{Outside The Projection}
The hall didn’t really have much to say about that.
They just... stood there, watching and breathing quietly.
This wasn’t shocking; rather, it was a natural lead-up... an obvious consequence.
Malik was never normal, and that abnormality only got worse as time passed; it wouldn’t just disappear now that he had all the gold and power in the world wrapped around his name.
He still sat like a... a ghost.
A child in a crown, one too tired to pretend.
His want for a "break" was no longer there, becoming just a means to an end.
Whatever that ’end’ exactly wasn’t something they knew, but it most likely related to his ’Silent Requiem...’ everything seemed to relate to it, the end to all of his truths.
Still, they had seen his fire, rage, silence, and violence. But this? This quiet little moment between him and Sinbad on the Holy Palace’s peak, just breathing the same air, looking at the same cityscape?
It hit hard, a scene more beautiful than even the Forgotten Nexus.
...They saw a boy, just a boy, one who’d been thrown out before he even knew what a home was. One who had never gotten a father’s hand on his shoulder or a mother’s warm arms around his chest. A boy who had to build his soul from scraps and ended up with holes instead.
They were solemn, but also... strangely happy.
Sinbad... he was still there with their Sultan.
He was still watching over him, still giving Malik that quiet tether he’d lost completely when Jasmine died, providing him with what he needed most to at least try to replace the hollowness he felt. To try to replace it with something new.
That was Sinbad’s one mission.
A mission he once hoped would make Malik think up an alternative, one where he’d live, removing the need for his death, but it...
It seemed that he failed.
Though that didn’t stop the others from feeling the same happiness as the crowd.
Dunya. Huda. Layla. Azeem. Soft smiles, barely-there ones, graced their faces. Three of which were aimed at Sinbad, for despite their current differences, they, too, were happy that Malik had Sinbad watching over him.
Sinbad, though, didn’t return the smile, too lost in his world to think of entertaining others.
That projection wasn’t for them. It was his memory, his rooftop, his Elder Brother’s last real breath. It hurt him, so very deeply, in ways he didn’t show... to see it shared with the world. This sacred thing. This small, quiet truth between him and the only soul that would’ve destroyed the world just to see him another day.
But what could Sinbad do?
The world was watching now.
Not all of it, though.
She was no longer part of the hush that had settled over the rest, the equation ever present outside the projection, its series of reactions.
Her men weren’t either.
Their eyes remained on the Lady.
Locked in and focused too intently.
There was obvious fear in there, something they failed to hide.
Unlike her men, Noor’s eyes were unreadable, but her mind? No.
Her mind was loud, and one word rang louder than the rest:
Because yes, that was what she was.
A weakling that couldn’t protect herself, no different than a beggar facing the elements, unable to do anything but cower or endure the hopelessness.
Noor, even as an Empress, was no stronger than Malik back when he begged on the streets... she realized that now. A difference in temperament that was superior, no matter their positions in life.
She truly was a FAILURE.
{Inside The Projection}
Malik walked alone in a familiar town.
The same one that almost held him in its dungeons for life.
The one just west of the Holy City, the Capital of Markaz.
Here, the roads remembered him, even if the people didn’t.
Faces turned, but no one dared speak... they seemed to have recognized him.
This was their new Sultan, casually walking among them; they could not believe it.
He didn’t seem to care for their gazes, however.
Rather, he felt them to be quite... new.
Last time he was here, he was looked at with disdain, but now?
Fear. Incredible, traumatizing fear, making them shake like leaves in a storm.
Leaves that were ignored, as Malik’s gaze passed through them, landing on the buildings, the archways, and the alleyways.
This really was the town where they nearly chained him for life.
While he might be reminiscing, he wasn’t here to do just that.
He was here to wrap a few things up.
Malik kept walking until he reached the Farajah Station, a building that hadn’t at all changed.
It was still towering with gray bricks, bronze accents, a roof too high for its own good, and the same old bold sign pinned above the entrance:
{Istgah Faraja: The Bastion of Divine Order}
He stared at it for a second, blinking slow, then continued.
The doors creaked open as he pushed through.
Inside, the station smelled like stale tea... nothing warm lived here.
Everything was smooth surfaces, sharp edges, polished boots, and quiet footsteps.
People didn’t speak above a whisper; they only muttered, scribbled, and waited.
Malik cut in line and walked up to the front counter.
Those behind him barely stopped themselves from complaining in time, realizing just how close to death they were. Or at least what they thought death was... he’d never kill them, right?
He looked down at the clerk, some bored officer with a thin beard, tired eyes, and a half-buttoned collar.
’Thin beard’ didn’t look up.
"I’m looking for a man."
The clerk raised a brow, still not lifting his head.
"We’ve got a hundred of those in custody. Name?"
"Khamal, an Inquisitor of yours."
That finally pushed the officer to look up.
His eyes began to tremble.
The man rubbed his eyes, breathed in, breathed out, and looked at Malik once more.
Malik interrupted, gesturing for him to continue.
The officer looked down, unable to handle Malik’s gold.
"Um, I... N-No record off the top of my head, my Lord. Do..."
His words now couldn’t leave his lips without a stutter.
"Do you know what department?"
Malik’s eyes narrowed faintly.
"He was here. Check your archives."
By that point in their conversation, a fuss had kicked up around them, prompting a commanding officer’s attention.
"What’s going on around here?"