.
.
.
Blink.
The world rewound.
Sa morning. Sa steed. Sa formation.
Sa damned cadence of hooves against the desert floor.
He sighed, rubbing his temples...
Malik had done this before. Lived it. Died in it.
And now, here he was again, again, again, seated atop his horse with the knowledge of everything that would go wrong.
How many tis had he done this by now?
He didn't know. He did not. No.
Malik knew which screams would be cut short.
He'd morized whose blood would spill in patterns.
He knew where the arrows would fall before they were loosed.
He knew which riders would falter first, which swords would shatter, and which throats would be opened by the glinting edges of unseen enemies.
...Malik was greedy.
It had taken hold of him again.
He wanted the most perfect ending.
One that the world wouldn't allow him to get.
So he tried. Tried. And tried. He failed. He... failed.
Failed.
Failed.
Failed.
Failedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailedfailed.
Malik had nearly seen all potential outcos.
All.
Tens.
Upon hundreds.
Upon thousands.
Upon tens of thousands.
Upon hundreds of thousands.
Upon millions.
His mind was blood-drenched. Woven with agony. Regret. He had lived through every mistake, traced every path, and clawed at the Strands Of Fate, only for them to slip through his fingers like grains of sand.
The unseen hands weaving this cruel design had never allowed him to win.
Malik had lost who he was.
Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid... Stupid.
For all those years. All those uncountable years.
It reached a point where all he could rember was his na.
Malik.
Just that.
Many of those years he wasted.
Oh... he was stupidly arrogant.
Stupid.
He had believed he could win.
That his willpower could carve a path through inevitability.
He had fought against fate, against the script that bound him, refusing to accept the truth.
And so he walked, again and again, into the sa slaughter, the sa heartbreak, the sa end, the sa sacrifice.
Most tis he had walked the path of the blind.
So when he'd finally rember his purpose, his mind would go blank.
It was bad that he rembered.
It was good that he rembered.
He failed.
Failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed-failed... Failed.
Malik shouldn't have been so selfish.
He should've stopped early.
He should've accepted it.
He did not.
He could not.
He had been cursed with hope, cursed with the belief that sowhere, in one of these endless possibilities, there was a way forward.
Yeah, all those blinks?... He had nothing to show for it.
Nothing but pain.
Nothing but loss.
'...Why did I live this long?'
Malik sighed.
'Each life was aningless.'
aningless. aningless.
He exhaled, looking down.
aningless.
And yet...
'I have to do it again.'
The Shams rose once more. The desert stretched before him.
His fingers tightened around the reins.
The hooves struck the sand.
And he rode forward.
Toward a known death.
A place soon drenched in blood.
Escape was useless. The script would play out all the sa.
Ali Baba and Layla refused a lone escape. Too stubborn. The caravan their identity.
Force was useless here. Ali Baba wasn't so guy Malik could take on in a one-on-one.
Even if by surprise, Ali Baba would gravely injure him, making escape impossible.
The guards certainly didn't help either, only making his blinks annoying.
Malik could only make sure that everything else besides the inevitable was agreeable.
...
In the evening, a cluster of Ali Baba's most trusted guards stood in a circle, surrounding a man in the middle, hunched over, covered in bruises.
Next to him, a corpse lay motionless, a staff of blue balanced on its chest.
Malik barely glanced at them before turning his gaze over his shoulder.
He lifted his hand and waved soone forward.
"Everyone, this is the rumored child of Naser. A new friend of mine. Duban."
A young boy, barely past his first decade, stepped into the circle, carrying himself like a prince among warriors, his presence demanding more respect than his small size should have allowed.
"Thank you..."
His blue eyes swept over the n before him.
"Thank you for joining us in this fight."
Ali Baba, ever the voice of hospitality, spread his arms and grinned.
"Welco, young one. If you are truly of Naser's blood, then we are honored."
Duban nodded.
"The honor is mine."
The pleasantries were brief.
Malik wasn't here to waste ti. He had done that long enough.
He crossed his arms and eyed his people, his voice... monotone.
"We're up against more than just rabid bandits. They had a plan. And though we cut the head off the snake, the body will still writhe. They will co. In greater numbers, in greater force. And this ti, they won't be following orders. They will burn everything."
Silence settled over the group, heavy with unspoken questions.
Malik let it linger before driving the truth ho.
"Leading their charge are seven Sahirs. Each one wields a different elent. Sand, Fire, Ice, Wind, Stone, Water, and Lightning."
Ali Baba exhaled slowly.
"These Sahirs won't fall easily. We've all seen what a single one can do."
Malik nodded, mories clawing at the edge of his mind.
Blood on the sand.
A stone swallowed by fire.
A man screaming he was consud from the inside out.
"The bastard I just killed controlled Ice. That leaves six."
Murmurs rippled through the ranks.
"Beyond that... there are at least three thousand foot soldiers. Two hundred archers. And about a few dozen Magi. Not Sahirs, but still dangerous."
"How do you know this?"
One of the guards asked, brow furrowed.
Malik turned his gaze toward the prisoner in the center of the circle.
The man looked up, his mouth a ruin of blood and broken teeth.
His tongue had been cut out.
He could say nothing to contradict Malik's words.
"Because this was their leader."
Malik gestured toward him.
"He was kind enough to tell everything."
Duban's gaze flickered toward the prisoner—briefly, a flash of sothing unreadable—before his expression returned to steel.
He knew Malik was bluffing, but he didn't say a word.
The others, however, nodded in understanding, accepting the deception at face value.
They needed certainty. Malik gave it to them.
"Now, here's the plan."
He stepped forward, planting himself firmly in the center of his people.
"They believe we're cornered. That we'll cower behind walls, waiting for the storm to co. That is their mistake. We are not sheep hiding in a pen."
He tilted his head slightly, a slow, wicked smile creeping onto his face.
"No. They are the sheep, and I am the shepherd."
He drew his blade, letting fire dance along its edge, reflecting in the wide eyes of those before him.
"And I will lead them straight into the slaughter."
As soon as Malik's final words left his lips, a voice bellowed:
"SLAUGHTER!"
Swords scraped from their sheaths, shields bashed together like war drums.
"FOR BLOOD! FOR FIRE!"
"DEATH TO OUR ENEMIES!"
"FOR ONE THOUSAND NIGHTS!"
"LET THEM CO! LET THEM BURN!"
"WE RIP! WE TEAR! WE BURN! WE BREAK!"
Boots pounded against the sand, their bodies thrumming with bloodlust.
Duban unsheathed his scimitar and raised it high.
"WHOSE LAND IS THIS?!"
"OURS!"
"WHO COMMANDS THIS WAR?!"
"THE STRONG!"
"AND WHAT DO WE DO TO THOSE WHO STAND IN OUR WAY?!"
The ground trembled with the force of their answer:
"WE KILL THEM ALL!"
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