Chapter 169: Grown-Up Things

Malik returned to the Golden Throne.

The metal was cold beneath him as he sat, the familiar weight of the Sultanate settling back onto his shoulders the moment his body met the seat.

He stared out at the empty hall for a moment, then, mostly out of habit at this point, decided to spin the Wheel a few more times.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick—

DING!

—

{Stranger’s Trinket}

—

Malik blinked.

He recognized it immediately.

A small book, its cover worn soft with age, a single pink "S" stitched into the leather.

Huda had given it to him, back in the North, a lifetime ago in every sense that mattered.

He ran a finger over the cover.

It pulsed.

Runes bloomed across the surface, faint lines of golden light tracing patterns he hadn’t seen in years, and then, out of thin air, a full set of clothes and boots materialized before him, folded neatly as if some invisible servant had just set them down.

Dimensional storage.

Those didn’t come cheap.

Only the highest of nobles could typically afford one, and the fact that he’d once had an Arcanist convert a simple personal item into a functioning dimensional trinket meant he’d spent at least double what the item alone was worth.

The Arcanist would have needed to build an entirely new Pathing structure just to connect it to the existing storage framework, forcing them to tweak designs that had been locked in place for generations.

He’d clearly thought the book was worth it.

Malik studied the trinket for a few seconds longer, turning it over in his hands, before calling it back into storage with a small flick of Rukh.

He sat there for a while after that.

If he was being honest with himself, he was stalling.

Procrastinating, in the most mundane sense of the word.

He didn’t want to face his wife alone. Not yet. Not now that he’d remembered so much of what had passed between them, the years of distance, the grief, the quiet war they’d both fought just to find their way back to something resembling trust.

Malik had questioned himself many days back...

If he remembered, would he hate them all for what they did and didn’t do?

Would he hate Zafar for leading a coalition against him? Would he hate Noor and Huda for joining that coalition? Would he hate Safira and Layla for watching as that coalition tried to kill their Sultan?

Many might call him dumb for this, but no.

He didn’t hate them... nor had he forgiven them.

At least not entirely.

While he deeply understood their circumstances at the time, it didn’t change the fact that they hurt him.

It didn’t change the fact that they killed him.

Malik was too kind for his own good, but even he had a limit, one that he struggled to cross but wished to do so nevertheless.

This was the kind of man he was.

Not someone the layman would relate to.

And now, well, he knew that it was time.

For the first time since his return, Malik made his way to Layla’s chambers that night.

The door was already cracked open when he arrived, candlelight spilling faintly into the hallway.

Malik knocked softly anyway, more out of courtesy than necessity, and pushed the door the rest of the way open.

Layla looked up from where she sat at her vanity, brush still in hand, and her expression shifted through about three different emotions in the span of a single second.

Surprise first.

Then something more cautious.

Then, finally, something she tried very hard to keep off her face entirely.

"Husband."

She set the brush down.

"I didn’t expect you."

That much was obvious.

He hadn’t visited her chambers once since his return, not for lack of affection, but because every time he’d considered it, something else always seemed to need his attention first.

A convenient excuse, if he was honest.

The real reason sat heavier than that.

"I know, I should have come sooner."

Layla stood, smoothing her nightgown with hands that weren’t quite steady.

"It’s fine. You’ve been busy."

"That is not really why."

The words came out blunter than he’d planned, but that was just how he operated.

He didn’t see much point in dressing things up when the truth was simpler.

Layla’s eyes flickered towards him, more uncertain now.

"Then why?"

Malik crossed the room slowly, giving her time to step back if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

"I was remembering things about us. About before."

He didn’t elaborate further than that, not with the weight of every memory he’d relived in Hell’s endless parade of alternate lives.

But Layla seemed to understand regardless, her shoulders tensing slightly.

"Oh."

A small, uncertain sound left her.

She didn’t ask what exactly he was reminiscing about. Didn’t push for details he clearly wasn’t offering freely.

That had always been one of the strange comforts of their relationship; lately, the unspoken agreement to let certain things stay unspoken.

"I wanted to see you properly, not with Amal between us as a buffer."

Layla’s cheeks colored, just slightly, in the candlelight.

"You could have just said that."

"I’m saying it now."

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, lighter than the tension that had filled the room a moment ago.

"You’re still terrible at this."

"I never claimed otherwise."

That actually did pull a small laugh out of her this time, and some of the stiffness in her posture finally eased.

Malik closed the remaining distance between them.

***

Outside, in the garden below Layla’s window, a small crimson owl perched on the stone sill, feathers ruffled against the night breeze.

Isha had been following Sinbad’s lead lately, trying to understand the strange world of humans she’d found herself in, and tonight curiosity had carried her up to the window ledge, where she sat watching the dim shapes moving behind gauzy curtains with wide, pink eyes.

She tilted her head.

The movements inside looked strange, almost ritualistic, in the way the two shapes seemed to lean into each other, pull apart, lean back together again.

Isha, being a very young owl with very limited understanding of very grown-up things, decided this looked like something worth trying herself.

She hopped along the ledge, extended both wings forward in an attempt to mimic the motion she’d seen, and leaned her small body into the gesture with the kind of intense, misguided focus only a child could manage.

Her balance didn’t agree with the plan.

"MRRP—!"

She tumbled right off the sill, wings flailing uselessly as she dropped into the garden below, landing with a rustle of leaves and an undignified squawk.

Back inside, Malik paused.

"...did you hear that?"

Layla, eyes half-closed, barely stirred.

"Probably the wind."

Malik glanced towards the window for a moment longer, brow furrowed, before deciding it wasn’t worth investigating further.

Outside, Isha extracted herself from the bush with great indignity, a twig stuck sideways in her feathers, and gave the window one last betrayed look before hopping off into the shadows of the garden.

She decided that whatever ritual the two humans were performing wasn’t worth a repeat attempt.