Chapter 114: What A Family

Malik lay on a bed, the ceiling above him unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting.

Safira was sitting beside him, her ginger hair pulled back, her hands folded in her lap.

She was looking at him with an expression that hovered somewhere between recognition and curiosity.

"You’re the man from the ravine, aren’t you? I saved you."

Malik nodded without saying anything.

He had come to the Holy Palace’s medical hub to heal himself in his ’disguised’ form.

It was only his... good luck to be found by his disciple while she was doing her rounds.

"Before that, you were the man from the East."

Safira continued, tilting her head.

"You always end up in the most treacherous of situations, don’t you?"

He nodded again.

"You shouldn’t make it a habit of showing up here, but you’re welcome anytime."

After saying that, she studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face.

"You know, I wondered where you went. Why you disappeared. Are you some sort of vigilante? A wandering hero who appears and vanishes as he pleases? Too... shy to receive help?"

Malik almost laughed at that.

A wandering hero... if only she knew.

"I have my reasons."

Safira accepted that without pressing further.

She was gentle by nature, not one to pry into wounds that had not yet healed.

And, of course, she still did not know that he was the Sultan. Not once did her expression shift toward the awe or fear that accompanied that revelation.

To her, he was simply a strange old man who kept crossing her path.

Dunya, who knew of his "disguise," seemed to have told Safira nothing, and Malik trusted that she never would.

There was no reason to. Thus, his secret remained safe between them.

"Let me heal you."

Safira reached out with her hands.

"A bit more deeply this time."

Warm golden light bloomed from her palms, nothing like the harsh white fire of Malik’s flames.

It washed over him, sinking into his skin, muscles, and bones, fading the ache in his chest.

The cracks in his Soul—the damage from his battle with Mata—knitted themselves back together, not entirely, it wasn’t so easy, but greatly.

When she pulled her hands away, Malik felt somewhat whole again.

"You look younger..."

Safira observed.

"The last time I saw you, you seemed... weary. Now you appear almost restored."

Malik smiled at her.

"Thank you."

It was a small, tired expression.

"For everything."

Safira smiled back and said nothing more.

...

The Golden Throne gleamed beneath the light of the two Suns.

Malik sat upon it with his young, mighty appearance fully returned.

It had been some time since he had last taken on this appearance, and it felt like he was truly... home.

Dunya stood behind him, her hands clasped in front of her while before him, Kabir knelt, his large frame folded onto the marble floor.

"My shadow."

Malik’s voice carried through the empty hall.

"Make Zayna... queen of Aram."

Without hesitation or question, Kabir bowed his head lower.

"By your Will."

He rose and turned to leave, saying nothing about the Angel Malik had killed and their battle that had shaken the planet. If Malik did not bring it up, then neither would he.

That was what it meant to be a shadow—to see, to hear, to act, and never to speak of what was not asked.

The gates didn’t close behind him.

More figures had entered the hall.

Duban came first, his face bright with a smile that had not dimmed despite the years.

Walking in with the confidence of a man who had once stood beside their Sultan in darker times, he opened his mouth to speak—

"Move!"

Huda rushed past him, tearing through his most awaited moment, and threw her arms around Malik’s neck.

"Big brother!"

She squeezed him tightly, then turned her head to glare at Dunya, who stood without so much as a blink, remaining as composed as ever, her smile unbothered.

An old little sister rivalry, playing out in the span of a single glance.

Behind Huda came the others, filing into the hall one by one.

Azeem, smiling much like Huda.

Safira, her green eyes trembling.

Noor, her expression caught somewhere between relief and her usual arrogance.

Sinbad, flying in and landing on the armrest of the throne.

Aladdin, hanging back near the edge of the group.

Zafar, patting Duban’s hunched back.

Layla, walking slowly, her hand resting on Amal’s shoulder, whose small face was filled with joy and the desperate need to be close to her father.

All of them stopped before the base of the throne’s steps.

All of them stared at Malik.

And then, as one, they began to kneel—

"Wife, daughter."

Malik stopped them mid-motion.

He could not have them kneel to him.

Angel or not, this was his family, and he did not want them to feel estranged from him or feel the crown pressing down on their shoulders every time they looked at him.

Sinbad, who seemed to already understand that, beckoned the two over.

Thus, the two came forward.

Huda, sensible enough despite her bratty nature, gave them space. At least a little.

She had kept one hand on Malik’s shoulder as she stepped aside, unwilling to let go entirely.

Amal, who did not share Huda’s restraint, pushed past the girl and leapt onto her father’s lap.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his chest, claiming her place with a giggle.

Layla walked up to him slowly, reached out from beside her daughter, took his head in her hands, and brought it to her forehead.

Their skin touched, warm against warm, and she closed her eyes.

"Thank you for being victorious."

That was all she could say.

The words carried everything—the relief, the fear, and the love that had never quite found its voice.

Malik smiled at her, and for a moment, the world felt as if it had paused in its entirety.

This was peace.

"Hey!"

Huda’s voice shattered that ’peace.’

"That’s my place!"

"Hmph! No, it isn’t!"

Amal shot back, tightening her grip on Malik’s neck.

’Hah...’

While the two girls argued, Malik and Layla simply smiled at each other.

’What a family.’