Misunderstood Hero: My Family Are All Villains

"Why do you keep saying such things?!"

Malik was awoken by the sound of a commotion outside.

The next morning had not come; it was still night, the middle of it.

He realized that because of the dead brazier, which left only cold ash in its place.

Malik remained still, his mind feeling heavier than his body. The healing had done its work, but he was far from recovered.

His Soul still ached, and his Runes still refused to answer.

A ghost of the Angel who had torn Mata from the sky.

It didn’t matter.

Focusing on his ears, he listened in on what was happening.

"We cannot ask the sultanate for help!"

The voice belonged to Zayna, sounding obviously frustrated.

"Markaz is too busy dealing with the invaders and the Demons. If we pile more of our problems onto them, how would we seem?!"

Her words made Malik sigh.

Unfortunately, she was not wrong.

The sultanate was stretched thin, his army fighting Demons, the veterans hunting invaders, the campaign consuming resources that could not be replaced.

Every soldier was needed, every healer was occupied, and every scrap of supplies was allocated to the front lines.

But that did not mean he would abandon his people.

Never would he abandon his people.

Death would be preferable.

"The Sultan was battling a damned Angel mere hours ago! We all saw it!"

Yet Zayna continued, forgetting that fact.

"You want to add to that, huh, Rafi? You want to send a messenger to the Holy Palace and say, "Oh, by the way, we have our own little problem here; could you spare a few soldiers? I know Devil’s Maw’s very existence is at stake, but we need help too!""

Malik wished he could deny her.

He wished he could rise from this cot and tell her that the Sultan would always answer the call of his people.

But now, all he could do was listen.

Currently, and most unfortunately, he wasn’t capable. Thankfully, however, someone else was there to do that for him.

***

A man wearing the robes of a priest scoffed at Zayna.

His face was weathered by years of hardship.

A wooden accessory hung around his neck: two double-bladed curved swords intersecting, the sultanate’s symbol.

"Do you think the Sultan would like us to sacrifice our lives if we had the option not to?"

The priest—Rafi, Malik heard Zayna call him—dragged a hand down his face.

"The mission was a complete failure. We simply cannot take that military outpost with our current forces."

He turned away from Zayna and stared into the darkness beyond the settlement.

"I beg you. Go ask the Guard of the Fifth for help. We need them if we’re to ever have a chance at toppling them."

Zayna crossed her arms, her scarred face turning unreadable.

"Toppling them. You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple."

Rafi turned back to her.

"The king is dead. His family is dead. The military stepped in to fill the vacuum, but they have no claim and definitely no legitimacy. They are thugs with blades and titles they did not earn."

He gestured at the settlement around them: the refugees who had been cast out of their own homes.

"The people of Aram did not choose this. They are suffering under a military occupation that pretends to be a government. Never mind mere taxes, they extort all our money for ’military spending.’ They conscript our children and execute anyone who dares to speak against them."

Zayna’s jaw tightened.

"You don’t need to repeat what they do. I lived through it."

"Yes, you did. So you know that we cannot wait. Every day we delay, more people die. More families are torn apart. More children are taken from their beds and forced to march to the border to fight and die against our own."

He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"The military outpost controls the eastern pass. As long as it stands, we cannot receive supplies from the sultanate. We cannot send our wounded to the healers in Markaz. We cannot even send official word of what is happening here."

Zayna looked away.

"You’re asking me to risk Devil’s Maw for the lives of us few."

"No, I’m asking you to give us a chance to live. Our sultanate survived worse. We have our Sultan with us."

A silence stretched between them.

It was tense, and no one broke them up.

They had this conversation many times before; there was no doubt about that.

But suddenly, somewhere in the settlement, a child cried out in their sleep, breaking that tension.

Zayna sighed, her shoulders slumping. The fire that had burned in her eyes moments ago had dimmed to embers.

"Rafi, how about we just move on for now? There’s someone you need to heal."

Rafi studied her for a long moment, then nodded.

"Very well. But this conversation is not over."

"It never is."

***

That was Malik’s signal.

He pushed himself up a little, propping his back against the cot’s wooden frame.

