"This was the final lesson, wasn’t it?" Someone muttered after a short silence. They weren’t talking to anyone in particular. Just thinking out loud. Letting it sit heavy in the air. Another answered, eyes still locked on the fallen Malik. A lesson that wasn’t taught in words. It wasn’t written in scrolls or whispered between masters and students. No. This one was given. Burned into the skin. Carved into the earth. Etched in fire and grief. He’d learned control. Because no one that broken, no one with that much fury boiling inside him, could’ve fought like that... without losing his mind. He should’ve lost all that he had in there. Long before this, long before now, but especially now. He should’ve lost it after the fourth Jinn. Or the third. Or when Shimr said that. Even when the whole world begged him to just fall already. And that... was control. These people were his. Malik stayed for them. And they stayed for him. They listen to his commands. He fulfilled his punishment. One man blinked like he was just waking up. "How’d we even see all that? The Sultan was cultivating for nine days; he couldn’t have kept an eye on his people at the same time. And at the end, how did the projection show us everything if he wasn’t even awake?" That got a few heads turning. "Yeah... wasn’t this supposed to be from his memories?" Then, slowly, someone raised his hand. Silver-bearded. Old. Sharp eyes. "You’re right to ask. It wasn’t just Malik’s memories. The connection runs deeper." He gestured with one hand toward the throne. Or rather, next to it. Back straight. Face tilted low. Fluff unmoving. He, an owl, couldn’t kneel, but he tried his best. "The Sultan and Lord Sinbad share a soul-thread; their bond’s connection with the Ten Commandment allowed us to see through both. That’s why we saw what Malik couldn’t. That’s how we witnessed the camp... how we heard words Malik never heard. It was the owl’s eyes." A soft murmur rippled through the crowd. Sinbad didn’t look up. Not with how this scene was shown. No, that was incredibly obvious to him. What he disagreed with was the "final lesson" talk. Yeah, Malik learned control. Sure. But there was something else in that volume. Something fouler. Something uglier. Sinbad looked sideways at Dunya, who knelt like the rest. Eyes locked on the projection. Face pale. Malik had also learned of betrayal. Betrayal from his little sister Betrayal from his own mother. The only woman who spared him from such a fate was this little one here. No one noticed her. Not really. Just another one of the many kneeling. But he had her on a pedestal, one higher than any other. "The sad thing about betrayal..." His eyes became soft with something close to pity. "Is it never comes from an enemy." Dunya began to tremble at those words, and he looked away. The crowd was still muttering about Malik. About miracles. About legends. But he didn’t listen to them; he just kept watching the people. Specifically, the ones that didn’t speak. And he noticed something obvious. Something that he should’ve noticed long ago. He tilted his head, counting. Safira. Head straight. Too ashamed to witness legend. Kneeling. Layla. Head up. Smiling at her husband. Kneeling. Azeem. Head down. Kneeling. There were only three. One whom the hall once believed to be the betrayer. One more was supposed to be kneeling alongside them. The one this whole volume had circled around like a vulture to a corpse. Where the Hell could she have gone?! Just then, two men passed the great doors entering the Sultan’s hall. One tall and solemn—Duban. The other, younger, his eyes too tired for his age—Faqir. Behind them came Nasir Al-Sultan, wrapped in a dark yellow. The crowd parted like water. The militia walked slow, eyes forward, heavy steps echoing on the marble. Until they reached the front, near the projection. And then, like everyone else... Duban scanned the room. Passed over the kneeling saints. The sinners. The tired. The awed. But not who they were looking for. They leaned toward one another. The other shook his head. "Maybe... she’s preparing something." It smelled like piss and rust. The walls were stone, damp with old water. No torchlight. Just the faint hum of something magical... foul perhaps. A runic circle was etched beneath the chained chair in the center. And in that chair—barely breathing, barely conscious—sat a man. Pale. Withered skin twitching. Grey hair wet with sweat. His chest moved like it hated being alive. He was supposed to be dead. Popped like a fruit before their eyes. Chaos Jinn didn’t always die when they died. Some scattered. Some splintered. This one slithered through the cracks of death’s embrace. He