Malik drifted through that strange calm above the world, where his name meant something larger than life itself and nothing at once. Here, there was no wind, no air, no weight. Only silence—eternal silence—and him, floating, an afterthought of a man beyond most men.
He didn't want to think about his people.
Especially not about her.
Even now, after all that... after embodying that moment, her moment, her goodbye, her weight in his life, his heart still did that little twist every time her name came close.
Despite everything, that softness in him never died, and he hated it.
Even if their relationship was over... that did not change. Rather, it had only gotten stronger, especially now that he accepted who he was.
That soft spot—it was the one thing in him that refused to be carved out by war or betrayal.
So, to stop himself from feeling for her, he simply didn't think about her.
He thought about the others instead.
Faqir... his brother.
A brotherhood he didn't deserve.
But... still. He'd make that choice again if he ever blinked back in time.
Despite all that pain, he believed that it was the right choice.
Faqir, not the father, the son.
The boy, though nearly as old as Malik himself, still had so much to grow into, so much left in him. Yet he stood in front of monsters with his chin high and his hands shaking. Malik saw it. Saw the way his body trembled, the way he tried so hard to be steel but still reeked of fear and hope and grief.
Yet, even then, even then, he had said it:
Malik thought about that.
About how the boy had lost so much, and yet, instead of curling into that loss like so many others did, he chose to reach.
And that… that made him proud in a way he didn't know how to voice.
This was his niece... his brother's boy... and he was all grown up.
It almost made him smile... almost.
Then Duban, his little junior.
Duban, who'd seen it all, tasted the worst of it, and still stood tall.
He was always good with words, courtesy of his father's teachings, but it wasn't just wisdom. It was experience. And that bastard had a library of it, even at his once young age.
Their relationship was... unfortunate. Malik and he could've become friends, the best of friends, brothers even, but circumstances didn't allow that, the world didn't.
And then, of course… Nasir.
Malik's throat tightened—well, it would have, if he still had one.
Despite all that he put him through, Malik could never hate the man.
His actions... or rather inactions, were never out of malice but were simply the best strategy at that point in time.
He could understand that, as a Sultan, he could easily understand that, relate to it.
And like himself, Nasir never asked for forgiveness. Never asked for recognition. Never cared if his orders made people hate him. If that was their path to victory, he would take it.
He was someone who acted not out of heroism, not out of glory, but because it was the only right thing left.
Nasir gave up everything just to give Malik a few more seconds before death claimed them.
Without him, perhaps Malik would've never known exactly when IT Fell upon them.
That sacrifice was not in vain.
His life was not in vain.
That man would always be a man who held his respect.
Fathers... every father he'd met was a sacrificial idiot.
'Ahaha... hahahaha...'
And in that moment, he laughed.
One of those hard, dry laughs that came out like Scrolls over bone.
Because, of course, it made no sense. Of course, the loudest bastards in his life would leave him in silence.
Because now, he knew.
He was a bastard like them, too.
The next story, the next volume, the in this Godforsaken tale?
It was going to be the worst one yet.
Malik slowly looked down, and his eyes fell to his chest.
There, right where IT had touched him—where no hand should've reached—was a mark.
Not a scar. Not a wound. A serpent.
It coiled tightly around his second heart, the one born not of flesh, but of Aether.
Its tail wrapped beneath, its head above, jaws devouring its own body.
Ouroboros. An eternal cycle.
At first glance, it looked black, but it wasn't. No… not really.
Its scales were buried under so many Cursed runes, so many etched in Arcane Malik couldn't even begin to decipher, that its true color was lost beneath the ink of damnation.
It was hidden beneath prophecy and punishment. Beneath roles forced upon him.
It was the shape of fate, eating itself.
Malik just watched it turn.
Indeed, his colors...
Obscured beneath layers and layers of destiny and tragedy.
This had become a part of him, a part of his Essence.
O savior of the weak, O killer, O Stranger, O me,
I am besieged by the slaves of darkness. By IT.
Death has been decreed by the tyrant of tyrants,
And just as you died defending your children,
I, too, shall die defending mine.
"Never to humiliation"—so said you, my commander.
Your eyes will meet mine, and they will see,
They will be pleased when I rise and the enemies flee,
And the fiercest of them retreat from my blade.
I have warned them of the greater danger,
And he who warns has done his duty, O brother.
Let the battlefield celebrate when war rages,
Let me hunt heroes in the arena of battle.
None like me will be found in combat,
And atop the warriors, I will stride,
They will find no escape from death.
Today, let those who do not know me see,
Today, I will let them witness the Stranger.
As I roar in battle, I will strike my enemies,
With the red jaws of death, O brother.
When I step forth, my eyes shall not close,
If my thirsty sword drinks, I shall relive the Gate,
And trample upon the necks of the pitiful.
A sight that will please you, O brother.
Soon, I shall join you with glad tidings,
And in your eyes, I shall find a heart at peace.
But behind me, I will leave a body on the burning sand.
Bury me in the warmth of your memory, O brother,
For none shall remain to weep for me.
I will go as I had come, O brother—