It did not take long for word of Malik’s arrival to spread throughout his sultanate.

’Word’ had traveled like wildfire, carried by messengers, mostly owls, and the simple, unstoppable force of gossip.

It took even less time for a crowd to form—tens of thousands of people living near the Holy Palace—before its main gates, pressing against each other in a sea of bodies, banners, and bright, hopeful faces.

There, atop the main gate, stood their Sultan, his golden hair catching the light of the two Suns.

His wife, Layla, stood beside him, her purple hair flowing in the warm breeze. And behind them both was Amal, their daughter, her golden eyes staring with wonder at the sight below.

The instant the crowd saw him—whether directly with their own eyes or through the massive projections scattered about the land that highlighted his face for those too far away to see—they dropped to their knees.

It was a wave of submission that rolled through the crowd, and the following chant that rose up from their throats shook the very ground beneath the palace walls:

"HERE WE ARE, O SULTAN!"

"HERE WE ARE, O SULTAN!"

"HERE WE ARE, O SULTAN!"

None of them seemed to care about the noise, feverishly roaring out those four words with everything they had.

It was a different chant than the one they usually screamed, with a different meaning.

...the people had responded to their Sultan’s call.

They had remained by him despite it all, despite the years of waiting and the rumors of his death and the endless waves of Demons that threatened to swallow their world.

Here they were, O Sultan.

Never did they think they would have the chance to see him again, to witness his glory with their own eyes.

Never did they think he would accept them, the ones who had once condemned him and made him a pariah, who had failed him when he needed them most.

But no, there he was, standing before them on the gate, as handsome and bright as he had always been, his golden hair shining and his dark silks billowing in the wind.

Malik raised one hand, palm open, and slowly curled his fingers into a fist.

The chanting gradually stopped, like waves from a forgotten shore.

Eventually, only silence remained.

He stepped forward, closer to the edge of the gate, and looked out at the sea of faces below him.

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

His voice easily carried across, amplified by his Rukh.

"My people..."

It was a... soft voice.

"You have seen me in all my forms. You have seen my Truth, the one hidden beneath all the lies. But after my Ascendance, the world set its eyes on you. And we all know what that leads to, do we not?"

He slowly smiled at them and at the irony of it.

"Despite it all, now, you are seen in a bad light. Now, you are the Villains."

It was a proud smile.

"And that only means one thing..."

A very proud one.

"You have fulfilled your promise to me."

Malik raised his hand to point at the two Suns burning high above.

"Truly, you have carried on my mantle!"

Sinbad flew up from behind him, appearing in a much larger form.

"Our enemies have no idea who we are!"

Clutched in the owl’s talons was something cylindrical.

"But soon, they will know!"

Rolled tight and secured with a golden cord.

"I promise you this..."

Once Sinbad reached the sky far above Malik’s head, he unfurled it, and the fabric snapped open in the wind, revealing a massive banner that stretched wider than the gate itself.

"The entire world will know!"

The banner was a simple soft yellow, the color of the two Suns at noon.

Etched into it were two double-bladed swords in the shape of a crescent, crossing at the center, their tips pointing toward the Heavens.

"Long live Devil’s Maw!"

That was it.

Everyone watching and listening knew that was it.

Some screamed, their voices loud with joy, relief, and years of pent-up emotion.

Some hugged their loved ones, holding them tight and whispering words of gratitude into their ears.

Some were stunned into silence, their mouths hanging open as they stared at the banner and the man beneath it.

Many cried tears of hope, finally allowed to fall after being held back for so long.

Collectively, they reached out their hands towards the gate, towards their Sultan, as if they could touch him from across the courtyard.

And finally, those who had never stopped believing in him simply smiled and stepped closer to their Sultan, their eyes shining with familiar pride.

Layla and Amal, who held each other behind Malik, were the first of such people.

They could not have been prouder.

Sinbad, flying high above the gate, could not have been happier. Nor could Azeem and the rest, who stood at the base of the gate, their faces set in a fierce grin, unable to even think.

Their minds were a blank slate of pure, unadulterated happiness.

Finally, their Sultan had returned!

This was the heart of the Fifth Epoch.

The Age of the End.