Malik sat alone, his back against the charred remains of a cart.
His hands were covered in dried blood—his, theirs, he didn’t know anymore.
The battlefield had long since gone quiet, but the ghosts still screamed in his ears.
He had killed hundreds, maybe even thousands, tonight; honestly, he had lost count.
This feeling… he hated it.
Yes, he knew, saw, and accepted. But still. It all left a bad taste in his mouth.
Though he had only killed filth, those dumb enough to bow to filth and those unfortunate enough to be chained to filth, the act itself still affected him.
His heat had long since faded, replaced by the kind of cold that sank into bones, making the ash that floated through the air feel like a strange-looking snow.
He sat there, breathing that smoke, waiting for something to break the stillness.
And then, not long after, that ‘something’ finally came.
It was the flutter of wings.
A small gust of wind ruffled his dirty hair as the sound’s origin landed near him.
He cracked an eye open and found himself staring at two large, unblinking black orbs.
It was a familiar owl.
Black.
Hoot!
Malik exhaled through his nose.
“Took you long enough.”
The owl tilted his head, unimpressed.
Malik pushed himself up with a grimace.
“Alright, listen. I need eyes on a few places.”
He took a deep breath and began:
“Burah. Small village. Three hours southeast of here. Ghadira, too. On the bend of the biggest dune in this region, just before it splits. Their forge might still be running. Could’ve been feeding the ‘rebel’ smiths.”
He shifted, grimacing a second time as his ribs protested.
“Then there’s Jubbah. Hidden little thing in the cliffs. One path in, one out. Perfect place for cowards to hide, yeah?”
Black made a low sound—almost like a scoff.
“I know.”
He turned to face the dark desert.
“Oh, and Al-Rammal. Four hours north of here, across that canyon pass that smells like rotten eggs. Check if any of those places are still standing. Or if they’re rubble and ash like the rest. Either way, I want to know who’s been made an example.”
Black fluffed up his feathers but didn’t budge—he knew well Malik wasn’t done yet.
“I want your eyes on all the other villages I didn’t mention.”
Malik pointed toward the distant hills.
“My bet is somewhere around there, the mine maybe, but I can’t say for sure. Just check wherever the militia’s grouping up in numbers. Big groups. I’m talkin’ tents, banners, stockpiles, the works.”
He tapped the side of his head, smirking slightly.
“Find where they gather; you find the war table.”
Black gave a sharp hoot, clearly less annoyed now.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Malik waved a hand.
“You didn’t think I was paying attention to the little things, huh?”
Black didn’t respond, only ruffled his feathers a second time, his eyes locked on him, as if committing every name to memory.
“So?”
Malik asked, raising a brow.
Black hooted again and took off, disappearing into the night.
Malik leaned his head back and sighed.
Now, he had only one thing left to do.
Wait and heal.
…
He didn’t have to wait long.
Just as the next morning arrived, Black returned, dropping down in front of him with an indignant hoot.
Malik frowned.
“Already?”
Black flapped his wings once, as if to say, “Of course already.”
Malik stared at him for a long second before he rubbed his face, took a small piece of cloth, and wrapped his eyes blind with it.
Hoot.
Malik pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly before he steadied himself.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”
He rolled his slightly healed shoulders and turned towards the remaining soldiers.
The ones who had survived the night’s massacre.
“Pack up.”
He spoke as he approached.
“We’re moving out.”
They were tired. Wounded. Some barely standing. But they obeyed.
What choice did they have?
…
The march wasn’t long.
Time stretched oddly when the body was nothing but aches and exhaustion.
They didn’t talk much—just the occasional cough, a groan, the shuffle of worn-out boots on sand.
A few stumbled.
One guy straight-up fell and didn’t move for a minute.
Still, Malik didn’t stop.
He didn’t have to say anything.
Just walking ahead was enough.
They followed. They always did.
In return, Malik made sure they skirted past any undesirable radars.
This short journey back home would not end up in more death.
He would give them rest.
And, true to what he claimed, they reached their destination unclaimed by death.
It was a village a few dunes away from the Al-Saffra mine.
One of the many that had quietly supported the militia’s cause.
Malik had expected resistance at the gates, perhaps suspicion at their survival.
Instead, he was met with familiarity.
Standing near the entrance, arms crossed, was Duban.
And beside him, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise—
“S-Stranger?”
Safira.
Malik blinked at them, their familiar faces cutting through his exhaustion.
He exhaled slowly, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter.
“Yeah… Figures.”
Duban was the first to speak to him.
“Big brother! You survived!”
Malik grunted and dropped down onto the nearest empty bench.
“Surprised?”
Duban snorted.
“Nah. Just disappointed you’re not limping. Would’ve been funnier.”
Before Malik could throw something at his head, Safira ran straight towards him.
She stopped short when she got close, hesitating, biting her lip like she wasn’t sure what to say.
Malik arched a brow.
“You good?”
She nodded too quickly.
“Yeah, yeah, I—just… you’re alive.”
“That I am.”
Duban clapped his hands together.
“And while you were off playing kitten, things here actually went pretty damn smooth.”
Malik narrowed his eyes, though they couldn’t exactly see that.
“Smooth?”
“As silk.”
Duban grinned.
“Turns out, locking down one Jinn for weeks and then actually killing him did more than just raise morale.”
Malik grew slightly confused.
“How do you know that? Only these soldiers—oh, never mind.”
Duban chuckled.
“Looks like he did more than cut you up.”
Malik ignored that jab.
“So, tell me, why the Hell did you let us get surrounded at the Pit?”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Silence.
Safira looked away, rubbing her arm.
Duban’s grin dropped, but he didn’t speak.
Malik’s fingers drummed against his knee.
“I asked a question.”
Safira sighed, staring at the ground.
“We… we sent an owl to Nasir. Told him the attack wasn’t going as planned, asked if we should send reinforcements.”
Malik’s jaw tensed.
“And?”
She swallowed hard.
“He said you could take care of yourself.”
Malik’s fingers stopped drumming.
Safira winced.
“We didn’t agree! We wanted to go; we really did, but Nasir’s orders—his words are final.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Malik let the silence stretch, watching them, then, he finally spoke:
“You abandoned me?”
And it was the last thing they ever wanted to hear.