The morning Suns rose over the Holy Palace, their golden light streaming through the high windows of the Sultan’s Hall.

The Golden Throne sat at the far end of the room, its armrests worn smooth by centuries of rulers.

Malik sat upon it, his back straight.

He looked out at the now emptier hall. He had dismissed most of his family, leaving only a few people in the hall.

Azeem, Sinbad, Huda, Safira, and Dunya.

They stood in a loose semicircle, watching him with quiet expectation.

In the past few hours, Malik had ordered his fastest people to install projection Holy Relics throughout Devil’s Maw.

Palm-sized devices that could broadcast sound and image across vast distances. They had been placed in every kingdom, city, and military outpost large enough to matter.

The network stretched from the Southern desert to the Northern mountains, from the Eastern wastes to the Western border.

For the first time in history, the Sultan would speak directly to his entire domain.

Malik took a breath.

Click!

The recording began.

"Peace be upon you, o noblest, most honorable, and purest of people."

His voice echoed through the hall, but he knew it was also echoing through every corner of Devil’s Maw.

In the crowded streets of the Last City, in the quiet villages of the West, in the underground military bases near the North, people of all walks of life stopped what they were doing and listened.

"I, your Sultan, shall commonly address you all through these devices henceforth."

He let the words sink in before continuing:

"Firstly, I wish to congratulate you on staying strong despite my absence. I’m proud of you."

His voice softened, just slightly.

"Proud that you have chosen to stand against the enemy despite them being much stronger and more numerous than yourselves."

In the hall, Azeem’s jaw tightened. Sinbad’s eyes glowed. Huda’s hands clasped together. Safira’s lips pressed into a thin line. Dunya simply watched, looking uncharacteristically still.

"Trust that this act of resistance is a victory in and of itself. It’s a promise that we have made, is it not? To fight until our last breath..."

Malik shifted on the throne.

His golden eyes stared straight ahead, into the recording device, into the eyes of every person listening.

"My focus is on you—the people under my protection. But that doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten the sacrifices that have gone."

He raised his right hand.

"Today shall be the day of martyrs. Remember them. Cry for them. Celebrate their sacrifices. You live as a result of their honor. If our Heaven is accepting of Souls... I am sure that is where they have gone."

He revealed a calmer smile.

"I am an Angel. I can guarantee you that much. But I’m also a Sultan, so I’ll be meading out rewards to the families of the martyred."

That had Safira filled with warmth.

"It’s unfathomably far from enough to heal what you’ve lost. I know, nothing can truly heal a loved one’s passing, but I hope that it at least eases your burdens."

Slowly, Malik’s expression changed.

The softness drained away, turning cold.

"As for my enemies."

His voice dropped as well.

"I’m sure you’re listening."

He leaned forward slightly.

"You call us villains. But truly, you don’t understand just how deluded you are."

They couldn’t know. Neither could his own people. The Originator of Corruption ensured that. Only Malik had the burden, for only he was the Bane of Corruption.

"You are a disease that has invaded this planet. And like any disease, I—the protector of Devil’s Maw—shall get rid of you."

His hand clenched on the armrest.

"Count your days, for they are numbered. As are yours... people of Khaybar. Soon, I will knock on that gate you’re so proud of with the skulls of your own kin."

Malik stood up from the throne. His robes fell around him, dark against the gold. His shadow stretched across the floor.

"Don’t ever hope to live a single comfortable day on Devil’s Maw. Not while I’m still alive."

He stared into the recording device.

"If you’ve come to fancy one of our religions... don’t wait for your day of judgment. It’ll be coming to you every day."

Click.

The recording ended.

Silence filled the Sultan’s Hall.

The faint hum that had filled the air faded away, indicating that the Holy Relic had been powered down.

Azeem stood frozen.

Sinbad had fluffed up his feathers—a sign of awe. While his sister, Huda, had her mouth hung slightly open.

Safira’s hands trembled at her sides.

Only Dunya remained completely unfazed. She stood at the base of the throne steps, her purple eyes staring up at Malik with the same steady gaze she always had.

The speech had not touched her. Or perhaps it had, and she was simply better at hiding it.

Those words weren’t directed at them, of course. The threats, the cold fury, the promise of daily judgement...

That was for the enemy.

For the invaders and the Order.

Yet, even they couldn’t help but be affected.

This was why Malik called away his wife and daughter, who so desperately wanted to be here with him.

Malik didn’t want them to see that.

Layla and Amal were in another wing of the palace, far from the threatening pressure of his Will. He was glad. They didn’t need to see him like this.

A sight that eventually had everyone in the Sultan’s Hall kneel. Something that Malik utterly hated when simply imagining his wife and child coming close to doing, let alone actually doing it.

That would only make him feel estranged from those who were supposed to be his home.

"Rise."

They rose.

Azeem cleared his throat.

"The speech will spread quickly, my Sultan. The enemy will be sick of it within the hour."

"Good."

Sinbad hopped onto Azeem’s shoulder.

"The people will take heart. They have been waiting for words like these."

Malik nodded and looked at each of them in turn.

"You may go; I have matters to discuss with Safira."

Azeem bowed. Sinbad dipped his head. Huda hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked towards the exit.

The three of them left together, the massive gates closing behind them.

Malik was alone with Safira and Dunya.

Safira had not moved since the others left.

Her ginger hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing her pale face and dark eyes.

Dunya stood a few feet away, her hands folded in front of her while her purple eyes moved between Safira and Malik, waiting.

Safira climbed the steps.

Slowly. One at a time. Her sandals made soft sounds against the gold-veined marble.

Once at the top and standing before the throne, she looked up at Malik and held out her hand.

Malik looked at it for a moment.

Then he placed his hand—the same one she’d reattached—in hers.

Safira pulled it close.

She bent her head and kissed his knuckles.

Then she pressed his hand to her forehead, holding it there, her eyes closed.

"Thank you for giving us a second chance, Teacher. I will not let you down this time."

Malik looked down at her.

She was his disciple. The gentle one. The one who had found him in the ravine, covered in bugs, missing a hand, half-dead.

She had healed him without knowing who he was. She had brought him to her office and tended to his wounds. She had sat with him on the roof and spoken of her love for the Sultan—the same Sultan who currently sat right in front of her.

Again, he didn’t know the details of their past. He didn’t know what had happened between them, what had caused the rift, or what had made her feel like she needed a second chance.

So he decided to remain vague.

He gently pulled his hand away.

"Do your best."

Safira’s eyes opened.

She looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled—a small, fragile thing, but true.

His disciple stepped back, descended the stairs, and walked towards the gates.

When they closed, Dunya turned to Malik, neither of them acknowledging why she stayed when he ordered all to leave.

"She adores you. They all do."

Malik leaned back on the throne.

"I know..."

He inwardly sighed.

’That’s what worries me.’