Malik didn't respond.
He had no interest in political struggles.
They came here to rest, to resupply, to bury their dead. Nothing more.
Even if they were asked to help, he wouldn't. No matter the coin. He knew the risks.
It was too much. He didn't save those purple heads for them to die just a few hours later.
And so, after thanking the guards, spouting drivel and pleasantries, they left the area, joining Layla in wandering the streets.
At least Malik did. Ali Baba went to sell the weapons and armor they'd been so generously gifted. He also went to take care of the funeral proceedings for the men they lost, following whatever religion they wished, if any.
And speaking of funerals... there was one happening right in front of them.
Layla was already in the crowd, eyes locked on the slow-moving procession.
Malik quickly slid in beside her, just as curious. He had buried many before, too many for his liking, but never once did he do it right. Sure, this one followed the rules of a religion he cared not for, but that didn't mean he couldn't learn something from it.
A group of men wearing all black carried a long, cloth-covered coffin on their shoulders, their steps steady, their backs straight.
There was no struggle, no grimaces of effort, not one sign of weeping.
If anything, they looked… honored. Like carrying that weight, feeling it press down on them, was a blessing. Something sacred.
Behind them, others followed, wearing similar cloth, holding instruments—big drums, little ones, and a long, wailing pipe that sent shivers through the air.
Malik didn't know of those instruments, but a few whispers in the crowd introduced them to him.
The Dhol boomed first.
A heavy, deep thump-thump, like a heartbeat made of thunder.
Then the Tasha—a sharp, staccato tapping, light but insistent, like rain against stone.
And finally, the Shenai.
That sound was something else entirely.
A long, mournful wail, rising and falling like a voice trying not to break.
Malik felt it settle in his ribs. Deep. A sorrow unfamiliar.
Just the music alone had sent him to a somber place. Reminding him of times he swore to never forget.
He'd likely been the one most impacted by this scene, even though he couldn't be more of a stranger to the corpse they were carrying.
The funeral march continued forward, the drums pounded and the shenai cried.
...He was left behind.
Malik could've chased after them like the crowd did, but he stood still, watching them go.
'Please. Rest in peace.'
A scream resounded. Piercing... Familiar.
Malik's head turned before his mind even caught up.
She was the source of the scream.
She stood there, frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open...
A blade jutted from her stomach, slick with her blood.
The man holding it—just some man, some forgettable face, nothing remarkable—grinned.
Right... She had been just behind the crowd, a step away.
Close enough to see the procession, to hear the music, but not fully part of it.
Watching, listening, lost in thought—until the moment she wasn't.
The man came from the crowd... No one noticed him at first.
Just another figure in the sea of people, his hood drawn low, his hands steady...
He buried his dagger into her heart, then, just quickly, he yanked it back out.
Gasps. Whispers. A sharp inhale from an old woman. A child whimpered, clutching at their mother's robes. Someone cursed under their breath, taking a step back.
"What just happened?"
"She—she's on the ground—"
Malik's thoughts paused.
His curved sword was unsheathed before the bastard could even begin to run away.
The edge gleamed for a fraction of a second before it met flesh.
A scream tore through the hush, some young woman's horror manifesting in sound.
"His head—oh God, his head—"
People stumbled backward, knocking into one another.
"He—he cut his head clean off!"
Some ran. Others froze. But Malik's attention wasn't on them at all.
The body hit the ground next to Layla's, blood pooling, mixing, indistinguishable.
He looked down at them in silence, unable to process a single thought.
Around him, a crowd of the braver and smarter villagers had formed.
None of them moved. None screamed. Just whispers. Murmurs.
Though he was a bit far, the man had somehow still gotten the news. Felt her...
Malik barely stepped aside before he shoved his way forward, wild-eyed, frantic.
His breathing was all wrong—too fast. His hands trembled before they even reached her.
"That's my girl... my girl."
His knees hit the ground. Hard. He didn't feel it. Couldn't.
His arms wrapped around her, shaking, desperate.
"...No. No, no, no—NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-AAAHHHRRGGHHH!"
The sound that left him wasn't human.
It was something else.
Something cracked, something ruined, something past grief, past pain.
Something that should never exist, never be heard. Just... ruin.
Just a father, holding what should never have been lost.
Malik stood there. Watching.
Something was wrong with the Aether.
He had seen it shift before, had felt it move in response to will, to presence, to battle—but never .
This wasn't like the threads he pulled, the currents he wove into his strikes.
The Aether here was... rejecting him.
It coiled, rippled, but not for him.
It pulsed toward Layla.
Only Layla. Ignoring him.
Malik frowned, lifting a hand, fingers twitching as he... reached for it—
His control, his pull—it didn't work. The Aether didn't even stir.
His lips parted slightly, breath shallow.
His mind whirled, searching for an answer, a pattern, something to latch onto—
Was it her? Was it something about her? Was she still alive?
The thought made his heart hammer.
He quickly dismissed it and tried again.
The Aether had made its choice.
With that, Malik pushed those thoughts away.
There were other threats to deal with.
'...We're being watched.'
It seemed that his mind had finally come to a conclusion about something long overdue.
His gaze lifted, scanning. The rooftops. The alleyways. The figures shifting just out of view. The ones who were waiting. The ones who knew this was going to happen.
'We're being targeted.'
Malik wasn't going to allow it.
A Dhol pounded in the distance.
Somewhere, the Shenai wailed.
This was her funeral.