One of her loyal followers screeched, clutching their chest like they'd just been mortally wounded.
"It's fine! It's fine!"
Another immediately chimed in as they desperately tried to salvage her honor.
"The meaning is what matters! Guidance! It represents guidance! How beautiful is that?!"
Someone else echoed with a feverish nod, sweat practically dripping down their face.
"Honestly, who even cares where it came from? It's symbolic! A divine coincidence, really!"
"It's about the intent! The name inspires! It's a beacon of hope! A star in the endless darkness!"
The pro-Huda camp clung to these explanations like life rafts, throwing out increasingly grandiose interpretations.
"A name fit for someone destined to lead! To guide our people to greatness!"
But their voices were drowned out by the unmistakable sound of snickering.
Zafar Al-Nadir, the "hero" of this world, showed a smile while watching the image of his supposed friend drown.
The situation, though bad for their coalition, made him feel better about himself.
After all, his name was special, for he was Victory, Triumph, and Precious.
His tongue mimicked a slithering snake as he drawled:
"So the great Villain decides to name our Lady after... a cab company?"
Though he meant it as a tease, an unfamiliar man joined in and clapped his hands slowly, sarcasm practically dripping from him:
"Indeed Lord Zafar, it's truly inspirational. Nothing screams 'nobility' like a shabby ride through the backstreets of Zawaya."
"Shut your mouth, Azeem, you, out of all in this hall, have no right to say anything!"
One of Huda's people shot back, their face red with fury.
"Besides, a man like you wouldn't understand the depth of it!"
Azeem flipped over his long, braided, ponytailed, black hair that stretched down to his ankles.
Most of the gold around his neck and forearms rattled by the move, jingling enough to annoy everyone around him.
"Oh, there's depth, alright. The depths of a bad joke."
Huda's followers and sisters wanted so badly to sock him a new one, but they knew better than to attack him.
Though he looked like a flamboyant and barely muscular young man, his red, ring-like eyes alone had kept them at bay.
Moreover, this man was the one who had accompanied Malik throughout his life as the Sultan.
He was Malik's right-hand man, the one who oversaw all the death and destruction.
Many of them believed that he should've been there, dead alongside his master, but a fairer few had disagreed, having them delay his execution until later.
It was only right that he saw Malik killed first; after all, he too was betrayed.
"What? Cat got your tongue?"
Huda's voice cut through the chaos like a whip.
Everyone in her immediate vicinity froze, mimicking the paused world of earlier.
Her face was beet red, the kind of red that could make even the ripest of tomatoes weep with envy.
But her expression? Pure exasperation.
"You're all embarrassing me."
She glared at her loyalists first.
"Stop twisting it into something it's not. It's a name, not a prophecy!"
She turned her glare on Azeem next, her tone dropping to something far more dangerous.
"And you—shut up before I shove your slithering tongue down your throat."
Azeem blinked, his smirk faltering for just a moment before he raised his hands in mock surrender.
Huda sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Malik gave me a name. That's all. And, yes, maybe it's from a taxi service, but who cares? It's mine now."
Her gaze swept across the room, daring anyone to argue.
"Let's focus on what matters, alright? Like the fact that he's about to leave us behind! That's what I care about—not some stupid taxi!"
With that, she crossed her arms and looked back at the projection, clearly done with the conversation.
The room stayed silent for a beat, everyone too stunned—or too scared—to respond.
And then someone whispered:
"Honestly though... it is really beautiful."
Huda groaned, burying her face in her hands.
She really needed new followers.
{Inside The Projection}
Sinbad's eyes went wide, and the two of them broke into quiet laughter, trying not to wake Huda.
Sinbad whispered, holding out his pinky.
Malik grinned and held out his own pinky to meet the boy's, but just before they could seal the deal, he froze.
His ears caught the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing outside the room, and his smile dropped instantly.
He whispered, quickly pulling the blanket over them and pushing the two deeper into the bed.
He held Sinbad close, covering his mouth with a firm but gentle hand.
The door creaked open.
"Can't get, uh, used to place..."
"Shit's barely holdin' on~."
Three men stumbled in, their gait unsteady and their speech slurred.
Malik's stomach twisted as he eyed them.
Damned drunkards, slave traders—dangerous and desperate ones at that.
They were on their last legs, clearly out of options.
"Still smells like piss."
One of them laughed, kicking a hole through the wooden wall just for fun.
"Ain't it just. Hey, where's the little rat? He owes us."
Malik sat up slightly, prepared to put his body between the men and the children at a moment's notice.
"Already paid my dues for last week; you were supposed to come tomorrow for the next."
"Yeah, and I ain't got shit today, so get the fuck out and let me sleep."
The first man squinted at him, stepping closer.
"What's with the blanket, then? Hiding food again?"
Malik forced a laugh.
"Learned my lesson last time, didn't I? No food. Just me trying to stay warm."
The man stared for a moment longer, then burst into loud, obnoxious laughter.
"Good, be that way if you don't want your legs to get fucked up again!"
The second man joined in, and Malik held his breath, hoping they'd leave.
But just as they were about to step out, a small sound shattered the tense silence.
A soft, sleepy grumble.
Malik's blood ran cold.
The men froze, their heads snapping back toward him.