{Outside The Projection}
Their Fall had ended.
And now, finally, they could sleep.
Those were the same words he spoke back then.
When he stood alone in a wedding hall, surrounded by corpses.
A beautiful scene, huh?
Oh, yeah... it was beautiful, alright.
But not in the way most of them wanted to admit.
This was history playing out before their eyes.
That head—yes, that one, planted high on a spike—sparked more than just rage in the nobles back then, in their kings.
Big, soul-deep, sleep-robbing fear.
A humiliation that made them shudder.
Because that wasn’t just any head; that was the King of Noor, the only king who held a deep connection with the West.
He was the bridge between two different continents.
What stood between the South and the West.
And his head was just there.
A crownless skull stuck on a stick.
He wasn’t even allowed his final words.
Not one in the hall dared to breathe too loud.
They now saw it as clear as a bright morning.
This was why, back then, they turned on Malik.
This was why they put aside decades of blood feuds and politics, why even mortal enemies shook hands.
Yes, it wasn’t because they were brave or noble.
It was because they were terrified.
Of course, he did; he counted on it.
His plan wasn’t about vengeance, at least not entirely.
It was about control.
Malik’s plan worked perfectly.
They did exactly what he wanted.
They ALLIED themselves against him.
The "against" part didn’t matter to him.
What he wanted was for them to ally, unite, and that he achieved.
Every move he made opened ten more behind it.
He played the game like a man who’d already read the last page.
They said this twice already, but damn, the Former Sultan really underestimated Malik’s intellect... or perhaps Malik’s "lessons" had that much of an effect, conditioning him to be this monster of intelligence and power before them, who likely made moves that they had yet to comprehend or even realize.
And God, no matter how much they thought they were finally starting to understand him...
They were always underestimating him, coming up short in every manner possible.
Malik was just... something else.
The boulder. The dead king. The Crescent Moon rising behind the smoke.
Twisted? Sure. But undeniably powerful. Poetry that wasn’t shy to express itself.
Still, a question remained...
Why was the fight skipped?
Why didn’t he remember the fight?
Didn’t the Ten Commandment call the fight important to Malik?
So, what happened for them not to see it here?
Was it another of Malik’s moves?
Something else remained unmentioned.
Not everyone in the hall felt the same.
She didn’t speak or cry, but her eyes were locked on her father’s head.
She knew that Malik would win, of course; that was history.
The whole world knew that part.
He had to win—he was here, alive, trapped in this Ten Commandment.
And her father was turned into... fertilizer.
But that wasn’t the point.
She didn’t care that Malik won.
She didn’t care that her father had died.
What she cared about was the part that got skipped.
Noor wanted to see how her father fought.
How he apparently gave Malik a really tough time.
How he died... What he said.
Was she ever in his thoughts?
Did he mention any of them? His family?
Or was it just legacy? Glory? Titles and the dream of becoming more than just a king? His sole obsession in this world?
Did he even see her as a daughter anymore?
Or just a name on the family tree he burned himself into?
"What you wanted your daughter to escape from."
Malik said that to her father’s head.
What exactly did he mean by those words?
Did her father mention this as a secret before dying?
A final request to his killer? And did Malik answer him?
Was that why the king held a look of relief behind the pain?
Could she dare believe that he thought about her?
Noor was desperate to know, but also... she was scared to know.
There was no doubt that Malik cared not for her father.
Again, it was likely one of the reasons why the fight was skipped over.
But did her father really feel the same way about her till the end? A way that she never knew... not indifference but an awkward love.
That thought made her feel... weird, a feeling she didn’t quite understand.
As did the deaths of her other family members.
Those people weren’t saints.
They were vipers, backstabbers, liars, and murderers.
Always at each other’s throats, threatening to kill and actually going through with those threats.
But, even then, they were still her blood.
Even if they hated each other, there were moments, tiny ones.
Moments that maybe... just maybe, meant something.
But now they were all dead.
Her chest hurt, an ugly, messy ache behind the ribs.
Tears didn’t visit her, not really.
But that unfamiliar ache...
{Inside The Projection}
Quite unlike the Academy, the Royal Palace was somewhat unharmed.
It was relatively quiet now, only needing a proper clean-up and a few external repairs to look as it previously did, brand new, something ensured by design.
Many came and went within, preparing the palace for what came next.
From time to time, ash drifted through the cracked windows, curling in the golden light and landing on the dried blood that coated the marble.
Banners of many noble houses fell limp in the mess, scorched and torn, their insignias unrecognizable.
There were no more nobles.
At least none that stood against Malik.
The palace’s inner sanctum was large, circular, and with a high ceiling.
At its edge stood the throne, once the home of that bastard.
The epicenter of every lie.
And now it waited, cold and patient, for a new ruler.
Malik walked into that hall, boots echoing against the floor.
He didn’t pause or look around and walked straight toward the throne like it didn’t mean anything to him, because, well, it didn’t.
Behind him, the Chancellor followed, robes still neat, beard still trimmed, appearing entirely unaffected even though the world had ended hours ago.
The thin man gave an infuriating noble’s smile.
The Chancellor stepped beside him, gesturing to the throne.
"No king remains in this land, nor do any of his generals or his court. You’ve stripped it all away. The people will expect someone to fill the gap."
Malik stared at the throne.
There was no hunger for it in his eyes.
Not even pride... or perhaps there was a little.
Anyhow, it was mostly just analysis.
"You want me to sit there?"
His question came flat.
"It’s yours. You’ve more than earned it."
Malik’s hand twitched.
He raised it just a little and waved toward the throne.
"No kings... at least not here."
The Chancellor blinked.
Instead, he turned to one of the nearby guards, a woman with a fresh scar across her temple.
It was Zayna, one of his people.
"You... Zayna. Bring the blacksmiths."
"The throne. Melt it."
"This steel is good."
"It’ll rust unused; our weapons won’t."
The Chancellor’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
It didn’t matter either way because Malik was already walking away.
This was the choice of the usurper.
He didn’t want the throne.
He didn’t want to be king.
Malik was going against fate.
The fate realized from Roya’s hate.
A fate he’d weave once more.