{Outside The Projection}
The projection paused.
The Hall's sounds were loud.
The distant flickering of oil lamps.
The gentle shift of feet, the rustle of cloth.
The breathing of too many people standing too close together.
But besides that? Nothing.
No matter how many seconds had passed.
No voices. No murmurs. No breath of reaction. No whisper of commentary.
The kind that had never settled over them before—because someone always broke it.
This... it had never NOT happened. Not even in the darkest moments.
Not when Malik had faced a shit-eating grin.
Not when Malik cut off that 'kid's' head.
Not when Malik was eaten alive.
Not when Layla had died.
There'd been quiet before—plenty of times, reaching a repetitive cadence—but never .
Crimson did not hoot.
Azeem, ever casual, did not speak.
Zafar, always with a dumb remark, did not speak.
Noor, whose eyes usually flickered with sharp assessments, did not speak.
Roya, whose every word carried malice, did not speak.
None of them dared. None of them could.
A single, shuddering, broken breath.
Wet with grief. Ragged with something worse than pain.
And what a cruel, cruel sight she had awoken to.
She had missed so much, but not this. No, fate would not be so kind.
At first, she didn't understand what she was looking at.
Her mind refused. Rejected it outright. No, it couldn't be—
'...Right? It couldn't.'
No. It could. And it was.
Layla's wide, unblinking eyes drank in the remnants of what had happened, unable to deny the truth playing over and over in her mind.
The sword. The swing. The final look. The smile... that damned smile.
"AaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHhhhHHhh!"
Her hands flew to her mouth, as if she could swallow the scream, shove it back where it came from. As if she could take back what had just happened. Unsee it. Undo it. Turn back time itself—like he could. Be cursed, just like him.
But she was free from that burden.
There was no turning back.
Layla's hiccup paused her cry.
A dry, shaking sound, half a sob, half a denial.
"No. No. No, no, no, no, no."
A whisper, growing louder, trembling, choked.
She rocked forward, her nails digging into the marble beneath her, her forehead pressing into the ground as her body convulsed with the weight of what she had just seen.
It wasn't supposed to end .
Malik wasn't supposed to—
She wasn't supposed to—
Her body heaved with the force of her grief, with the sheer violence of it, with the way it ripped through her bones and her blood and her very being.
The question tore from her lips, agonized, as if she were demanding an answer from the heavens themselves.
Like that time with Malik. No answer came.
She slammed a fist into the ground. Again. Again. Again.
Each hit punctuated by a sob, by a breath that could barely keep itself together.
She needed to draw blood, to feel something other than this horrible, horrible emptiness.
She had done what no one should have to do.
Layla's breath hitched violently in her throat, her body shaking.
"Oh… you cruel, cruel man."
Her head bowed, her shoulders shook, and...
"Making the one who loves you be the one to kill you."
{Inside The Projection}
Not for air, not for pain—just pure, raw shock.
Because he was supposed to be dead. He felt it.
Depravity had taken over. Corruption. He had fallen.
That moment, that final crack of his psyche, that surrender.
Before everything went to shit.
Malik knew Corruption touched the soul.
Even going back in time didn't work. It couldn't be avoided.
A blooming flower had engraved that in his mind. His soul.
That seemed not to be the case for him, however.
Sure, Corruption would only show its consequences at the time of the Fall.
But before then, there'd at least be signs within, signs of Corruption taking hold.
...There was none. At least not any new ones.
This meant one thing and one thing only...
Malik was an exception to the rule.
The Owner of his curse ensured his life's continuation.
'They' needed him to reach the destination they were after.
And they would never allow him to die. No matter the torture.
His chest rose and fell, his heartbeat thudding like war drums in his ears.
He touched his arms, his face—no burns, no scars. His body was whole again.
Malik knew that, but he simply wanted to make sure.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't some hallucination.
She had killed him. His blink had brought him back.
And this time, he wasn't going to ignore his suspicions.
They were being watched. They needed one of the purple heads.
...Hexbloods. Burning villages. Corruption. Aether synergy after death.
It all clicked together.
This was no coincidence.
'I need to find them.'
Without hesitation, he hopped off his steed and shot out of the formation.
Any shout that came his way was ignored, simply unheard.
His mind was focused on one thing and one thing alone.
Malik's eyes flicked around the rocks just a few kilometers away from the caravan.
He knew they were there. Hiding. Watching. Lurking like rats, thinking they were unseen. Thinking they had the upper hand.
They didn't. Not anymore.
Malik didn't have time for a slow search, didn't have the patience for caution.
He was done waiting, done playing this little game.
They wanted to watch him? Fine. Let them.
Let them burn while they did.
Malik lifted his hands, fingers curling, and golden fire bloomed at his fingertips, licking up his arms like hungry serpents, charring them.
The air around him hissed as the heat built, shimmering waves that warped the world.
A wave of flames roared outward in every direction, swallowing everything in its path.
Rocks sizzled, sand turned to molten glass, and the air was drowned with the smell of burning earth.
The morning was no longer dim. It was fire. Light. Heat. Fury.
Malik's flames licked and danced between the rocks.
They bent the light—except for one spot.
His fire had bounced off something.
Something that shimmered unnaturally, flickering between visibility and invisibility.
Malik's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.