Malik felt his jaw tense.
He didn’t turn, didn’t speak, just stood near the edge of it all, watching. Listening.
Everyone knew the song—heard it a dozen times over, played at every victory.
But him?
He KNEW the song.
And just like last time, he hated it.
Hated how it got turned into some anthem of glory, a pretty little tune for sacrifice and celebration.
As if Rehan and the others’ deaths were all just part of the chorus.
Still, that didn’t mean he’d do anything to ruin the mood.
They saw it fit for celebration and he respected that.
Not everything in the world needed to be something he agreed with.
And so, he watched as Duban and his bride climbed the stairs.
“We stood, we swayed, we held the line,”
“But the tide ran high.”
“One by one, we fell in turn,”
“Yet we did not die…”
People were quiet.
Faces turned.
Most were smiling, some crying. Others just remembering.
Nasir’s voice cut through, reaching everyone clearly, even as the strings continued to hum behind him.
“We stand here not as soldiers, not as winners, but as people. As men and women who have seen war, have felt its weight, and choose, despite all, to build something new.”
He looked at his son. Really looked at him.
“Duban, son of Nasir, do you accept this woman as your wife, to protect her, honor her, and stand by her in the trials to come?”
“I accept. By God, the sky above and the sands beneath, I swear it.”
The crowd whistled.
“And you, daughter of Oasis, do you accept this man as your husband, to stand by him, to build with him, and to face whatever fate has written together?”
She gave him a bright smile.
“I accept. By God, the Twelve Moons that guide and the abyss that nourishes, I swear it.”
Nasir nodded.
The strings grew louder.
“Before all gathered here, before our ancestors and our children yet to come, before God and the Twelve Moons… you are bound.”
Then—just above a whisper, like a wind through the night:
“For the Shepard did not sleep…”
Malik closed his eyes.
That line always hit different.
Nasir turned to his son one last time.
“Duban. Remove your cloak. Cover your wife.”
Duban obeyed, unclasping the cloak from his shoulders and draping it over his bride’s.
His hands shook, just barely. But his eyes never left hers.
It was a simple gesture, but one that meant everything.
A promise made tangible.
“Oh, they came like a flood of beasts,”
“With their sharpened teeth.”
“And we cut, and we bled, and we cursed,”
“For the ground beneath.”
Then—just like that—the room exploded.
Cheers so loud they nearly knocked the damn roof off.
Their feet stomped hard enough to shake the ground.
Someone let out a war cry that turned into laughter; many others did the same.
Probably that, uh, Karim, or whatever his name was, the loudest bastard around.
Women ululated, high-pitched and beautiful, their hands in the air.
“We stood, we swayed, we held the line,”
“But the tide ran high.”
“One by one, we fell in turn,”
“Yet we did not die.”
Duban laughed and pulled his wife close, whispering something in her ear that made her smile so wide one’d think nothing bad had ever touched her life.
“Then the wind grew still, and the sky turned black,”
“Chains rose from the sand.”
Malik looked around.
The war was over.
They were living.
“And a whisper low, and a word once spoke,”
“Turned the flesh to land.”
“He stood, he swayed, yet the dead stood tall.”
“One by one, they gasped and wept,”
“And they cheered the call.”
This ballad spoke of the father who had given his life so they could claim victory.
The one who made sure Duban lived long enough to stand here tonight, in green and gold, with a new bride on his arm and peace in his future.
“Oh, where were you when the fire raged,”
“When the steel ran red?”
“Where were you when the night was slain,”
“And the ground drank dead?”
Malik’s smile was faint, barely there, but it was bitter.
His fingers twitched slightly, but he willed himself still.
He would not cry again. His promise would hold.
But no matter how hard he tried to lock it all down, Safira saw.
Of course she did.
She turned towards him, her brows knitting together.
“Oh… where were you when the Sparrow fell dead?”
Malik exhaled slow. Letting something out that had been held too long.
The war was over. And the night was filled—not with screams, not with fire, but with joy.
“Tea… Teac—”
Safira didn’t get to finish.
Something shifted.
It wasn’t loud or obvious—just a ripple.
A tiny break in the rhythm of the hall.
But Malik felt it.
His hand moved without thinking.
The blindfold came off, and his eyes locked onto a man standing not far off.
A shuffle of robes, and he caught the glint of metal hidden beneath the fabric.
His breath stilled.