His body protested but he ignored it.

Malik was not going to act like he was asleep.

No, rather, he was more interested in this group than ever.

They were indeed his people.

Refugees cast out by traitors, now fighting against a military occupation that had stolen their homes.

They were not rebels in the sense of those who had opposed him in the insurrection earlier.

They were rebels in the truest sense:

People who had refused to bow, who had refused to bend, who had refused to abandon their principles even when it cost them everything.

And he would be sure to help them.

"Sir soldier..."

Rafi called from outside the tent.

"Excuse me, I’m coming in."

The canvas flap pulled back, and the priest ducked inside.

His robes brushed against the ground, gathering dust and stray bits of straw.

He carried a leather satchel over his shoulder, bulging with bottles, bandages, and small wooden boxes.

"Ah."

He noticed Malik’s open eyes.

"It seems we’ve woken you up. My apologies."

Malik shook his head.

"No worries, priest. Thank you for this."

Rafi waved a hand dismissively.

"It’s only of course. We all fight the same fight."

He set down his satchel and knelt beside the cot.

"Now let me see..."

His hands moved efficiently, checking Malik’s bandages and examining his wounds.

"You’ve healed remarkably fast. Your body is strong."

"My body has had... practice."

Rafi nodded, not questioning the answer.

"I’m sure."

He opened his satchel and pulled out a small wooden box.

Inside, a pale blue ointment gleamed in the torchlight.

He scooped some onto his fingers and began to rub it into Malik’s wounds.

Next, he revealed his palm and whispered in a voice too low to hear.

"By the Twelve Moons and the Two Suns, may my Rukh heal you."

At least by those who weren’t Angels.

The effect was immediate.

Warmth spread through Malik’s body, sinking deep into his muscles, bones, and very Soul.

The constant ache in his chest finally faded, and the throbbing in his muscles subsided.

Even the crack in his Soul felt a little more whole.

His entire existence was a little more stable.

Instinctively, he knew that it was not enough to heal him completely, not enough to let him use his Soul Glyphs again, but it was enough to push him back from the edge.

Runes were back on the table!

"Okay."

Rafi sat back on his heels.

"You should be fine now."

He stood up and offered Malik his hand.

"Would you like to join us?"

Malik accepted the hand and pulled himself to his feet. His legs wobbled, but they held.

"I would."

Soon, he stood in their meeting tent.

It was a large canvas structure near the center of the settlement, reinforced with wooden poles and rope.

The walls were lined with maps, and no, not the detailed maps of the Holy Palace but hand-drawn sketches on paper, marked with ink.

A wooden table sat in the middle, covered in more maps, small stones, and wooden tokens representing soldiers and supply lines.

It was humble and entirely improvised, but the idea was the same as what Malik had in the Holy Palace.

Strategy was strategy, whether plotted on gold-inlaid vellum or scavenged parchment.

Zayna waved Malik closer.

"It’s pretty neat, right?"

She gestured at her work.

"I was taught all of this by other shadows."

Her dark eyes grew distant.

"I’m sure one or two of them fought by your side."

She began to count on her fingers.

"Shadow Kabir, the Giant. Shadow Rami, the Silent Eye. Shadow Sarah, the Spear of Zaghari. Shadow Tarek, the Iron Wall."

Once done, she looked down at her hands.

"If only I had the strength... I’d still be with them."

Malik said nothing in response.

There wasn’t anything for him to say.

He simply watched Zayna until she shook her head, shaking off the memory.

"Anyhow! I’m sure you’ve heard what we discussed. So I must ask—who do you think is right?"

Rafi looked at her with blank eyes. The other members of their council did the same.

"Did you push me to heal him so you could have someone backing you up?"

Zayna giggled, and that was enough of an answer. One that made the others sigh.

"I must say..."

Malik’s presence filled the tent.

"You’re both wrong."

Zayna and Rafi turned to him, their eyes widening.

"No one will sacrifice themselves, and we won’t ask for help from anyone."

Both raised their brows.

"We?"

Zayna asked, and Malik nodded.

"I’m joining your group."