***
{Inside The Projection}
The Holy Palace had gone quiet since the coronation, but not in peace; it was fake, all of it.
Servants held their breath in hallways, and guards stood straighter, much stiffer, their hands closer to their hilts at all tis.
This... ’change’ wasn’t sothing they’d get used to anyti soon.
Tension was always in the air, and it was thickest in a certain room.
One that housed its very cause.
Indeed, Malik was there, and he sat on a black-gold throne at the head of an oval table; a long one. The sa n from before surrounded that table; they hadn’t changed, but Malik certainly had.
Or rather, he had returned to how he previously looked, no longer dressing like a Sultan, but a man in mourning, all black and a belt of orange.
Of course, Sinbad rested quietly on his shoulder, wings slightly out, feathers faintly glowing under the windowlight.
The only movent between them was the owl’s blinking; Malik didn’t even do that much.
The sa n he’d humiliated now leaned forward in sweat, their voices lowered, eyes darting, prisoners at soone else’s trial.
"...At the lower levels, nothing’s really shifted. At least not to a noticeable degree. Markets open till late, guards do their jobs, and people still fear the badge... actually, they might fear it even more now... They all fear you, my Lord."
One of the elder n gestured cautiously, and never toward Malik.
"And the people—"
"So spit at our laws."
Another cut in, finding him a little too slow at talking.
"They still light candles for the Forr Sultan, reliving his death by holding gatherings, but others... They say that his death was under Divine Law, that there was nothing the common people could do about it. Their gatherings died down since such words spread... so even started to call this new reign the Era of the Hollow Fla."
A woman in green leaned forward.
"There was incredible outrage, yes, but after the public funeral, after seeing the body, things cald down. They always do. Bread is still warm in the morning, and tea is still abundant in the markets. As long as that’s the case, I don’t think we’ll have pandemonium on our hands."
"Yeah, no one’s thrown a torch in weeks."
A silence hung after her words were agreed to.
It was obvious to everyone at the table that the people would always despise Malik for assassinating Cyrus and their leadership for allowing it to happen, but they weren’t going to do anything to change it, even after Roya’s little stunt.
They didn’t even need to do much; any sign of rebellion was crushed down internally, their own community leaders speaking of how one must bow to the Sultan in rule, even if they weren’t the best of people.
One of the good things about religion, at least to those in power, was how easy it made controlling people be, providing them with otherwise impossible thods to keep them in check, or even fend them against each other, leaving leadership a free path to sail through.
Of course, not every citizen spoke of such complete drivel, and certainly not the Twelvers.
Oh, those people held deep hatred for Malik, responsible for most gatherings, trying their hardest to move their people, but to no avail.
The people’s fear of him dominated their bravery and honor.
Self-preservation was what dood them from ever doing anything.
"Thankfully..."
One of the slimr n said lowly:
"Thankfully, Al-Sayf hasn’t leaked it... about the head."
Murmurs followed his words, ntioning that the Forr Sultan’s body had been buried without his head, that Malik, their Lord, had taken it sowhere and hidden it for whatever reason, perhaps a trophy for his "victory."
Anyhow, ignoring that last part, it was sothing they all knew.
Sothing sworn to secrecy between themselves, as well as Al-Sayf.
If it were soone else, soone weaker, the family might’ve tried to use it as leverage, but they knew full well that Malik could crush them in under a mont, so they kept quiet, hoping that with this, Malik might actually just let them live in the North, far away from Markaz and its politics.
They did right, because such a truth might’ve truly sent the world to war, and that’d be the worst-case scenario for them, as that would leave them wide open to attack.
Yeah, a Sultan being disrespected as such would never be accepted.
Or, well, "disrespected," they didn’t actually know what Malik did with the head.
And nobody wanted to, even now, no one looked at him, fully accepting of the fact that they’ll never know.
Even further, to make sure that no one would ask, or look, one of them quickly coughed and changed the subject:
"We’ve sent out owls to every faction, kingdom, and broker loyal to our Sultanate. We demanded ergency reassurances—those contracts are all we have left holding the world’s spine together. If they pull out..."
"They won’t."
A voice interrupted with confidence.
"They can’t afford to. They need us, or rather, they need our coin."
Another snorted.
"They know better than to pull out now. They’ll be eting us for reassurances soon, trust , they are dependent on our deals..."
With that, their eyes slid to Malik for the first ti since this eting began, asking for his input.
Still no response, he just stared at them, as did Sinbad, quickly making them look away.
Before the silence could stretch, more papers were passed on the table, and soone tapped on a clay ledger, rattling off numbers. Soone else asked about grain shipnts, foreign trade routes, and droughts in the south. Another ntioned a high noble child’s wedding being pushed back due to "unrest."
Every voice tried to sound important and urgent.
It was all just... noise to Malik.
Another man, round-faced and sweating, cleared his throat and pushed forward.
"Regarding the noble houses. House Zul-Fahd declared neutrality. House Nasir sent blessings. House Al-Bahri... well, they sent an unsigned letter, but we suspect it was..."
By that point, Malik stopped listening completely.
He didn’t look away, his eyes still facing the table, but he wasn’t hearing anything anymore. None of it mattered; they were dancing circles around their own shadows, arguing over rules in a world that had already been captured.
Malik wasn’t going to give them the leeway his predecessor did.
His style of rule was different; his goals necessitated that.
He’d be a tyrant. One that didn’t care about his subjects.
Or at least he’d make it seem that way.
Hate, true unrelenting hate, was a fickle thing to most.
It ca and went, a candle’s fla against the wind.
Malik needed it to stay there, reigniting the fla.
And to do that, acting out a tyrant was a must.
So, the eting went on like that for a while.
Long, dragging monts, hours maybe.
Hours of nothing but mumbles.
Until finally, Malik spoke:
"I’m not one for these things."
That alone made a few jaws clench.
They wanted to scream, ’After all this ti, you say that?!’
But, of course, no one dared say a damned thing.
Malik slowly raised a hand, revealing his palm.
It seed that that was his way of asking people to stay quiet.
"Send a list of those who applied for the court. Every one of them, with their docunts."
He rose, and...
"You’ve got ten minutes. I’ll make one of them my right hand."
Walked off before anyone responded.
"That’ll be a new position."
Chairs scraped behind him, mouths opened, and feet started to shuffle.
"What—"
"But Your Highness—!"
"You can’t just make new positions! There’s a structure—!"
"You’re breaking Divine Law! The Sultanate’s never changed in thousands of—!"
Malik didn’t care.
He was already at the marble arch, passing the carved lions that had seen most dynasties fall. His cloak trailed over the floor’s mosaic—a story of heroes long dead, and Rukhs no one prayed to anymore.
He didn’t look back.
But Sinbad did.
The owl turned his head as they crossed through the hall, those haunting pink eyes sweeping the table into complete and utter silence.
Every man and woman, for all their titles, shrank under that look.
Because even if Malik left them breathing...
Sinbad, this owl before them, wouldn’t.
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