The tent the banner marked was as massive as it was obnoxious—velvet drapes, gold tassels, the works.
Its entrance was flanked by two armored men with spears.
Their armor was extremely polished, too clean for a place like this.
They weren’t just soldiers. They were something above the usual rabble.
One of them stepped forward, blocking Malik’s path. No words.
“I’m here to see someone.”
“…”
Silence.
Then, a slow, deliberate tilt of the head.
Like the man was sizing him up, deciding if he was worth acknowledging.
“You got a name?”
The guard finally asked.
Malik calmly nodded.
“I do. Malik. You know me?”
The man didn’t react. Just cold, empty patience.
Malik sighed in response.
“Tell your bosses I’m here to collect what they so graciously borrowed.”
At that, the guards exchanged smirks.
“Get lost.”
Crack.
Before either of them could blink, Malik’s fist dropped the first guard.
The second swung his spear—snap—Malik yanked it, kneeing him in the gut.
He fell.
They weren’t dead, but they sure would’ve wished for it.
Malik strolled in, tossing the spear aside.
Inside, three Magi lounged on cushions, sipping tea.
Their leader—a gaunt man with tired eyes—glanced up.
“Ah… welcome, guest. Apologies for the guards. What can we do to help you?”
“Heard you guys like borrowing things without asking.”
“Our men borrowed many things. Might you point to one?”
“Safira… General Safira’s Scrolls.”
The leader chuckled and stood, smoothing his robes.
“My apologies. It’s been so long that those Scrolls were… misplaced. But don’t worry—whoever has them has put them to good use. We sent our apologies to General Safira long ago. It was only a test; she understands that. This anger you’re showing is entirely unfair.”
Whoosh!
Malik crossed the tent in a blink, gripping the man’s throat.
Teacups shattered.
“Let’s get two things straight.”
He hissed.
“One: I don’t give a damn about your little trials. Two—”
His grip tightened.
“You touched my disciple. MY. DISCIPLE.”
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“Let him go!”
The other two Magi lunged.
Malik spun, slamming one into a wall, elbow cracking the second’s nose.
Blood spurted, and they passed out, unable to weave a single spell.
The leader gagged, clawing at Malik’s hand.
“No amount of blood on this planet will fix what you did.”
He leaned closer, voice cold as the North.
“But I’ll start with yours.”
“W-wait!”
The leader choked.
“The Scrolls—they’re here! Take them!”
Malik dropped him.
“Bring them here.”
The leader crawled to a chest, hands trembling.
He produced a leather bundle—the Scrolls, glowing faintly.
Malik snatched them, tucking them into his left sleeve.
“Never bother that kid again, understand?”
He kicked the leader’s head, cracking his neck and knocking him out.
“She’s… not… a… kid.”
Ignoring his murmur, Malik left the tent, acting as if he hadn’t just traumatized five people.
‘This’ll be a good reunion gift.’
***
{Outside The Projection}
Safira’s eyes stayed on the projection, but it was a battle to keep watching.
She kept telling herself that she hated him. That she wished she had never met him.
But when Malik dropped those self-righteous bastards like they were nothing—when he grabbed that Magi by the throat and declared it, claimed it, like it was the simplest, truest thing in the world—
“You touched my disciple. MY. DISCIPLE.”
Her breath hitched.
Damn him.
Damn him and his big, stupid, arrogant mouth.
She felt it—happiness.
And that was what truly burned.
She should be furious, disgusted.
She should feel nothing but contempt for the man who once claimed to be her teacher.
But instead?
Instead, there was warmth.
Because he still considered her his.
He still thought of her as his student. His disciple.
It was foolish. It meant nothing.
He had killed her people and abandoned her.
But now, here, in this fleeting moment, she could pretend.
Pretend that things hadn’t gone the way they had.
That the years between them hadn’t hardened her heart.
That she was still just Safira, standing in the shadow of a man who meant everything to her.
Her fingers twitched.
The others watching the projection didn’t notice it.
