***
{Inside The Projection}
The ‘rebel’-controlled village, just east of the city, wasn’t exactly a village.
It was a graveyard that hadn’t figured out it was dead.
Dark. The place simply had no oil lamps or torches.
Without the Twelve Moons, it would’ve been impossible to see anything in there.
Upon entry, Malik ducked under a sagging archway made of splintered wood.
It acted as a guard, doing a fine job at testing the visitor’s flexibility.
Though, the place wasn’t truly unguarded.
It had the best guard of them all.
An incredibly bad smell.
Right, the stink of sewage slapped Malik hard.
Most men would’ve been disoriented by it, but he just shrugged it off, seemingly used to such smells, which he was, way more so than he’d like.
Before him, mud-brick huts leaned like drunkards, their roofs patched with palm fronds.
A few bony goats chewed and tussled over a child’s sandal in what apparently had once been the village stables, now a bare, fenced-in pen of weathered posts and trampled sand.
Classy.
“This where the ‘noble rebels’ hang?”
Malik muttered, kicking a pebble.
It hit a wall, and three scorpions scuttled out.
Great. Even the rocks were armed.
Still, he doubted any trouble would find him.
He had draped a filthy, tattered cloak over his fine robes, his headscarf reeking of draft beasts.
Indeed, Malik was going undercover.
Or he just had really bad laundry choices.
Either way, it beat facing Safira’s “Why’d you abandon me?” eyes.
This wasn’t something he’d abstain from acknowledging.
It was the plain truth.
Malik was avoiding a particularly difficult conversation…
He just happened to be in disguise while doing it.
Because, really, there were plenty of things he had faced in his life without so much as flinching.
Bandits, slavers, and seekers? Easy. Monsters? Routine. Death and Depravity itself? Just another day. The kind of exhaustion that made a man feel like his bones were grinding into dust? Standard. But Safira’s eyes?
Yeah, no. He wasn’t ready for that.
So, he had made an executive decision—delay.
Which was why he was here, skulking through the outskirts of the settlement like a particularly sketchy vagabond, hunched against the wind as if that somehow made him less noticeable.
He told himself he was gathering information, that he was confirming details with his own eyes, that this was absolutely necessary before he met up with them.
And, to be fair, it was necessary.
He couldn’t afford to walk in blind.
But was it also a convenient excuse?
Absolutely.
Because Safira wasn’t stupid.
The second they locked eyes, she’d try her best to get everything out of him, and Malik?
Malik wasn’t sure he liked what she’d find… or perhaps, and most likely, she wouldn’t even try, but would rather attempt to make herself feel better at their relationship’s expense, never believing the truth he’d give.
So, instead of marching straight to her to willingly torture himself, he was here, wrapped in rags, lurking in the shadows like some washed-up relic of a man.
…Okay, maybe that last part was a little too dramatic.
But the point still stood—this wasn’t just reconnaissance.
This was procrastination.
Very necessary, very practical, very cowardly procrastination.
Procrastination that, so far, didn’t yield any results.
In fact, Malik was starting to feel ridiculous.
He wasn’t gathering intelligence. He wasn’t being careful. He was just… wasting time.
But then—finally—something.
A pull of people.
Malik followed the ‘pull.’
And then he saw it—saw them.
The villagers had gathered, clustering around what could technically be called an open square, except it wasn’t a square at all. Just a patch of sand packed down by too many feet, ringed by hesitant, expectant bodies.
Malik didn’t hesitate.
He elbowed through the crowd, ignoring the grumbles and glances thrown his way. And then—
There he was.
Faqir.
“What the fuck is he doing here?”
The graying man stood on a crate, his voice sharp as a scimitar.
Beside him, a kid—maybe thirteen, all knobby knees and Faqir’s same glare—held a dented lantern, the only thing producing light in this graveyard.
“—and they tell you this war is for freedom!”
Faqir spat, pointing north where the rebel green banners hung limp.
Malik followed his finger.
…Huh.
It seemed that they lacked creativity, as the flag only spoke a single word.
{Oasis}
Was that the city’s name?
How ironic.
“But when did freedom mean stealing our grain? Our mines? Our sons?!”
The crowd grumbled.
A woman clutching a baby hissed:
“Ayan’s dogs!”
Faqir’s son stepped forward, raising the lantern high.
“They promised justice! But where’s justice when Old Man Hafiz disappears for speaking up? When they take the water from OUR wells and call it tax?”
“Tax?”
Faqir barked a laugh.
“They’re thieves with fancy titles! And we’re the fools who let ’em—”
Clank.
Three men shoved through the crowd, armor gleaming like they’d bathed in oil.
Their leader—a slab of muscle with a scar splitting his lip—snarled:
“Shut your traitor mouth, Faqir.”
Faqir didn’t flinch.
“Ah, Captain Bashir! Here to collect more ‘taxes’ or just here to lick Ayan’s boots? Sorry, you won’t find either here.”
The crowd gasped, and Malik shook his head, already knowing what was coming.
Sure enough, Bashir pulled out a curved dagger, his fragile ego too bruised to let it slide.
“Last warning. Stop poisoning these sheep.”
Or not.
It seemed that the man held some semblance of intellect.
“You—”
Faqir’s son lunged in front of his dad.
“You don’t scare us!”
Wrong move.
Bashir backhanded the kid.
Crack.
The boy crumpled, blood dribbling from his nose.
The lantern shattered, flames licking the sand.
“Yusuf!”
Faqir dropped to his knees, cradling his son. But he didn’t stop yelling:
“See? This is their justice! They hit boys and call it law!”
Bashir kicked Faqir in the ribs.
“Shut. Up.”
The crowd edged back.
A toddler wailed.
Malik’s fingers twitched toward his hidden Spine Breaker.
He was barely holding himself back.
‘Don’t blow your cover. Don’t—’
Thud.
Another kick.
Faqir coughed, still clinging to Yusuf.
“You… you think fear works? We’ve been afraid since the day we let you rats crawl here!”
Bashir nodded to his thugs.
“Break his kid’s hands. Let’s see him preach then.”
Malik’s blood roared.
…Blink.
He could do it.
Return by death.
Rewind, fix this, stop them before they even get hurt—
“You promised…”
Rehan’s voice, cold and final, slithered into his skull.
“No more resets. Live with your choices.”
Damnation.
***
{Outside The Projection}
Everyone in the back looked at one man and one man alone.
Faqir, son of Faqir.
THE dumbass himself.
A living, breathing grudge-holder if there ever was one.
Yes, if there was ever a man who hated Malik with his whole being, it was him.
And now?
Now they figured this was why.
Because somehow, some way, he must’ve known.
Faqir must’ve figured out that Malik had been there.
That Malik had been RIGHT THERE when it happened.
That Malik had stood still when he could’ve acted.
That he had chosen not to move.
And because of that refusal to step in?
Faqir’s father and older brother had died.
People exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from curiosity to understanding.
Yeah.
Yeah, that would do it.
That would explain the undying, bone-deep hatred.
That would explain the loathing that went beyond logic.
That would explain everything.
Except.
It didn’t.
Because they were wrong.
So utterly, completely wrong.
Faqir’s hate wasn’t about Malik’s inaction.
The real reason was so much worse.
Rather… this hadn’t happened to them.
Faqir couldn’t recall any of this.
The Sultan had blinked.