Roya cut in, a soft smile on her face.
Not a real smile. It never was with her.
But this one held meaning.
One that Layla picked up on immediately.
She knew exactly what that smile was hiding, her merchant brain catching the little things.
"You’re scared, aren’t you, little broker? You don’t want the projection to embarrass you before the vote, huh? Afraid it’ll hurt your chances?"
"Might actually help you, though. People like humility. Unless, of course..."
Her voice dropped, murder coming through.
"You’ve done something to my husband."
The whole room went still again.
"If that’s really the case, don’t worry about the vote."
Her purple eyes glowed bright.
"You’ll die. I swear on my life you’ll die."
Noor raised her brows, not at all fazed by her words.
"You’re willing to exchange your soul for ours? Following in your father’s footsteps, I see."
Roya calmly intervened a moment before Layla could lash out:
"The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree."
Okay, never mind, she joined in the catfight.
The tension spiked at once, and just as it hit its peak—
Safira snapped, pushing Layla back while stepping forward.
"Say another word and see what happens."
She raised her right hand and pointed it right at Noor, her body trembling with rage.
The Sultan’s only disciple was seething, perhaps even more so due to the jealousy she felt earlier.
Sure, she wasn’t in her prime back then, but she still was gorgeous!
She, Safira, was the Fairy of Devil’s Maw, not Noor, Goddammit!
"Huda and Layla aren’t the only ones willing to die."
Noor stared at her for a long moment.
Then, casually, she turned her gaze to Azeem.
Her mouth didn’t open; she only looked at him.
"Pull your girl back"—that was what her eyes said.
Azeem shrugged and motioned lazily.
Nasir and Fariq, who stood behind him, moved.
They stepped in front of Safira, just before her pointing hand.
Without saying a word, they smiled sadly at her.
Trembling still, she glanced towards them and slowly smiled back.
That warm, motherly kind of smile that didn’t need words.
Moments passed, and she eventually nodded her head.
Her hand lowered soon after.
Then, the five of them—Huda, Safira, Layla, Nasir, and Fariq—stepped away from the projection together.
They didn’t say it out loud.
But everyone in the hall heard it.
Every coalition member, every elder, every Magi, every bystander—
Because their stories were just beginning.
They’d wait until every secret Roya and Noor carried got dragged into the light.
And it would really matter.
{Inside The Projection}
A "foreigner," huh?...
That made Malik pause.
Born with a golden spoon.
The best golden spoon there was.
One with no suffering or scars of any kind.
This boy made him feel something.
It too was foreign... something he hadn’t felt until now.
But even he knew what this feeling was.
There was no doubt about it.
He was envious of the boy.
{Outside The Projection}
Though still reeling from the tension, the hall exploded with sound:
"Wait, wait, hold up... did the Sultan envy Lord Zafar?"
"No FUCKING way, man!"
"The man who made the word ’impossible’ meaningless, who crawled out of and into Hell, and literally died an unfathomable number of times, envies some pretty boy?!"
The hall had officially lost its mind, forgetting all about that vote.
"Lord Zafar?? ZAFAR??"
"Lord Zafar, whose hands haven’t even touched sand?!"
"Lord Zafar, whose face can’t even grow a beard properly?!"
"Lord Zafar, who never lost a damn thing in his whole life?!"
That last one was a little uncalled for, coming from the same old troll, but the hall, and even those of Zafar’s camp, were too in their feelings to say anything about it.
They were so caught up that it seemed to go over them how everything they spouted off was the very thing Malik was envious of.
The older ones in the crowd didn’t say much, nor did those in the front, nor did their camps, because they had realized what most didn’t.
They looked at Malik’s expression in the projection.
That strange, unreadable, not-quite smile.
...It stung seeing that.
Because if a man like that—
A man who had everything ripped from him, a man who built power from the ground up, who turned grief into fire and walked through Hell—
If even he felt that twist in his chest looking at a golden boy who never suffered...
Then what did that say about them?
Just how low were they?
"...He never truly healed."
"He never even tried."
Azeem shook his head.
None of them were laughing.
None of them were throwing petty insults.
Because for just a moment, a very short moment...
They saw the boy behind the Sultan.
And the boy was tired.
Still bleeding from wounds no Aether could ever fix.
Meanwhile, Zafar, the lone "hero," stood frozen in a world no one could see but him.
Watching the man he despised—yet, against his will, had always begrudgingly idolized and compared himself to—confess the one thing he thought he’d never hear.
Not hatred, disappointment, or superiority.
Envy. Fucking ENVY. ENVY!
Malik was envious of him.
And not of his strength.
It was almost funny. Because, well...
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Not at all.
The man who most envied Malik...
Was already envied by Malik.
Zafar envied Malik’s status, his family, his love, his strength, and all of his achievements.
Yes, it was dumb to envy someone who went through Jahannam an unfathomable number of times, but the heart was seldom logical.
Zafar was seldom logical.
If the emotionally intelligent of the crowd heard that question, they would’ve undoubtedly beaten this man up.
Or, well, they’d do so with their words:
"Because you were born clean!"
"Because you were born free!"
"You didn’t have to burn to matter!"
But Zafar was far from them.
All he heard in response was silence.
It made him look smaller than ever.
He realized he’d been chasing the shadow of a man who would’ve done the impossible to live in the light that he took for granted.
He didn’t know what to feel about that.
It was too much to process.
{Inside The Projection}
"The rest aren’t worth worrying about."
The Chancellor went back to his seat.
"Talented enough to be here, yes, but not worth your attention."
He handed Malik an insignia.
Silver. Mark of professor status.
"Go. Your new home isn’t far. Start slow... and don’t make me regret my decision."
Malik took the insignia.
"...Don’t make me regret mine."
With that line, he walked out.
That was when he saw her.
Not the dancer... the singer, no.
She was someone unfamiliar.
Someone not as beautiful.
But someone equally important.
He knew it at first glance.
The girl had blonde hair, her eyes striking blue.
She looked normal, average, but something about her felt... wrong.
Her back pressed against a pillar, but it was close to the door, and she was in his face, smiling a weird one.
"Nice to meet you, Professor."