***
{Outside The Projection}
The entire hall felt a weight that no one wanted to breathe through.
There was a heaviness in their chests, making them feel smaller than they’d like to admit.
It wasn’t the fire that got them, the graves lting—no, it was the mory. The pain Malik held on to. The way he knelt down, touched the tombstone, and whispered to a man most of them had already forgotten about—treating that mont with more gentleness and respect than the very crown that ruled the world.
Maybe it did demand that respect; they wouldn’t know.
But yeah, their grief was loud in other ways.
So very loud.
Most knew what it ant to bury soone who gave everything, to walk away without saying enough, afraid of moving on... it could never be enough, never.
Yet Malik had done so, after standing beneath a glorious banner, one with honor stitched into every thread. Sothing beyond just so rebel’s rag, but history.
Legacy.
And he left them gold.
An irresponsible amount for complete strangers.
He didn’t ask for anything; this was Khamal’s honor and his alone.
It made so in the hall ashad, which really wasn’t sothing new at this point.
Because, well, most of them, if they had that power? If they wore that heavy crown?
They’d never look back, but Malik did... he always did, at least when it mattered.
And then... those slavers’ graves.
That part—yeah, that made everyone straighten up.
They could feel just how cold his rage was, even outside the pain zone.
It was incredible how sothing so deep down and obscured could be felt so obviously.
His actions were twisted justice... balancing an imbalanced world.
Resetting the mithqal to the middle, a pure action.
A pure fire.
Malik didn’t see another way.
Because Khamal?
Old Cane?
Sinbad?
The ones who lived pure lives?
They had crumbling stones and empty graves.
That wasn’t right; that would never be right.
And so... fire burned.
No one in the hall dared to say that he was wrong.
Malik could’ve made a better grave for his little brother’s body.
A better one for Old Cane, the man who took the place of his father.
Khamal and the rest of his lot, too—they more than deserved it.
But... he didn’t have it in him to dig them out of their graves.
He couldn’t even change them in any way.
Yes, it was stupid, but that...
That would change his mory of them.
He wanted it to remain unchanged; no, he needed it to.
These tragedies... he couldn’t afford to have them be any less heartbreaking.
They had to be heartbreaking; otherwise, he...
Thump.
The world held back its tears.
Yeah, Malik’s life smashed their hearts in.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik stood alone atop a rocky hill in the middle of the desert, one boot planted higher than the other, his spine straight, his head low, his cloak barely rustling.
In his hand was a scroll, its parchnt rough.
The corners were slightly curled from being gripped too tightly.
He read it one last ti, then quietly ignited it with a golden fire, burning it without smoke, crumbling it to ash between his fingers.
Its ash danced for a mont before the wind carried it away.
Just as it disappeared, behind him, a soft shuffle could be heard on the sand.
Malik turned his head slightly, golden eyes flicking toward the figure stepping up the hill.
A boy, a young man, maybe nineteen, with Shams-touched skin and clean, proper robes—too proper for the desert.
There was a nervous tremble beneath the boy’s face, an expression Malik had seen before on a warm older man... he himself had worn it once as well.
"What did you call here for..."
The boy stopped a few feet before him, trying not to fidget under that golden gaze.
"Young Khamal?"
Indeed, this young man was a Banu Sasan, the very child of Khamal.
The boy straightened, bowing his head slightly.
"As the letter said, Lord Malik..."
His voice cracked, just a little.
"I—I ask you to protect from these people... Make sure they could never go after ."
Malik blinked slowly and turned, facing the ridge again, his shadow stretching down the slope like a banner of death.
"So..."
His tone didn’t change.
"These people."
Below them were waves of n, an ocean of weapons and armor, a full hundred thousand strong. Campfires flickered in scattered rows where banners fluttered, carried by their strongest. So bore the insignias of southern tribes; others held no flags at all—rcenaries, maybe. Exiles, reclairs, and bandits.
"You want to kill them all?"
He asked the question like he was talking about the weather.
The boy chuckled nervously, thinking that Malik was joking, only to realize a mont later that he wasn’t being sarcastic but entirely serious.
"W-Well, no. That’s... that’s a bit much, isn’t it?"
He stepped closer, trying to peek past Malik’s shoulder.
"I an, I was hoping—"
He caught Malik’s expression, or more precisely, the absence of one.
"Ah..."
Blood completely drained from his face.
"Y-You WANT to do it?"
Malik said nothing and calmly gestured to the sand beside him.
Khamal’s son hesitated but stepped up, and the two now stood side by side on the edge of the hill. Wind tugged at their clothes as Sinbad, who was, as expected, perched on Malik’s shoulder, tilted his head at the boy and gave a low, almost judgntal hoot.
"They call Flipper of Armies for a reason."
