***
{Outside The Projection}
Wow, indeed.
A thought that reached the entire world.
A thought that echoed loud in the hall.
It sat in the air, a knife no one had the guts to pull out.
They tried to stay silent out of respect for Roya, out of understanding of who she was back then.
They said nothing when she claid him to be unworthy.
They said nothing when she claid he knew nothing about struggle.
But now... now, when she claid MALIK knew nothing of loss?
The man who’d buried more people than she’d ever t?
Him?
Loss?
LOSS?!
As so of them would love to say:
"Bitch, are you fucking serious?"
They couldn’t believe it.
When the Goddamned festival just outside their doors celebrated it?
Were they still supposed to be fucking quiet?!
Hell the fuck no!
"Did she hit her head back then or what?!"
"She must be talkin’ about sobody else—’cause our Sultan buried half his soul in Hell!"
"The fuck kind of struggle she think she’s had that tops his!?"
"No, no, she lost it already."
"Take a step in his torn boots before you open that mouth again!"
A few tried to keep it together... keep it diplomatic.
"Lady Roya was young."
"She couldn’t have known!"
"She didn’t even know his na!"
"And she’s all the way in the West, no way she—"
But they couldn’t hold ground.
"Shut up, she was supposed to know!"
"Wasn’t she an information broker already?"
"And wasn’t she bragging about knowing everything?!"
"Well, she fucking failed!"
Oh, they could not hold ground at all.
"Besides, she said what she said."
"Yeah..."
The scarred woman nodded her head.
"And she said it to him. The Sultan. HIM."
They all looked at the center of the hall.
Right past the flickering projection.
Right at the Golden Throne.
The throne that held Malik’s graceful form.
Respected old leaders bowed to it.
Children had cried looking at it.
It was a cold, cold throne.
Now this girl, who was born under its protection, was saying he hadn’t bled?
That he didn’t experience loss?
What a fucking joke!
"Don’t co to saying he doesn’t know struggle."
Layla glared at Roya.
"He is struggle."
"Born with it?!"
Huda snapped from the front row.
"Aren’t you projecting there, you cold dog?!"
Even Safira, who usually kept her tongue from cursing, joined in:
"I raised children who cried less when they were stabbed—don’t sha yourself with words you can’t carry, you annoying wench."
Azeem stayed out of it, sitting on the ground like usual.
He would’ve liked to clown the Hell out of her, but he knew better than to.
This was a fight better left for the won; otherwise, they just might turn on him.
And so, with their words, all eyes turned to Roya.
Roya didn’t reveal any emotion to them.
She was only watching her younger self with that sa blank, empty expression.
But unlike last ti, even inside, she was blank. There was no guilt, weight, or realization.
Her heart stopped racing.
It returned to its usual stone-cold state.
And so, she didn’t try to make an excuse for herself.
There was no excuse for the fact that she had failed in her role as an information broker.
Roya should’ve known him, known all about him, his na, his origin, his achievents, and saved herself from this embarrassnt, but...
She failed.
Sothing she’d never admit.
It’d kill her credibility... more so than now.
As would the truth behind her words.
They didn’t co from logic.
She would’ve been better off staying quiet.
They didn’t co from justice.
She didn’t have even one justice-minded bone in her body.
Much as she hated to acknowledge it... they ca from fear.
Fear that he’d kill her again, kill her before she could even scream.
Kill her and watch with bored eyes as her body burned to ashes.
So, with all that in mind, she did what she did best.
Remained silent. Entirely blank.
A coward’s way out.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Still, silence from Malik.
He just stared at her, unmoving.
Then finally, finally, in that low, flat voice of his, he asked:
"Did I kill soone you love?"
The whole hallway went dead quiet.
Roya froze up. Her mouth opened. Closed.
Then, she spun on her heel and walked away, her footsteps angry and confused.
Malik watched her disappear around the corner.
He blinked slowly.
As did his dallion.
It flew up, away from his grip.
Pausing a foot or so before him, it began to float.
The sharp tip of its base trembled and pointed eastward.
Malik looked at it for a mont and then muttered:
"To my chamber?"
The object shook up and down as if nodding.
Raising his brow, Malik did the sa and began following its directions.
His new ho wasn’t far.
It was tucked under a wooden arch on the side, away from the main halls.
His dallion returned to his belt, and the door creaked open, revealing a chamber as big as the entire hall of what had once been his ho, except this one had no creaky floorboards that risked sending its residents down to Al-Fawra with every step.
Arched windows filtered warm light over thick carpets woven with star constellations.
The air slled faintly of ink, parchnt, and oud wood. Stacks of books and scrolls lined the dark shelves, most of them dusty but untouched, likely older than most of Fam Iblis’s people.
At the far end, below a hanging lamp, sat a low desk of carved obsidian, shaped like the Shams and Twelve Moons eting in eclipse.
Malik walked slowly, taking everything in.
Once at the desk, he ran a hand over its edge.
The surface was smooth, but beneath his fingers, he felt carvings, runes most likely.
There was no doubt that this place was more than well protected, and perhaps it was capable of a few incredible things, but that wasn’t sothing he cared for.
He sat on the sowhat comfortable, cushioned chair.
His black robes settled around him, folds trailing off his shoulders.
The chair creaked faintly as he leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.
He rested his chin on them, eyes staring at the door.
Malik stayed like that for a little while, and only after a breath did he finally move.
Or rather, his mouth did:
"They will fall."
And they spoke of a promise.
A vow that’d be upheld.
Revenge.
Malik closed his eyes.
Just for a mont, he could still hear the screams of those battlefields, of that wedding hall. Sll the ash, the blood... the rot. See the way the ground lit up red beneath his feet.
...Oh, they would fall.
Even if he had to beco the Devil himself to make it happen.
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