Page 163 of The Moon's Fury
He’d had a long time to come to terms with his mistakes. He would die in this cell, and it was a fitting end for the failure of a father he’d been.
He’d failed both his sons, but even now, his wretched heart only cared for one.
As it always had.
Tahriq pictured Zarian’s youthful face, before he had let himself harden into marble.
His son’s innocent, hazel eyes, before they had seen unimaginable horrors.
Zarian’s small, fragile hands, before they had picked up a blade and ended a life.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer for his son—the same, desperate prayer he’d recited daily, hundreds of times, since he’d been imprisoned within his own dungeon.
Please. Please let Zarian find happiness. Let Zarian choose himself, choose safety, choose hisloveover me.Should his heart ever soften toward his father, should he ever think of coming to rescue me, oh moons, remind him of how I’ve hurt him. Hurt his brother. Remind him of all the ways I’ve failed him. Harden his heart against me until I am not even a whisper of a shadow of a thought in his mind.
Let him forget me.
Let Zarian’s footsteps guide him to happiness and peace and contentment. He deserves it, more than anyone in this world. Ease the burdens weighing his heart, and let him be happy.
Oh moons, let my son be happy.
65
Weekspassedbeforetheyreached the heart of Baysaht.
Her wrist had ached with Najoom’s every pounding step, though Zarian had ways of distracting her from the pain.
They had veered clear of the capital city, attempting to avoid the Medjai and, though Zarian wouldn’t admit it, Nizam. Apparently, the king often rode through the city streets of late.
They reached the northern coast, spending most evenings sleeping beneath the stars, and some coveted nights at the odd inn along their path.
Tonight was one such night. They stopped at the North Sea Inn—Zarian knew the owner well.
In the stables, Zarian unsaddled and cared for Najoom himself, ignoring the middle-aged stablemaster’s insistence that he needn’t concern himself. When he was finished, Zarian handed a heavy pouch to the stablemaster, conversing with him quietly, sadness shadowing his eyes.
Layna watched, grief weighing down her heart. She, too, felt the loss keenly, though it had not yet come.
They needed to cross a sea, and Najoom could not come with them.
Layna had never seen so much water. Cerulean waves unfurled endlessly, meeting the horizon in a shimmer of blue. While Zarian bartered with the dockmaster, trying to secure them a vessel, she wandered along the shoreline, the wet sand cool and unfamiliar beneath her bare feet.
Her gaze remained fixed on the restless waves, where gentle whitecaps churned and frothy seafoam danced across the surface. A gnawing unease settled in her chest. What lurked beneath those depths, unseen and waiting? The North Sea lay calm now, but was it merely a mirage? A fleeting illusion before the waters rose, surging skyward to drag them under?
She started at the sound of Zarian’s footsteps behind her.
“Ready?”
She wasn’t—but she nodded anyway.
Side by side, they reached the rickety dock. They walked past boats of all sizes until he stopped beside a weathered rowboat.
She stared at it.
He couldn’t be serious.
“Thisis going to take us to Ashra? It looks ready to sink.”
Zarian chuckled. “Anything bigger will need two people to row.”