Malik’s words were too simple and deadpan, making the boy swallow hard.
"I tracked them down. They... their leaders might’ve had sothing to do with my father’s death. Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. But they’re dangerous. If they reach Markaz and penetrate its underground, they’ll wipe out what’s left of the Silent Crescent. If you could... I don’t know... scare them. Yeah, just scare them off... I—I don’t want them all dead."
Malik glanced down at him again, his stare lingering.
"You’re very naive."
The boy looked away, sha flickering across his features.
"But..."
Malik shifted his gaze toward the armies below.
"Fine."
He lifted a hand, fingers brushing against Sinbad’s feathers.
The owl understood without a word, spreading his wings and leaping into the hot air, slicing through it, almost imdiately reaching the clouds.
Way below, the ground gave a low groan as the wind picked up further, swirling and humming, making the soon-to-be pitiful bastards start to stir.
A few heads looked up, one man pointed, and others followed.
Sinbad began to circle overhead, his pink eyes glowing with heatless fire.
Malik didn’t move from the hill’s edge.
He just said one word.
"Fall."
And the sky answered.
A ring of light exploded from where Sinbad flew.
It was a silent ivory fire, twisting sand into glass in a perfect circle around them.
Within that circle, steeds scread, flags tore free from their poles, thousands fell flat, clutching their heads as their tents snapped inside out, their weapons clattered, and the sand beneath their feet cracked in spiderwebs.
Malik’s eyes glowed gold like the Shams had crept behind his skull as he pushed his right foot down, sending a shockwave through the ground.
The entire front row of the ocean flew high into the air, their weapons flying everywhere.
Malik, without waiting for them to process what had even happened, stated his warning.
"Tell your n to retreat. Far. South. They’ll rember this rcy."
The boy gaped, only now realizing that he wasn’t dreaming.
"You... you really are the Sultan."
"No."
Malik shook his head.
"I’m not anyone important."
He turned, walking back down the hill as what remained of the hundred thousand n down below began to move—stumbling, limping, crawling, and screaming orders no one followed.
"You’ll be fine."
He paused halfway and turned his head back.
"Oh. One more thing."
The boy blinked.
"Y-Yes?"
"Your father was a good man. Better than . If you want to honor him, don’t lead with fear. It’ll eat you alive."
The boy nodded, trembling.
"I... I won’t forget."
Malik smiled.
"Good."
***
{Outside The Projection}
Again, their Sultan pulled himself down... made himself small.
After everything—he’d just flipped a hundred-thousand-strong army for God’s sake.
It just didn’t make sense how bad his sense of worth had gotten... He burned Hell’s fire, killed a Zaqqum, and faced horrors no Sultan before him dared to dream of. Still... he never once acted like he was above anyone.
But weirdly, that was not what stayed with them.
At least not for the mont, for this wasn’t anything new.
Sothing else had caught them off guard... sothing smaller.
The familiarity of it all.
Because, yes, they’d heard this story before.
Soone in that very hall had told it to them just a few days back.
It was around the beginning of this showing.
Roya.
Yeah.
Roya, THE information broker.
Her na ran through their minds, a repeating echo.
The sadist with the biggest information network, one with ears nearly in every corner of Fam Iblis.
She had told them about this mont—this exact mont.
And now... she was dead.
This had really stuck to them now.
Mainly due to its... irony?
No, not that word...
Honestly, they didn’t know how to describe it.
But yeah, it was funny how the world worked, wasn’t it?
It felt unreal... so of them still hadn’t accepted it.
Roya? Gone? How?
But the projection made it real.
Because it was real... SHE was dead.
She wasn’t here to explain what happened, and sohow, that was what helped them process her death, even if only a little.
A fact that only they knew.
Perhaps it’d be a fact they kept secret.
The truth of her death wouldn’t be written anywhere.
Her network—whatever shadowy, naless web it was—was still out there.
Still watching, and if anyone dared to leak her Fate? They’d be dead by night.
Even now, while they stood there in the hall, stomachs tight and breath caught... no one spoke her na aloud.
Of course, it was not out of respect; they hated her, but out of survival.
Sinbad could say her na, the Lady as well, but the rest of them?
Everyone else? They were fair ga, pri for assassination.
In fact, the others in the hall weren’t even considered; they knew full well that if any word of her death reached the outside world, their heads would be paraded by nightfall.
And yes, that included Azeem, Huda, Layla, and Noor; though they might wipe the floor with Jinn, they couldn’t exactly prepare for a surprise attack with Holy Relics that cared not for Divine Rank, so, even as they processed such truth, no one said anything, not the happy nor the confused.
That was her Fate.
Roya had known this mont would co.
And she was gone before she could see it.
This, too, was her Fate.
Her truth.
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