***
{Outside The Projection}
“YAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”
“THAT’S MY GUY! DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”
“SCORCHED GRACE, HAH! A PERFECT NAME FOR IT!”
“THE LOOK ON THOSE BANDITS’ FACES WHEN THE TRAPS WENT OFF—PFFFFFT!”
“THEY NEVER HAD A DAMN CHANCE!”
“A DEMON, I TELL YOU! A DEMON”
“That’s not just talent. That’s a damn prodigy!”
“By God, if I had an army of ten like him, I’d have conquered half the world already!”
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The collective roar of the crowd was deafening.
Men shifted left and right, their blood boiling from sheer excitement at what they had just witnessed, unknowing of what to do with themselves or how to relieve their bodies of this excitement.
Women clapped their hands together, some shouted, and some just stared, eyes wide with disbelief.
Huda, perched back up on Crimson, hidden from view, stretched lazily, letting out a small chuckle at their reaction.
“Mhhhhhhhhhhh… My brother’s quite the monster, huh, Crimson?”
The owl ruffled his feathers, his pink eyes gleaming.
Hoot.
“I know right? If I had known he’d put on a performance like that, I wouldn’t have dared to, uh, sleep.”
Hoot! Hoot!
“Yeah, yeah…”
Judging by the little chip in her dress’s neck, Crimson seemed to have woken up before her and lifted her onto his back.
He had to do it, because, well, no one in the hall would.
Not only because of who she was but because the furthest front was a zone no one wanted to be near, afraid of joining them in their sleep and embarrassing themselves.
“He did it…”
Safira, though teary-eyed, couldn’t stop smiling, her green eyes shimmering with something close to pride.
“…He won’t need to die over and over again…”
Azeem let out a long breath, shaking his head.
“I expected nothing less.”
Zafar let out a sigh of relief.
“…Fuck. It’s not repeating.”
Apparent by his words, it was not Malik he was worried about, but the consequences of his tragedy.
Noor had felt relief as well but for an entirely different reason.
An unspoken one.
And then there was Roya.
She stood still. Silent. Eyes watching, but unreadable.
Whatever went on in that head of hers, no one could tell.
No excitement. No awe. No relief. Just… blankness.
But it wasn’t Roya who was unusual. No, they expected this out of her.
It was Layla. Her reaction began to pause the celebration.
The shift was slow. No one noticed her at first, too caught up in their emotions, but when things calmed a little, when the shouting died down, slowly, one by one, heads turned and eyes settled on her trembling form.
She was still on her knees. Her purple eyes drowned her face with tears. Staring at the projection like it was something… foreign.
“I…”
Layla took a breath. Shaky. Uneven.
“I don’t remember this.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Silence.
It was a revelation that changed everything.
***
{Inside The Projection}
The aftermath of the battle was spent in exhaustion, treating wounds, counting the dead, and salvaging what remained, acquiring them as gifts to sell.
Malik stayed silent as they worked, which was nothing new, though what was new—his mind was elsewhere—trapped as his body moved on instinct, hands wrapping bandages and securing weapons.
He had done what was needed; he didn’t let tragedy repeat… he won. But still, that feeling of victory didn’t last, nor did relief. Something had settled in him, a nagging feeling that things were just getting started.
Was this his intuition screaming at him again? Telling him the world was just getting started? Or was he just paranoid?
He couldn’t say for sure.
Either way, once the caravan was patched up and the dead were carried, they set off toward the village they had originally planned to reach before the attack.
The road was quieter this time. There was no chatter, no idle conversation. Even Layla, usually the loudest, the most stubborn, stuck close to her father, gripping his sleeve like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.
There was just the rhythmic crunch of footsteps, the creaking of wheels, and the occasional groan of the wounded shifting in their seats.
Why? Well, a collective understanding had settled over them all.
…They should’ve died.
Those bandits hadn’t come to raid; they had come to slaughter.
The way they attacked, the way they just kept coming, it wasn’t about coin or supplies—it was about wiping them out. And if Malik hadn’t been there, if he hadn’t had them prepare, if he hadn’t torn through them, that was exactly what would’ve happened.
So one by one, they approached him.
Men, women, even the younger ones who had needlessly taken up arms—each and every one of them stopped by him, met his eyes, and murmured their thanks. Some clasped his arm. Some bowed their heads. Some just nodded.
They all knew the truth—they owed him their lives.
Malik didn’t say much.
Just gave them a look, a nod, and dismissed it like it was nothing.
“Did my job.” He’d mutter. “That’s all.”
They knew better. But they let it be.
The Shams was completely gone by the time they reached the village.
Under the glow of the twelve moons, the first thing they saw were the bodies.
Lining the outskirts were rotting corpses impaled on wooden spikes. Some were fresh, the blood still wet, glistening. Others had been there for days, bloated and buzzing with flies.
The stench hit them hard, but that wasn’t what clung to the back of their throats.
This… it was a message.
A warning to any that might approach with bad intentions, more specifically, bandits.
The caravan had got itself involved in a war.
“Blurgh…”
Layla gagged, one hand flying to her mouth as she turned away, eyes squeezed shut.
Some of the others weren’t much better, muttering prayers under their breath, hands shaking as they clutched their weapons and their robes.
“…H-Holy shit.”
Ali Baba exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.
Even he looked unsettled, losing his usual eloquence, and that said a lot.
But Malik? He just stared.
“They sure know how to send a message.”
He turned to Ali Baba.
“You should wait here. I’ll go ahead.”
Ali Baba turned his steed around.
“Why?”
“Because if they don’t want outsiders, one man is easier to explain than a whole caravan.”
Ali Baba held his gaze for a moment before sighing.
“Fine, but if you don’t come back, I’m sending Layla after you.”
Layla, still gagging behind him, perked up.
“H-Huh?”
Malik ignored her and kept walking, his steps slow, until he was a few feet away from the caravan.
“Scorched Grace.”
He stomped down hard, the ground cracking beneath his heel as he dropped into a stance.
Both hands swung back, fingers curling, flames roaring to life and eating up his arms. His skin blackened, charred, but he didn’t even flinch.
Then—FWOOOSH!—he was gone.