They only saw the steel in her expression, not the storm within.
Her emotions were conflicting. Jumping from one extreme to another.
She simply didn’t know what to feel.
Though one thing was common in all her states.
Safira felt sick.
Because she knew. She knew what was coming next.
She knew that whatever warmth she was feeling, whatever foolish hope stirred in the depths of her heart, it was only going to make what came after worse.
She should hate him.
She did hate him.
But right now, watching him, she also wanted to believe—just for a second—that maybe, maybe he hadn’t abandoned her at all.
That maybe he never stopped being her teacher.
That maybe this was all just another misunderstanding.
He was never the villain in her story but its hero.
And if that really was the truth, then…
She wouldn’t know what to do with herself.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik could be seen relaxing at an inn, sitting at the bar, gazing at nothing in particular.
…Huh?
Wasn’t he supposed to be looking for Safira?
What happened to that?
He couldn’t answer.
This emotion he felt was foreign.
It stopped him from doing what his rational mind wanted. Almost like his body had decided for him, keeping him still.
“You ordering or just warming the stool?”
The barkeep asked, wiping a clay cup with a rag that was doing more harm than good.
Malik sighed, rubbing his temple.
“What do you have?”
The barkeep snorted, setting the cup down.
“That depends. You want something to taste, or something to forget?”
Malik lifted a brow.
“Let’s go with both.”
“Greedy man, I see~.”
“Yes, yes, now tell me.”
“Date wine, honey mead, saffron liquor—pricey, by the way—some nasty street-made Arak that’ll make you see God, and good ol’ fashioned ale.”
Malik hummed.
“You publicly serve alcohol here? Thought Nasir Al-Sultan would’ve banned it.”
The barkeep chuckled, shaking his head.
“They did. So did the Faraja. No booze, no sins, no fun. But see—”
He leaned in, tapping the counter.
“—What’s banned by one hand is blessed by another.”
Malik’s already furrowed brows furrowed even further.
“Meaning?”
“Templar.”
The barkeep smirked.
“They’re the ones stamping the inns, letting us run bars. No Templar seal? No booze. Simple as that.”
That explained a lot.
“So without their approval—?”
“Faraja’ll burn your place to the ground, and Nasir’s men’ll be the ones lighting the torches.”
Malik shook his head, exhaling sharply.
“And people just go along with it?”
“People do what they need to.”
The barkeep poured himself a shot of something amber-colored and downed it.
“And you—”
He squinted at Malik.
“—You look like you should know that already. But you don’t.”
“That so?”
“Mhm.”
He leaned on the counter, arms crossed.
“You from the deep desert or somethin’? You act like you just fell off the back of a caravan that you rode with since birth.”
Malik huffed.
“Something like that.”
The barkeep hummed.
“You religious?”
Malik blinked, then let out a dry laugh.
“Not even a little.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“Really? Wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Why’s that?”
“Dunno. Got the look of a man carrying prayers he don’t say out loud.”
Malik raised a brow.
“And your patrons? They all non-religious?”
The barkeep snorted, shaking his head.
“Hell no. They just don’t let faith stop ’em from doing what they want.”
Malik leaned back, nodding slightly.
“Makes sense.”
The barkeep grinned, tossing a clean—well, cleaner—cup onto the counter.
“So? What’s it gonna be?”
Malik glanced at the barrels, then the bottles, then at the amber liquid in the barkeep’s hand.
“Ale.”
The barkeep grinned wider.
“Good choice. Simple, strong.”
He poured, setting the drink in front of Malik with a dull thud.
Malik stared at it for a moment.
This was what Layla chugged so much.
This was what she used to escape.
To numb.
To forget.
He took a sip.
…Bitter.
He took another.
Still bitter.
His jaw tightened.
He didn’t like it.
The barkeeper chuckled.
“You don’t like it? Too sweet?”
“Too sweet?”
“Yeah, it’s the sweetest heavy drink we got.”
Malik glanced at him, then back at his drink.
“…I see.”
It really was bitter.