Malik’s journey to the gate was fast. Stupid fast.
Between Devil’s Footsteps and Scorched Grace, he was moving quicker than anything he’d ever seen—quicker than he even thought was possible.
The only thing slowing him down was Crimson.
Every now and then, he had to stop, let him catch up.
He was fast too, but not his kind of fast.
Crimson made up for it by knowing the way, though, so he kept pace just enough to follow.
Not that there was much to slow him down anyway.
Sandworms? Please. He didn’t even need to think about avoiding them—he just flew over their territories. Left nothing but a trail of heat and scorched sand in his wake.
Miles blurred past. Dozens. Hundreds. But he barely noticed.
His focus was ahead. Always ahead.
Then—finally—Crimson slowed.
And that meant one thing.
This was it.
They had arrived.
Malik exhaled as he came to a stop.
Morning had come. And damn, what a morning it was.
The city gates loomed ahead, massive, towering, built for giants.
The walls stretched high, worn with age but still standing strong, their stone baked under the desert Shams.
Yellow banners, each bearing a star encircled by twelve moons, flapped in the breeze, their colors dulled by sand and time.
Even from here, Malik could see the city beyond—buildings taller than anything he’d ever laid eyes on.
It was an amazing sight.
But that wasn’t all that astounded him.
Statues.
Giant. They were perched atop the walls, watching over the entrance, just like the ones below, flanking the gate.
The statues looked the same, depicting a cloaked figure, features lost beneath the folds of a heavy hood.
The cloak itself was studded with jewels, glittering in the daylight.
Each one was worthy of admiration, and that, he did.
Once he had taken it all in, he walked with an easy stride, skipping the queue and approaching the gates, where a pair of guards stood, their spears crossed lazily before them.
One of them, a man with a thick mustache and tired eyes, squinted at him.
“You act important. State your name and business.”
Malik tilted his head, cracking his neck.
“Malik. A Jinn. Just visiting.”
The second guard, younger, more rigid, looked him up and down.
His eyes lingered on Malik’s charred, barely there clothes.
“You look like you crawled out of a fire.”
Malik shrugged his shoulders.
“Something like that.”
The mustached guard sighed.
“Malik, huh? Malik what? You got a tribe, a family name?”
“Malik al-Zayni.”
That made them pause.
The younger one stiffened just slightly, while the older one let out a slow breath.
“Heh. You’re him, then. The one they talk about.”
“…Maybe.”
Malik shrugged once more, acting like he knew what they were talking about.
“Will you let me in or what?”
They nodded, pulling in their spears, allowing him entry.
He thanked them with a wave and went ahead.
Stepping into the city felt like stepping into another world.
Malik barely got two steps past the gate before it hit him—the sheer size of the place.
Sure, it was already noticeable outside, but he fully processed it only when he got in.
As a man who lived his whole life in Zawaya, this place was alien to him.
The streets were at least two houses wide, packed with wagons, each one surrounded by a dozen or so people.
Unlike the worn-out robes he was used to seeing, these men and women were in long silks, some simple, some lined with gold threads.
Hooded figures were common among them. As well as kids darting between legs, laughing, chasing each other with bits of bread clutched in their hands.
Inns of all kinds were on both sides of the street, and somehow, even all the way over here, spices filled the air, a mix of something sweet, something smoky, and something that made his nose twitch like he was about to sneeze.
Malik craned his neck.
Towers of stone and glass.
God, the towers.
…How?
How was this a man-made creation?
Since when was such a thing even possible?
He’d never imagined buildings this tall before, not even in his wildest dreams.
They looked like they belonged here, as if they had grown up from the ground itself.
Some had banners draped over their sides, the same star and twelve moons that were on the city’s gate. Others had archways so wide they could fit a whole caravan beneath them.
And the statues. They were everywhere. Watching.
Perched on rooftops, standing at street corners, guarding doorways.
Malik wasn’t sure if they were meant to be reassuring or unsettling. Maybe both.
He sighed and quit looking around like some lost kid.
Plenty of time to gawk and explore later.
Right now he needed to get himself sorted.
His clothes were barely holding together—burned, torn, one good gust away from falling apart completely. And yeah, people were staring.
Not that anyone said a damn thing.
His size alone shut them up real quick.
Annoying? Definitely.
Did he care? Not really.
Still, new clothes certainly wouldn’t hurt.
Spotting a man standing off to the side, Malik strode over.
Older guy, looked like he belonged here. Robes nice, but not flashy. Beard trimmed. Probably knew his way around.
“Hey…”
Malik called out, stopping in front of him.
“Know a good place to buy some—”
He didn’t get to finish.
“They steal your bread, then give you a crumb of it!”
A voice cut through the air, loud, like a hammer to stone.
Malik blinked.
He knew it with those words alone.
That wasn’t some drunkard’s slurred rant. That was bold fire.
Across the way, in the open square just a few inns down, a man was standing atop a wooden crate. Arms out.
“Then they demand you thank them for their generosity—O, their audacity!”
Some of the crowd around him murmured in agreement; others scoffed. A few just crossed their arms, watching.
Malik arched a brow, stepping past the old man he’d been speaking to.
The elder sighed, like he knew better than to try stopping him.
He was right.
Because Malik was already interested.
This wasn’t the usual half-drunk street sermon about God, ‘His’ justice, and their repentance.
This wasn’t some wild-eyed fool shaking a fist at the sky, shouting for the damned to fall to their knees.
No, this was different.
This was passion.
And he had never used that word to describe anyone.