“Where can I find them?”
Faqir pocketed the coin with a smile.
“Follow the stench of self-righteousness.”
He jabbed a thumb north, directly towards a yellow banner.
“Nasir Al-Sultan’s base—big stronghold, past the Faraja and Goldsmiths. Can’t miss it.”
Malik nodded.
“Anything I need to know?”
Faqir snorted, scratching his chin.
“Eh. They don’t torch villages for giggles like Ayan’s dogs. But don’t expect hugs and campfire songs. They got rules. Lots of rules.”
Malik shrugged.
“Rules beat starvation.”
“Oh, and Malik?”
Faqir’s rotten teeth glinted.
“Go get some clothes.”
“…Ah.”
He seemed to have forgotten that he was currently half-naked.
…
A tall, lean man strolled forward, his pale face, his gold eyes glowing.
His hair? Mostly neat—except for the long rat tail that draped over his shoulder.
He rocked a long white robe, all fancy patterns with a slick orange trim, thrown over loose white pants that let him move easy.
A plain brown belt held the fit together, nothing too extra—except for the curved sword in a white sheath hanging off it.
His only blade now, since the other had probably been pawned off for some coin.
That same coin? Sitting nice and snug in a thick new pouch next to his waterskin.
A flowing white scarf wrapped around his neck, shifting with every step.
This man was Malik.
And damn, what a man he’d become.
His proper appearance was finally on full display.
Nothing flashy—just the kind of presence that made people stop and do a double take.
The kind that’d even make a nun reconsider her promise to God.
***
{Outside The Projection}
The projection paused, and the murmurs began:
“He really said that… just like that?”
“‘You can always kill yourself?’ By God.”
“Huh! Now ain’t that the truth!”
“If only they knew~.”
A wave of similar words rippled through the hall, bouncing between the crowd.
It was mostly the men doing the talking. Acting like they were hung up on his words, like that was the thing that hit hardest.
Right. That. Not the way Malik currently looked.
No, no. They weren’t about to admit how inferior they felt.
So instead, they latched onto the words. Tossed out jokes like they weren’t just a little bit shaken.
But the women?
Most of the women weren’t even listening.
Not to the murmurs. Not to the jokes. Not to any of it.
Their gazes were still locked onto the projection, lingering on the last image of Malik.
This Malik was no different than the Malik on the throne, and that meant only one thing.
They could finally admire him for more than a moment without collectively losing their heads.
Safira exhaled slowly, like she had forgotten to breathe.
Layla had her fingers pressed lightly against her mouth, a smile unable to leave her lips.
Even Noor, who wasn’t exactly the type to get caught up in things like this, was staring.
Huda simply looked proud, as did Crimson, his head held high, while Roya revealed nothing, her face blank as usual.
And then, after a few more seconds, someone murmured ever so quietly:
“He’s… beautiful.”
That brought courage to others:
“It—It’s not faaaair~.”
“I swear, if I’d met him back then…”
“How can a bath and change of clothes make someone look so different.”
“He’s had his hair trimmed too~.”
“Hehehe~ I’d like to tip that hairstylist if he’s still alive.”
Such words were openly shared between them, caring not for any who heard.
To them, though it was what they most talked about, it wasn’t really just about the looks.
It was about the way he carried himself.
The men, in response to the ladies, had stiffened.
Shoulders squared up like they were getting ready for a fight—or maybe just bracing for impact.
A few exchanged glances, a silent ‘brother, you hearing this?’ Passing between them.
They had no idea what to say.
Because the women weren’t even blinking.
They were locked in. Enraptured. Absolutely gone.
And the men had no choice but to sit in the deafening realization that not a single one of them had ever received that level of attention in their entire damn lives.
So they did what men did best when they didn’t know how to handle something.
They stayed quiet.
All except for one.
Because of course—of course—Zafar had to open his big mouth.
“Oh, come on!”
His arms shot up in pure, indignant disbelief as he stomped hard, looking like he had just witnessed the biggest injustice of the century.
“He’s good-looking, sure, but does it really warrant that reaction?!”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Not a single woman spared him so much as a glance.
Even the men didn’t say anything.
Not because they agreed with him—oh, no.
Because they were too busy realizing something about who they called a hero.
Their attention had flicked to Faqir.
Faqir—the man who had loathed Malik with every fiber of his being.
Faqir—who had never once hesitated to drag Malik’s name through the mud.
Faqir—who, right now, wasn’t saying a single Goddamn word.
Just staring at the projection.
Lips pressed tight. Jaw working.
And that?
That was bad.
Zafar must have noticed it too, because suddenly, his whole tantrum started looking a little… juvenile.
A little desperate.
Because unlike Faqir—whose resentment, whose bitterness, whose envy was rooted in something deeper, something like begrudging respect—
Zafar’s just looked shallow. Petty. Superficial.
Driven by pride and insecurity.
And someone—someone had to say something about it:
“Brother is down BAAAD~!”
The old troll had returned.
But this time he wasn’t whispering.
And oh…
Oh, Zafar heard that.
He heard that loud and clear.
His whole body jerked like someone had just smacked his head, his eyes blazing with unfiltered rage.
For a moment—just a moment—he actually looked like he was about to let it go.
Like he had learned his lesson.
Like he was going to be the bigger man.
He shouldn’t.
He really, really shouldn’t.
“SAY THAT SHIT AGAIN?!”
But he did.
His pressure came crashing down like a hammer.
The tension snapped tight—
Flash!
Only for it to be canceled out in the next moment.
A single hand had been raised.
On it, one of five rings began to glow.
Azeem—still sitting on the ground—was its owner.
“Calm down.”
That was it.
That was all he said.
And just like that—Zafar’s pressure vanished.
The Aether in the air sputtered out, leaving behind nothing but the lingering echoes of his own outburst.
The troll snickered.
The women continued to ignore him.
The men exchanged more glances, this time with a silent ‘brother, just take the loss.’
And Zafar?
Zafar fumed.
But—mercifully—he shut up.
“Don’t worry, Hero. Maybe in your next life.”
He snapped.
“Oh, FUCK YOU!”