***
{Outside The Projection}
The projection froze.
An incredible moment of impact.
Many gasps of breath were stolen.
Eleven years had crashed down all at once.
And Safira—
“W-What?”
Just stood there, her face stuck in utter disbelief.
The crowd behind her had paused as well.
What happened was too shocking.
It blindsided every single person watching.
Was this their fairy?
They didn’t know how to react.
Eyes darted from face to face, searching for someone willing to say something first.
But no one did.
Safira herself didn’t move an inch.
Her head dipped, eyes locking onto the floor.
Looking up—looking at that—wasn’t an option.
She couldn’t bear it.
A thousand thoughts had crashed into her skull all at once, each one louder than the last.
Wasn’t she the one who always preached about being better than the people in this hall?
Wasn’t she the one who spat on their treachery, their cursed rebellion?
I’m not like them.
I’m not a murderer.
I came here to mourn, not for vengeance.
That was what she’d always told herself.
But the projection—the damn, damn projection—was screaming a different truth for all to see.
This was the proof of her sins, playing out in front of her.
A twisted theater.
She hadn’t been part of some grand plot to kill the Sultan?
Hah! Who gave a damn about that?
She was worse.
She had no use for a plot whispered in dark rooms.
Safira had done it herself.
With her own hands.
With her own blade.
She had stabbed him.
How ironic was that?
Incredible. It was an incredible series of events.
Safira’s everything was falling apart, and she could do nothing but stare.
Her fingers curled in and out of a fist like she was trying to grasp the knife that wasn’t there.
A bead of sweat slid down the side of her temple, mixing with the heat burning her skin.
Her face was red.
Extremely red.
…Shame.
A shame so thick it might as well have been ink, staining her entire being.
Unable to handle the quiet anymore, someone in the crowd shifted.
A sandal scraped against the marble.
It sounded too loud.
“Did she actually—”
A whisper, barely there, but sharp enough to reach the hall’s corners.
“Shut up. My Lady did nothing of the sort.”
A harsher voice interrupted, but even the one who spoke it didn’t sound convinced.
Had she actually stabbed him? Was that real? Had she really done it, or was it some illusion? Some trick of the light, some misdirection by the projection itself?
Because—
It was Safira.
Safira.
THE Fairy of Devil’s Maw.
Whatever they had expected from her, it wasn’t this.
This was something else entirely. Something colder. Something—
“Did she mean to?”
Another whisper.
Another inhale from the crowd.
That was the second question on their minds.
Had it been instinct of her hate?
Safira swallowed.
Their stares burned into her skin like the midday Shams.
She didn’t have an answer for them.
Why did she do it?
Safira couldn’t say.
She didn’t even remember this.
Perhaps she forced him to blink… perhaps she was the one who had broken him.
Safira couldn’t even begin to process just how she did what she did, but why…
Why did it feel like every single breath in the past eleven years had been leading to this exact moment, this exact mistake, this exact unbearable weight pressing down on her chest?
Were their lives simply written to be a tragedy?
***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik’s eyes flicked down.
“…Oh.”
A knife.
Burying itself right into his ribs.
His mind took a beat to process what Safira had done.
Yet, it didn’t take him long to notice that there was no sharp, searing pain.
No spreading warmth. No punctured lung. No tearing of flesh.
Only the knife’s weight was there. The force of impact.
His body reacted, muscles tensing on pure instinct.
But not from fear. Never from fear.
Malik wasn’t scared of dying.
No—this was something mechanical.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Exhaled through his nose.
“Oh.”
A fake knife.
Wooden.
Just real enough to trick his body for a few moments.
Just real enough to send that flicker of adrenaline through his veins before his brain finally caught up.
He let out a long sigh.
Then, finally, he looked up.
Safira was glaring at him.
“You abandoned me.”
Malik exhaled a third time before dragging a hand down his face.
Yeah. He was definitely in for a rough time.
“I… I did.”
She stepped back, acting like she hadn’t just played a trick that could’ve shaved a few years off his life.
Malik did the same, not saying another word.
Neither did she.
They stood there. Staring.
Silence stretched between them, heavy, like a taut rope waiting to snap.
Safira’s grip on the wooden knife tightened. Tighter. Tighter. And tighter. Knuckles turning bone-white. Fingers pressing so hard, it was a miracle that the hilt didn’t splinter under the force.
And Malik?
He just watched.
His face unreadable, hands loose at his sides, he watched her.
Not cold, not angry. Just… there.
Processing.
Not the wooden knife. Not the ‘attack.’ Not even the weight of her presence after all these years.
No, it was something else. Something smaller.
Color.
A flicker of it.
Green and ginger.
Faint, fragile—like the last ember of a dying fire.
But it was there.
In a world drained of all hue, where everything had long since faded into grays, she was the only person alive left with a flicker of color.
A stain on a canvas that had long since grown dull.
He hadn’t seen that in years.
All since that accursed day.
A despised sacrifice.
And yet… here it was. She was.
He had to say something. Had to.
“Safira… I missed you.”
The words left his mouth before he even thought about them.
And for a split second, he saw it—a smile flickered across Safira’s face, something happy. But then it twisted. Her eyes darkened, and the next thing he knew—
“Don’t lie to me!”