Everyone froze.
What?
Wait.
Wait, wait a second.
You mean to say—
“You mean he beat IT?”
Someone hissed, turning toward their neighbor.
“Depravity? The Sultan won against that thing?”
“No, no. That’s not—”
Someone else started, only to fall quiet halfway through.
Because suddenly… it made sense.
Safira and Duban were still alive.
Not with black eyes.
Not with pulsing veins.
Not deformed in any shape or form.
They were not Corrupted.
They were just… people again.
People standing in the hall like statues.
Currently hollow, yes. Scarred beyond belief, absolutely. But alive.
And one couldn’t be alive if Depravity had claimed them.
Not like that. Not with eyes like theirs.
Which meant—
“He stopped it.”
Someone said out loud, voice shaking.
“He actually stopped it.”
That was it.
That was the crack in the dam.
Everyone started talking.
“Holy Hell….”
“The thing that even the True Sultan never dared face head-on—the Sultan went against it and succeeded?!”
“How?!”
“There’s no way! There’s no fucking way!”
“But they lived. That wasn’t just some random fluke. That was him.”
“…And they called him a betrayer.”
It spread like wildfire.
Shock turning into awe, awe into disbelief, and disbelief into guilt.
The last part was mainly those who had cursed him for this, the ones that screamed traitor. Because now, they were realizing something far worse than all the horror they’d just seen.
For years, they’d hated the only man who had stood against the darkness—and won.
He chose to burn in Hell alone so the rest of them didn’t have to.
He chose to save their prince, their only hope after Nasir.
He chose to save their mother, their only backbone after Nasir.
And now they were realizing it.
Too late.
Way, way too late.
One particular man had felt guilt the most.
Faqir’s son, Faqir.
His eyes had just aged a lifetime.
He stood there, arms loose by his sides, hands twitching like they didn’t know if they wanted to punch a wall or reach out and hug someone who wasn’t there.
A few people turned toward him slowly, wondering.
He didn’t speak yet.
The… boy just stared at the projection, remembering the scene: his father, crumpled on the floor… and Malik kneeling beside him.
The whole crowd had seen it—they all saw it.
Malik didn’t save him.
He could have.
But he didn’t.
And yet… the son didn’t scream.
Didn’t shout. Didn’t curse.
He just breathed in deep and let it out with a small, trembling sound.
“…He won.”
The son’s jaw tightened.
“The Sultan had to make an impossible choice… and he didn’t choose my father.”
A harsh inhale echoed.
“He chose everyone else.”
Malik had chosen the world over one man.
Over a friend.
Over a brother.
If he let Duban die… then, contrary to what Al-Ayan believed, war would not be extinguished.
They would not roll over and allow them to take Oasis unchallenged.
Nasir had shown the Twelvers a force to be reckoned with.
And so, by saving the heir, he managed to quell their anger, even if only a little.
That was enough to avoid a war that would’ve torn through the South.
So indeed…
“My father didn’t die for nothing.”
Tears caught in his throat.
“He died so the South could live.”
Many next to the frozen duo dropped to their knees.
Men and women alike, they cared not for anyone watching.
At that moment, the world was only them and the Sultan.
“I hated you.”
A grizzled old man spoke for them.
“Sultan. I hated you for what you did… What I thought you did.”
They looked up toward the ceiling, like they were trying to stare through the heavens.
“But now? Now I hate myself more. You did what none of us could ever hope to do.”
Another person nodded.
“You stood in front of IT.”
“You didn’t run.”
“You saved Lady Safira.”
“You saved Commander Duban.”
“Us.”
A sobbing woman muttered under her breath:
“God forgive us… We made that man a pariah.”
That was when Fariq joined them in the front and kneeled beside them.
“…My father never cried.”
He looked down.
“But I think, in that last moment… if he could’ve? He would’ve cried for the Sultan.”
They had just seen the truth, and it broke them.
The man they feared and hated…
Was the one who had saved them.
Now, when they looked at Malik, they did so only with pity.
Not at him or what he went through.
But at themselves.
At the fact that they never had the honor of calling themselves his supporters.
For he was a Stranger till the day he died.
That disguise hadn’t changed what he was.
It was only a physical manifestation.
Just… just how impossibly unfair could the world be to a person?
To that question, all that remained in their hearts was absolute sorrow.
And that’s when they all looked again—well, were about to—until something else pulled their attention.
Or more like… someone didn’t.
Azeem was gone.
He wasn’t in the hall.
Where the Hell did he go?
After thinking that, they turned to the others, hoping someone else had answers.
But nope. What they saw hit harder than anything they were ready for.
Huda and Crimson were out cold. Knocked out.
The massive owl just laid there with her on top of him like a rag doll.
Malik’s pain—everything he’d gone through—must’ve just crushed them.
It was too much. Way too much.
Then, there was Layla.
Oh, Layla…
She wasn’t unconscious. She wished she was, honestly. But no—she was sitting there wide awake, curled up on this janky-looking chair made entirely of bones.
The poor girl was sobbing. Broken little gasps. Her face was pale. Hollow.
Everything she feared had been proven to be true… everything.
A burning truth.
Malik never betrayed anyone. Not a single soul.
And she wasn’t relieved. She wasn’t grateful or happy or anything you’d expect.
Oh, no. Far from that. She was devastated. Because now she knew—really knew—what that meant.
It meant the man she loved, her husband, was never the “villain.”
He was just… in pain. Always had been.
Even when they were married, even when he smiled and held her hand and whispered sweet things in the quiet moments, trying to appease her, acting like a proper husband…
Deep down, what he wanted most was to die.
And she didn’t see it.
Didn’t stop it.
Didn’t help him.
Layla didn’t just feel guilty. She didn’t just feel sad or regretful or any of that.
She felt like she didn’t deserve to keep breathing.
She’d failed him on every level. As a wife. As a partner. As a friend. As a human being.
And now, she’d made a decision.
She wasn’t going to sit around waiting for time to do its thing, take its damn course.
No, when this whole nightmare ended—when all the dust settled and the blood stopped flowing and whatever passed for peace finally returned—
Layla decided to go find him.
Join him.
Wherever he was.
Because what was left for her here?
One Thousand Nights? It could go on without her. Dunya would take care of it. She was strong. Capable.
She didn’t need Layla around, not anymore.