbaad, they buried their dead in the ground. From the soil, we emerge, and into the soil, we return.

Zarian dug a grave in a quiet, shaded grove within the palace’s surrounding forest. Dharaid sat beside his daughter’s body, cradling her cold hand, his tears never ceasing.

Zarian fulfilled Layna’s role—gently weaving Hadiyah’s hair into twin braids, looping them over her head.

He looked to Layna’s still form. His heart twisted painfully in his chest. It was a cruel enough fate to be unconscious through one parent’s funeral, let alone both.

Dharaid tossed the first shovelful of dirt over Hadiyah, and Zarian finished the rest while Kharteen tended to his burns. The forlorn father sat beside the fresh mound, whispering soft words as if Hadiyah might yet hear him.

Zarian and Kharteen gave him a few moments alone.

He was saddling Najoom when Kharteen came to stand beside him.

“Her light didn’t burn you,” he said quietly.

Zarian said nothing, his mind too drained to untangle that mystery. Kharteen’s eyes narrowed, and he casually crossed his arms. “That caravan bound for Valtisaan—it never made it. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Again, Zarian remained silent.

Kharteen released a long, exasperated sigh. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

Zarian’s gaze drifted to Layna’s slumbering form resting nearby. “Thank you,” he said at last.

He measured his next words carefully.

“My father … does he live?”

Kharteen’s eyes shone with pity, and it grated at his already frayed nerves.

“I don’t know. The elders threw him into the dungeons before giving the order to kill the Moon Que—sorry, I mean Layna,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know his fate after that. But, brother,” he cautioned, “to go to the Oasis now is to seek your death.”

Zarian clenched his jaw.

“Take her and go,” Kharteen urged. “I’ll bring the king to safety.”

“Where will you go after that?”

“North,” his friend said. “To find my brothers. My time has finally come. I’m free.”

He met Kharteen’s gaze with stony resolve.

“I would ask one more favor from you first, brother.”

“Name it.”