The war was over.
And weirdly? The world didn’t end.
Malik kept waiting for something—anything—to fall apart.
Some twist. Some second army. A Mithqal rising from the dirt, going, “Surprise, round two.”
But no.
It was truly done.
And now, they were here.
Standing in this big hall with walls painted in warm yellows and greens, everything smelling of rosewater and that sweetness of cinnamon.
It was a place common with silk. Laughter. Humming oud strings. Nicely dressed people. Too nice. And in the middle of it all—Duban.
That bastard was grinning from ear to ear, looking like he’d just won another war, except this one didn’t need swords—just a bride and a dowry.
Yup.
Duban was getting himself a second wife.
Not even a day after burying half their dead, they were throwing a damn wedding.
Malik couldn’t decide if it was insane or brilliant. Maybe both.
But hey—tonight wasn’t about the dead.
Tonight was about life.
Loud, messy, stubborn, beautiful life.
Food was getting passed around. Kids did what kids did. Elders gossiped like the war never happened. Music played, and it wasn’t for marching—it was just for dancing. For joy.
Throughout all that, Malik tried to look all serious, even though two flower girls were just absolutely coating him in glitter.
Safira and Uncle Jafar were laughing at him.
Farid was pretending not to cry into a cup while being consoled by his brother.
Jamal was showing off his stupid knife tricks, Bahir standing next to him, bragging about his exploits and how he helped kill the other Jinn when word of their leader’s fall had spread.
And Nasir…
Nasir was standing in the corner, quiet, eyes scanning the room—but there was a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But it was real.
Because this night, this moment?
It meant something.
It meant they’d made it.
It meant something good had finally stuck.
And turns out, this wedding wasn’t just about celebrating their survival.
No. As always with this bastard, this was bigger.
It was political.
Nasir had gone and picked a girl whose blood ran deep with Oasis—real deep.
An old name. Big family. Lots of respect in the region.
So yes, it wasn’t just a wedding.
It was another step in anchoring themselves here.
And it was a message to all those who watched them battle:
“We’re here. We’re staying. Get used to it.”
Smart move.
Malik, again, could not deny it.
Not that he was thinking about it, though.
Frown or not, he was actually enjoying his time, soaking it all in.
The hall was something out of a dream.
He had never seen this many candles in one place before.
Their glow bounced off marble floors polished so well that he could see his reflection in them.
Long tables lined the walls, piled high with roasted meats, imported fruits, and sweets sticky with honey.
And the people?
Yeah, they were loud—but fun… mostly.
A bunch of ’em saw his frown as a personal challenge, trying to crack it like it was some kind of game.
When they weren’t messing with him, he’d just sit back and watch everyone laughing, with this quiet kind of relief—the kind one only felt after dragging themselves out of Hell.
And they danced. Oh man, did they dance.
The men linked arms, stomping in unison, their voices rising in song as they moved in near-perfect sync.
The women clapped and whistled, their bright silks swirling as they cheered for their men.
“Hm.”
Malik had seen these men covered in blood, screaming their lungs out in rage and agony.
Now, they clapped their hands and stomped their feet, grinning like overgrown children.
It was bizarre. It was good. He wasn’t sure what to do with that feeling.
Though he didn’t have long to mull about it.
Safira, dressed in a beautiful green, cheeks flushed, waddled towards him, her ginger curls bouncing.
“Stranger, come! Join them!”
He snorted, silently agreeing to ignore what she ignored. At least tonight.
“No.”
Her brows furrowed.
“Why not?”
“Because I am perfectly fine right here, watching you all make fools of yourselves sober. I don’t need to be dragged into whatever this is.”
She huffed, hands on her hips.
“This is culture.”
“Is it?”
Malik countered with a chuckle.
“I don’t want to know what you’d all be like if someone actually got their hands on alcohol.”
Safira rolled her eyes before spinning back into the throng of cheerers, leaving Malik exactly where he wanted to be—watching from the sidelines. Out of the spotlight but still close enough to keep an eye on everything.
Didn’t mean he was alone, though.
Faqir tried to sneak up on him—real slow—like he wouldn’t notice an old man creeping up on him with sandals that slapped the marble with every step.
“Grow up, ‘brother.'”
Malik didn’t even turn his head. Just flicked his fingers to the side.
“Heh~ You Jinn are borin’.”
Faqir chuckled under his breath and came over, looking smug like he got caught on purpose.
“H-Hi, Sir.”
His son followed close behind him, awkward and quiet, looking like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be here or not.
…
As the night stretched on, voices grew louder, and joy swirled through.
Eventually, the time came. The reason for the celebration.
Duban and his bride stepped forward.
The crowd parted as they made their way to the end of the hall, where a set of stairs led to a raised platform.
There, waiting for them, stood Nasir, his back straight, his presence commanding even in a room filled with revelry.
Malik studied the bride.
She was beautiful in the way all brides were—glowing, eyes shy yet sure.
Duban, beside her, wore his finest, a green robe embroidered with gold.
Tonight, he was a man about to begin something new.
A new chapter in his life, for sure.
Or, well… something like that.
It was less “new beginnings” and more “brace for impact.”
His first wife was about to haul him straight into Hell.
Sure, she said she was fine with the arrangement.
But yeah… no.
She wasn’t.
And Duban was about to find that out the hard way.
Thankfully, that mess had nothing to do with Malik.
He just watched everything unfold, half-tuned out, mind drifting.
And then—it started.
A hush rolled over the room.
Slow, heavy, respectful.
Nasir raised a hand.
A soft sound began behind him.
Pluumm… Trriiing~…
The ballad.
That ballad.
Strings, quiet at first, like a memory crawling its way out of sleep.
A voice followed—a familiar one, a deeply familiar one.
“Oh, where were you when the fire raged,”
“When the steel ran red?”
It was her.
The one from the bar… from Zawaya.
“Where were you when the night was slain,”
There was a smile in her voice.
“And the ground drank dead?”
He could hear it, plain as day.
“Here we are.”