‘Dagger.’
Guests weren’t allowed any weapons in this hall.
…This was an assassin.
Malik lunged towards him, and his hand wrapped around the man’s wrist before he could even think about drawing the dagger.
With a sharp twist, he snapped the bone, the would-be assassin barely getting the chance to gasp before Malik’s pointing finger found his throat, piercing it.
Blood sprayed, staining the polished floors.
“Kyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
And the hall erupted into chaos.
Clang!
As the screams of women rang loud, more steel flashed in the candlelight.
Shadows shifted where there should be none, figures emerging from them.
Before Malik could begin to move towards them…
“Ah.”
Duban staggered, a dagger buried in his side.
His bride gasped, blood blooming across her new cloak.
Nasir grunted, a blade piercing his shoulder, his assailant… overpowering him?
Safira’s eyes widened in shock before she, too, was struck.
More fell.
This…
It had all happened in an instant.
The moment Malik had killed that man, tens more appeared in his place.
The militia’s soldiers, those not fast enough to react, were cut down in an instant.
But that instant—short as it was—was enough.
Enough for Malik to move.
Just as his hand left the first assassin’s throat, he was already upon another, a Devil’s Footstep left in his wake.
One.
His fist shattered the skull of an assassin before they could drive their blade deeper into Duban’s ribs.
Two.
His borrowed blade flashed, severing a head from its shoulders before its owner could turn invisible, escaping Nasir.
Three.
A kick sent another flying across the room, bones breaking on impact before Malik drove the dagger through his chest.
Four. Five. Six.
They fell, one after another, before they could even understand what was happening.
Malik was there, then gone, then there again, his body moving in ways that should not have been possible.
The hall shook with the force of his strikes, bodies hitting the ground in heaps.
Ten seconds. That was all it took. Just ten.
Silence fell over the hall.
Only Malik remained standing, his chest rising and falling, steam curling off his skin, fire melting the marble beneath his feet as it clawed up his legs.
Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling at the molten material.
The assassins were dead. Every last one of them.
His eyes snapped to his people.
Duban was down, hand pressed to his wound, his breathing labored.
His bride lay beside him, pale but alive.
Nasir gritted his teeth, tearing the dagger from his shoulder, blood running down his arm.
And Safira—
Malik crossed the room in an instant, kneeling beside her as she gasped for breath.
Her fingers clutched at the wound at her side, blood staining her dress.
“Hey… T-Teach.”
She choked out, forcing a smirk as her greens met his gold.
“Took your time.”
He didn’t know if she meant he’d taken too long to reveal himself, or to come to her… or maybe both.
Didn’t matter.
Malik quickly pressed his hands against her wound.
“You’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
Her smile wavered.
“I always am… You know that.”
He looked up and around.
The hall was a ruin of its former glory.
A grotesque contrast to the beauty it had held mere moments ago.
Silk banners were torn. Tables were overturned. The scent of rosewater was now mixed with smoke, blood, and burnt cloth.
Bodies. God, there were bodies everywhere.
Men who’d been stomping and singing lay motionless, limbs twisted.
Women in bright silks now crumpled, dresses soaked dark, their cheers replaced by silence.
Some had died trying to run. Others hadn’t even gotten the chance.
The whole wedding had turned into a slaughter before anyone could even process it.
Malik felt the weight of it all settle in his gut; his ears rang, and his heart pounded in his throat like it didn’t know whether to beat or break.
He couldn’t even fully process what the Hell had happened yet—couldn’t make sense of the chaos, the screams, the sudden stillness—
When a cruel voice cut through it all:
“Al-Ayan sends their regards.”
Malik’s head snapped toward the source.
It was one of the assassins—one he had been sure he killed.
The man’s body was broken, his chest caved in from the force of his strike, yet somehow, he still spoke.
His lips curled into a bloody smile, and then—
WHHHHIIIINNNNEEEEEE!
An extremely familiar sound followed.
One that he heard an unfathomable number of times.
Like a mechanical contraption straining against an impossible load, it intensified and reached a fever pitch.
An Aether core was about to implode, and Malik…
He could do nothing about it.
Turning back around, he wrapped himself around Safira before his brain even fully understood what he was doing.
Malik pulled her close. Shielded her the best he could.
A blinding light swallowed them whole.
The world disappeared.
A deafening silence fell upon it.
CRACK—BOOO—!
“NEVER!”