Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

***

{Outside The Projection}

No rest for the ‘wicked…’

The world hated Malik for calling himself that.

Though they understood well why he did so…

After all, when the projection unpauses next…

They were sure to see him burn yet another land.

A curse he took responsibility for.

It was ‘only natural’ that he saw himself as wicked.

His innate kindness didn’t allow for anything else.

And that applied to Noor as well.

She was wrong again.

The projection was actually going to show her.

But she wasn’t the one under the spotlight.

That, she was right about.

Safira took center stage.

She wasn’t even there to see it.

Though that didn’t really matter all that much.

What mattered was the fact that Malik actually moved himself.

It was something undocumented, so he’d likely done it in complete secrecy.

He was there the moment the Heroic Coalition had become something more. Able and very much in his life’s interest to crush them, yet he did not. Never, always protecting them, grooming them.

They might’ve left the Academy, but he never stopped being their professor.

Wherever they were, he pulled at them, always unseen.

Even now…

Even now, with him trapped in those chains, he was still teaching them, changing them, and shaping them into who he wanted them to be.

Sinbad had allowed Roya to die for that very reason.

In his eyes, she had failed Malik’s teachings, not wanting to adapt.

Others might call that bullshit, as she had landed on a neutral position, adapting from pure hate into something a little more… realistic, but Sinbad didn’t care for such voices; he didn’t want to see her REDEMPTION.

Hate was obvious in his decision, as was time, for it always caught up to the truth.

Noor, on the other hand, was a coin still spinning in the air; one could almost see the weight of her life and death measured on Sinbad’s mithqal.

Her ‘Fate’ was in question; her death could come at any time.

But not yet; she was protected.

Perhaps Sinbad saw something in her, something more than Roya.

Not at all obvious, but enough for her to live.

Enough for him to give her a chance to reveal that something.

To show them that her life was worthy.

…Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

***

{Inside The Projection}

Snow fell slowly, flakes clinging to everything, dulling the North.

Malik, wearing the same dark robes, stood at the edge of a hill, boots half-buried in white.

A village stretched out beneath him, rows of crooked wooden houses, smoke curling from a few chimneys, though most were dark, and big fireplaces around each corner, a place where people gathered to stay warm.

It was a poor place.

Too poor to even get enough wood to keep themselves warm in their own houses.

And yet the world didn’t find that painful enough, bringing them the Fall.

A few paces behind Malik stood Azeem, wrapped in a thick wool cloak.

Kabir was further off, leaning on his spear; the others scattered along the ridge.

Shurtat al-Khamis—Malik’s own Elite Guard—waiting for his signal.

Of course, Sinbad sat on Malik’s shoulder, his talons hooked.

This was their ritual.

All of them stood there, watching the people.

Memorizing their faces, understanding their lives.

And only when their Lord was done…

When his ivory light bloomed…

Did they begin to move.

They walked towards the flames.

Small, almost delicate orbs appeared in the windows of every home.

Dozens in the first moment, then hundreds in the next, spreading in waves through the streets; each one flaring for a heartbeat before vanishing.

Inside each house, the same thing was happening.

A different kind of light was snuffing out.

Nothing else was burned…

Only their souls.

No screams tore this land.

The fire swallowed sound.

Its light had gone.

When it was done, Malik lowered his hand.

And, surprisingly, Azeem’s jaw tensed.

Yet no one cared for it.

“Send the bodies to cave seventy-seven.”

Malik ordered, flat as ever, before suddenly disappearing.

Kabir nodded, and without him needing to order anyone, his people moved down into the streets like a tide—black uniforms against the white snow. Doors were opened, corpses were dragged out, and carts were loaded until the wood creaked under the weight.

Azeem’s eyes flicked toward Sinbad, who was left floating in the air.

He waited until they were halfway gone before he spoke.

“Tell me something.”

Sinbad’s head turned towards him.

“Yes?”

“This—what we’re doing…”

He whispered, afraid the snow might carry his words to Malik’s ears.

“Is this really to fight Corruption?”

Sinbad flapped his wings once, materializing before Azeem.

“Lord knows my doubts; judging by your silence, I think you do as well, but I…”

He, patting Sinbad once, glanced at the dead town.

“I’ve been keeping count, you know.”

That seemed to catch Sinbad by surprise, his feather ruffling a tad.

“I counted every single man, woman, and child we’ve burned.”

Azeem went on under his gaze.

“Every. Single. One.”

The wind picked up, dragging the hem of his cloak across the ice.

“I researched the others—Sultans before him. I had access to the records. The old mass executions had patterns and rules. They stuck to a region, a border. They killed when they were there, and only then. Like… like they were protecting certain hotspots. Most times, they didn’t even do it themselves, forcing the unlucky ones to fight an unwinnable war so that their blood wouldn’t be on their hands… at least not publicly. They used many tricks like that.”

His breath misted in the cold air.

“But our Lord?”

He nodded toward where Malik once was.

“He has no perimeter. He doesn’t move from one hotspot to another—he sees the whole world. Except the East. How? How does he do it? I need to know… I can’t… I can’t…”

He couldn’t handle it anymore.

“And he doesn’t even hide the executions either; rather, he makes them known. He’s his one biggest enemy. And all that compounds further when he does it so often. No other Sultan has as many mass executions as he does. Why?”

“…”

Still, Sinbad remained silent, staring at his friend with glowing eyes.

“Do you even know how many it’s been?”

Azeem asked.

“No less than SEVEN MILLION.”

SEVEN MILLION DAMNED DEAD.

His lips tightened.

“I can’t forget them; not a single one.”

He shook his head.

“So tell me—are we actually fighting Corruption?”

Again, Sinbad just looked at him, his eyes unblinking.

“Say something… anything. Reassure me.

Azeem’s voice cracked.

“I swear, you give me one good reason, and I’ll fall back in line.

His red eyes trembled.

“I’ll believe again.”

Sinbad turned around and floated off.

“If your belief is shaken by just this, then you don’t deserve my words.”

The words frooze Azeem to the bone.

He stared at the snow-covered rooftops, the faint plumes of smoke still rising from chimneys that would never be lit again.

Was he on the right side of history?

He didn’t know anymore.

And that was his not-so-hidden hidden doubt.

It was a weight in his chest he couldn’t set down.

‘Hm.’

With that, an invisible Malik looked away.

He, uncaring to see his plan well on its way, calmly stepped to the hill’s peak and sat.

His back faced the village; hope couldn’t be remembered before such places.

Yes, ‘hope,’ Amal, for he was currently thinking of her.

Perhaps she’d be a new addition to his ‘ritual.’

The one name that always calmed his mind.

His very own pillar.

Thump!

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