returned to life and kept himself a member of Al-Sayf. Lived a long and quiet life, only to end up here. Tied. Shackled. Mouth gagged. Perhaps Malik never knew of this little phenomenon. Or maybe he did, but didn’t bother finishing the job. This Jinn simply wasn’t worth his time. But it was worth someone’s. His eyes blinked open... Still wearing a crimson dress—alien in a place . She stood across from him, holding a long metal rod. She tilted her head, not blinking. Not smiling. Her voice was unusually calm. Almost sweet. "I’m not going to hurt you." "...I don’t know why I just lied." She muttered, annoyed with herself. "I am going to hurt you." Her fingers tightened on the rod. The heat radiated across the room. She stepped forward, slow. "I guess I was trying to comfort you..." Her voice shook now, not with fear, but rage. "But that’s not why we’re here, is it?" She stopped in front of him. Breathing hard. Shoulders trembling. Her face twisted. So angry. Not the theatrical kind. One that grew in silence, feeding on betrayal and guilt and shame. "You must’ve known this was coming. Somewhere in that little slop of a brain... You must’ve known. MUST’VE. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have stayed in my HOME after trying to kill my BROTHER." She bent down, caring not for her hypocrisy. Their faces were inches apart. "Tell me. You forced my brother into that Hell—so tell me, what should I do to you? TELL ME!" "Ah, yes. You can’t." She didn’t flinch back. "I’ve got an idea, but, well... before we start." She leaned in close and... "I’ve got one question I’d like to ask." An awful smile, just like her brother’s. "...What’s your favorite organ?" The Shams was too damn bright. It beat down on the dunes like it wanted to peel the skin off people’s backs. A dark-skinned man with a decently handsome face, soft brown eyes, and long white hair, dressed in layers of vibrant fabric with golden embroidery, sat beneath that heat. A curved blade, far too fancy for proper combat, was strapped to his hip. It was Zafar, and he didn’t seem to care for this heat. He sat there, pants stained with sand and sweat, legs sprawled out, one hand buried in the grit. The other clutching his sword’s hilt. Judging by the state of his clothes, he’d kneeled, just like everyone else, but not anymore. Now he sat stuck in his memories, stuck in his recent past. He remembered. God, he remembered so clearly. ’You saw how I moved?! The villain couldn’t even track my sword!’ That was what he said back then. Back when he still believed his own hype. Back when his yes-men were clapping and laughing and calling him the next Sultan, the owner of the Golden Throne. Back before all this. Before the tragedies. The massacres. The impossibilities. Before the Sun rose and fell. The Sultan had just slaughtered those Jinn like they were bugs. "The villain couldn’t even track my sword." He muttered to himself and then laughed. Until it sounded more like sobbing. "Haha... Hahahah... HAAHAHAHAHA!" What an absolute clown he had been. What was he, compared to that man? What was he compared to the SUN? A grain of sand thinking it was a mountain. His Wheel of Fortune? His unnatural talent? His noble bloodline and Blessing? They meant nothing when standing next to Malik’s greatest weapon: That man had weaponized insanity. Turned grief into sharpness. Loss into calculation. Madness into strategy. And no, Malik wasn’t born some once-in-a-millennium genius. He was always unnaturally smart, sure. But genius? That was self-made. Zafar shook his head slowly. Layla and Huda might’ve forgiven him. They might believe he had never truly sinned. But Zafar didn’t. No, he didn’t. Malik had done wrong. Despite all of that... Despite everything... Proud that he—Zafar Al-Nadir—had once called Malik his teacher. Noor had learned under him. Roya had been shaped by him. Malik had taught the very people who killed him. ...Malik had taught his killers. He’d formed the coalition. The whole damn war against the Sultan. He truly believed himself to be the hero. That, finally, they were getting rid of evil. That the world would be a better place with his head on a spike. Zafar should’ve never formed this coalition. He should never have been its "hero." What a fucking tragedy this was. Slowly, his eyes looked to the sky. Far above floated the next volume. {Volume Six: The Depraved Movement} He read them over and over again. And his heart twisted. Because this wasn’t just another battle. This was a reckoning. One that had been a long time coming. This was when Malik led a city to revolt. This was when Malik avenged his father. This was when Malik... Left them all to rot.