{Outside The Projection}
"...Did Lord Sinbad just—"
The bird that flew spoke.
And all the hall’s words paused.
He had shut them down before they could even be let out.
Everyone nearly had their jaws fall to the marble ground.
They simply could not process this truth.
Malik was going to survive, of course he was... and they...
They knew that it’d require a sacrifice; that was how the world worked.
It was how the world would continue to work.
But never... never did they think it was going to be this.
Finally, Malik had regained a bit of happiness.
Not all of his past was unending tragedy.
And yet now, that last bit...
He was alone once more.
More alone than he ever was.
Most of the crowd had gotten back on their feet, but a few remained on their knees.
And those ’few’ only lowered their heads further.
They could not bear to look at what was going to happen next.
They could not bear to look at Sinbad...
No one dared approach him.
Not even Layla, the very one he embraced when she was at her lowest.
She knew better than to.
Azeem, Safira, and everyone who loved the big little Crimson knew not to.
Besides, walking under the projection now would be a death sentence.
There was no way any of them could survive Malik’s physical pain.
Let alone his soul... and his loss.
For what a loss it was.
{Inside The Projection}
Sand stuck to his boots.
Blood dried in the cracks.
And he came back to life.
Fresh clothes adorned his figure.
The same black and orange.
But that wasn’t all that changed.
It didn’t feel like much, actually.
Just cold. Then heat. And then cold again.
Rough cold. Bitter wind.
His knees buckled once, but he stabbed Spine Splitter into the ground and leaned on it like some tired old man.
That sword had held him through worse. It could hold him now.
Malik’s head craned to the left.
His eyes landed on a little black thing on his shoulder.
Didn’t blink, didn’t breathe too deep, just stared.
The black-feathered thing stared right back, his beady pink eyes wide and glassy, like he was waiting for something. Maybe a command. Maybe a memory. Maybe... nothing.
A plain, stupid little hoot.
Malik heard nothing from that hoot.
There was no twist of wit or subtle jab.
It was simply a dry sound that disappeared into the wind before it meant anything.
His face didn’t change.
There was nothing to mourn.
This bird, perched like some pitiful crown on Malik’s shoulder, wasn’t a companion anymore.
Wasn’t a soul-bonded brother from a world he wished he could return to.
Because that hoot said it all.
It was just the sound of a bird.
Indeed, this was Black... only Black.
Sinbad was no longer there.
He was... gone. Flew away.
This owl had returned to what it was.
Black feathers, sharp eyes, regal posture, sure.
Looked fancy enough to be something.
But he wasn’t anything. Not anymore.
A dumb but royal-looking bird.
That was all that was left.
That was it, nothing more.
Malik finally broke the stare and shifted his weight.
His knees complained again. Still, he stood.
The sword held firm in the snow.
Then the owl hooted again.
Instead, he reached up and plucked him off his shoulder, slow and gentle, like lifting a stone from a grave.
The bird squawked and flapped, confused by the gesture, but he just held Black in front of him.
Held him like a thing.
Not a dear little brother. Not a friend. Not an enemy. Just a thing.
His talons kicked against his wrist, his animal instincts kicking in.
And those eyes—those hollow, DUMB bird eyes—stared.
Malik gave him one last look. Then...
Black took off into the grey sky with a clumsy flap, wheeled once, then disappeared into the clouds.
Malik didn’t watch him fly off.
He turned back toward his people and walked.
Spine Splitter kept digging into the ground like a cane, each thump cracking the dried earth a little more.
All around him, his people moved, a storm in motion.
He passed a boy carrying a stack of scrolls higher than his head.
Passed another dragging a saddle that was three sizes too big for him.
Rami’s small cohort tore apart wagons and crates, shouting over each other.
Sarah and Zayna were stripping the cassocks off fallen priests, collecting Holy Relics in baskets as if they were picking fruit.
Steeds neighed as they were pulled along. Steel clanged. Barrels cracked open. People laughed at the loot before them—ugly, bitter laughter.
A victory without celebration.
A victory steeped in too much pain to ever feel like a win.
They were looting every one of Shimr’s camps.
Every tent. Every chest. Every wagon.
They all bled for it.
This was more than earned.
Malik kept walking, much slower than he was used to.
Not because he couldn’t move faster, but because he didn’t want to.
This moment needed to be slow.
Eventually, he passed by a group of young boys, too young to have fought in this, but not too young to be angry.
They were dragging out a painted tapestry of Shimr stomping and spitting on it.
Hearing the crunch of snow, one of them looked up, eyes meeting Malik’s.
His buddies looked up.
Malik turned his head.
He squinted at a group on the edge of this camp.
Like these kids, they weren’t just looting.
They were raging, destroying.
Smashing what wasn’t worth taking.
Tearing down every little statue or painting.
Kicking over candle stations and setting fire to tents not for warmth, but because they could.
One had even taken a sword and was chopping up a good rug like it had killed his mother.
Tarek was among them.
Teenagers, or, well, young men, needed to make mistakes.
It was how they learned.
And this seemed to be the first of his.
Tarek was holding a priest’s staff in both hands, using it to crack open a gilded box. Something clanged inside it. Broken. He kicked it for good measure.
When Malik stepped into their zone, the whole group froze.
Like kids caught doing something bad by their mama.
One dropped a sack of scrolls. Another looked away. Tarek let go of the staff and stepped back, expecting a scolding.
Malik didn’t fulfill that expectation.
He only walked over to one of the barrels.
And spilled its contents all over the ground.
Rice. Good rice. Meant for them. Inedible now.
And the whole region turned quiet.
Only dead, confused silence remained...
Until Tarik cracked a grin.
"Oops, indeed, my Lord."
With him at the lead, the group laughed, and as Malik nodded...
They went back to it. Wilder this time.
Wrecking everything. Laughing, crying, screaming curses into the sky.
"The plague of the North is dead!"
"This is what he deserves!"
"Burn it all—burn everything that bastard touched!"
"The world’s better off without him!"
Malik watched, a smile far from his face.
He watched until the wind carried the ashes of Shimr’s tents into the sky.
Watched until even the banners were gone—ripped to shreds, soaked in someone’s piss.
Then, having had enough, he turned around.
Kabir was there, of course. He never left.
The man walked five steps behind Malik since he got up.
He carried a rucksack with all his things. Kept watching him like he might drop again.
Malik didn’t. Wasn’t. But Kabir sure looked like he was about to.
Blood crusted at the corner of his mouth, his eyes sunken, his face pale.
But somehow, despite the incredible exhaustion he likely felt, the man stood tall.
And he knelt the moment Malik faced him.
He kept his eyes down, patient.
Malik, who appreciated that, glanced west.
Past the horizon. Past the hills. Past the lies waiting there.
...The war wasn’t over.
They’d won a battle, but the world still needed to be set straight.
Finally, it was time.
Time for what came next.
"It’s about time I fulfill an obligation."
Kabir’s eyes twitched.
His shoulders tightened.
Again, Malik didn’t answer. Just stared.
And Kabir, of course, understood what that meant.
He tried to hide the grin, but it came anyway.
Fear, excitement, guilt, and hunger—all of it twisted in his face like a knot.
The others started gathering around him, all quiet now, one by one, hearing their destination.
They, too, knew what it meant.
They weren’t retreating. They were heading straight for the belly of the beast.
"And what will we do there?"
At Kabir’s question, Malik looked towards the nearest camp. Or at least what remained of it... its wreckage, its ruin.
His hand clenched the hilt of Spine Splitter tighter.
"We’ll kill them all."