{Outside The Projection}
The crowd stared at the scene unfolding in the projection above in silent amazement.
Malik, walking through the city like he was its Sultan.
A bard’s voice ringing out, one filled with venom.
And it wasn’t just any song.
The one they’d all been introduced to as the Second Sun.
The man with a river of blood on his hands and a bounty on his soul.
A man who betrayed to save... to sacrifice.
The whole kingdom was throwing a damn festival just to wish him a personal seat in Hellfire, Jahannam, his own Goddamned Divine Essence! Dancing, clapping, and praising his death while he was walking right through it.
"...Isn’t that just too... ironic?"
Someone finally whispered what they were all thinking.
"Hah. A little? That bard’s singing ’Burn, Stranger, burn,’ and the "Stranger’s" five feet away from her!"
"Whole damn parade is for his death."
"Thirteen years since the wedding, huh?"
"Thirteen years since the lie."
"You think this is just... coincidence?"
"No. This’s too specific."
"If it was, it’d sure be one Hell of a coincidence."
"Yeah, the chance of this happening is way near zero."
"Doubt that song could be a coincidence, too."
"This is fate playing its hand."
"Fate dragging the Sultan by the collar and spitting in his face."
"He’s still walking, though. Calm as ever."
It got them good, astounded them even.
The fact that he wasn’t bothered. Not at all.
He just kept walking. Cold. Quiet. Like he already knew how it’d end.
And it sure seemed like he did.
But that got paused for a moment.
The one where he saw that dancer.
That was when everything shifted a little.
She took center stage, literally and metaphorically.
Fire around her, hips swaying, steps soft and sharp all at once.
And that was what stole the attention of the rest of the hall.
Half the crowd remained whispering about Malik, about fate, irony, and Divine punishment.
But the rest? The arguably more detail-oriented bunch?
They all turned to one corner of the viewing hall.
She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.
The way she stared at the projection gave it away before she even opened her mouth.
A smile brighter than any other.
The kind of smile no one in the hall had ever seen on her. Not even once.
And beneath the veil hiding her face... she was blushing.
One couldn’t see it, but her ears betrayed her.
Those of her camp gasped.
Others, mainly the "heroines" and their own people, blinked, stunned.
That—that right there was more surprising than any of Fate’s games the projection had shown so far.
Because Noor Al-Ayan didn’t blush. Never.
But now she was practically glowing.
"She was dancing in public?"
"In the city square?"
"That’s... not very noble of her."
"Isn’t she embarrassed being seen like... that?"
She really, really didn’t.
She liked dancing. Always had.
It calmed her down. Helped her focus. Let her breathe.
She wasn’t embarrassed that the world had seen it.
She could do whatever she wanted; the people didn’t matter.
What did worry her, just a little, was what people might say in regard to her image.
Indeed, the image, the nobility thing, the whole ’Al-Ayan name must remain untarnished’ spiel—she was the one who always spouted that.
Never lower yourself before anyone, not even God.
These dancers weren’t exactly high status, and she just revealed to the whole world that she was one of them. A very good one at that.
Her pride couldn’t allow that, and yet she knew she could do nothing about it.
This projection could not be paused, and even if it could, it’d be a sign of weakness.
Either way, it’d come back to bite her in the ass. She had no way out.
So instead, her brain did the only thing it could.
And he complimented her.
Sure, he didn’t say or think a thing.
Didn’t even smile. But the projection never lied.
He was enamored by her beauty.
And that? ...That was enough.
What better compliment could she have?
Finally, finally... FINALLY!
She had one over him now.
Just one. But it was something.
But still, still, one.
She clung to it like a beggar to a gold coin.
It wasn’t much of a difference, yes, but a difference nevertheless.
A difference that mattered a whole lot to her... and to someone else.
Oh, Layla looked like she wanted to spit fire herself.
Her purple eyes locked on Noor like they were the sharpest of daggers.
Perhaps the sharpest they had ever been.
That was clear, cold jealousy.
And Noor looked back.
She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to.
That smug little tilt of her head said it all.
"He never looked at you like that, did he?"
And ohhh~, Layla, the man’s very wife, felt it.
Noor had just shoved the fact that Malik unknowingly called her prettier down Layla’s throat, and so this erupted her hatred even more.
She wasn’t alone in that either.
Even Safira—who had no reason to be in this mess, being his disciple—was glaring.
Whatever twisted little moment Noor had just stolen? They all saw it.
But then, before Safira could rush in and try to snap her neck—
Azeem stepped between them, grinning like a jester.
"Please. I beg. No catfights."
He had his arms raised.
"There’s an owl around, and he might not like the screeching."
All three women instinctively turned their eyes to the Golden Throne.
Big, soft, unblinking pink eyes.
That shut them all up real quick.
Layla stepped back. Safira looked away.
Noor just returned to her stillness. But the smile was still there.
Azeem nodded, satisfied.
"Turns out you’ve got a little—"
She didn’t even look at him when she said it.
"Alright, alright. My fault. Back to the show, yeah?"
Everyone turned back to the projection.
But they were watching it differently now.
Because it wasn’t just the "Stranger" anymore.
Her turn had finally come to enter this cursed little story...
And it was time for them to see why she hated him so much.