"Long live the Sultan!"

The chant echoed through the streets just as Malik’s boots touched the ground.

He had only just dismounted from Isha, who had shrunk back to her small form and perched on his shoulder.

"Long live the Sultan!"

"Long live the Sultan!"

"Long live the Sultan!"

Hundreds of voices rose in unison.

Men, women, and children dropped to their knees on the cobblestones. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

Shopkeepers abandoned their stalls. Blacksmiths left their forges. A baker still covered in flour prostrated himself so low that his forehead pressed so hard it nearly began to bleed.

Standing in the middle of the street, Malik felt their devotion heavily pressing down on him.

’They recognized me faster than my own people.’

In Markaz, there had been hesitation and doubt mixed with hope, showing their constant cycle of loss.

Here, there was none of that; just unabashed reverence. The rumors must have reached the West before he arrived.

Word of his return, of the battle, of the fire, the blood, and the Demons turned to ash. The Westerners had been waiting for him.

And now he was here.

Malik waved at them as he walked toward the castle.

A slow sweep from left to right, nothing grand, yet that small gesture had the kneeling citizens weeping.

Like his own, some of them reached toward him as he passed, their hands trembling, while others only stared, their mouths open.

Ding!

—

╔════════╗

║FEAR GAIN!║

╚════════╝

[Your Fear Spreads...]

[Fear Points: 140 → 169]

—

’Hm. That’s good.’

Twenty-nine Fear Points just from walking down a street. The Westerners feared him more than they loved him; that much was clear.

In Markaz, his people loved him first and feared him second. Here, the balance was reversed.

He wondered why.

Maybe it was the distance.

The West had heard the stories, the legends of blood and fire. But they hadn’t lived through his rule.

They hadn’t seen the man behind the Sultan.

All they knew was the legend, and legends were terrifying.

Malik kept walking.

Nobles and merchants leaned out of their windows as he passed, drawn by the commotion, only for their faces to shift from annoyance to curiosity to absolute shock.

The scene repeated itself again and again. A window opened. A face appeared. The face went pale. The window slammed shut.

Until eventually, someone broke that cycle.

That ’someone’ was familiar.

Stepping out of a building just next to the castle gates was a woman with crimson hair, wearing a pink dress that matched the color of her eyes.

It was Huda.

His little sister.

She stopped in the middle of the street, her eyes locked on Malik.

The crowd around them fell silent, the kneeling citizens holding their breath, and even Isha stopped preening her feathers.

Malik looked at Huda.

Huda looked at Malik.

Tears welled in her eyes.

They spilled down her cheeks.

"...b-brother?"

Her voice was small and fragile. Nothing like the brash, confident woman he met back in the East.

It was nothing even close.

Before he could begin to respond, her head lolled to the side, and she fell.

Malik rushed forward before she could hit the ground. His arms caught her, one hand behind her back, the other under her knees.

She weighed like a feather. Her head rested against his chest, her crimson hair spilling over his forearm.

’Am I that scary?’

He knew the answer.

She hadn’t fainted from fear. She had fainted from surprise, the shock of seeing him after so long, after thinking he was gone forever.

Her body had simply given out under the weight of her emotions.

"Hehe..."

Isha chirped from his shoulder.

"I think we scared her, uncle!"

Or maybe not.

Isha’s words were law.

They did, in fact, scare her!

Chuckling alongside the little owl, he adjusted his grip on Huda and continued walking towards the castle within the gigantic castle that was Parsa.

Huda’s breathing was steady, and her pulse was strong. She would wake up soon, and when she did, he suspected that she might just try to punch him for making her faint in public.

The castle gates opened as he approached.

A dozen guards rushed out, then two dozen, their armor gleaming in the lamplight.

They carried blades and shields emblazoned with the Western Empire’s crest, a red square enclosing a white square, enclosing a... leaf.

Their captain, a woman nearly as tall as Malik, dropped to one knee before he even reached the steps.

"My Sultan!"

Her voice rang across the courtyard.

The other guards followed suit. Armor clanked, knees hit stone, and heads bowed.

Close to getting bored with such a repeating sight, Malik waved his hand and gestured forth.

"Rise and read the way. I want to meet Scheherazade."

The guards’ eyes widened. Not at his humility; that was known, expected even. They widened because he had spoken the Empress’s name aloud. After all, she was a step below an Angel of the Sun, a Class Four, Weight of Fate.

If it weren’t obvious by now, names carried weight, especially the names of the strong.

Malik’s name wasn’t to be uttered to all but the most foolish and suicidal or the most worthy.

Scheherazade’s name was less dangerous, resulting in relatively lighter destruction, but still powerful. Uttering it casually revealed something about the speaker.

It revealed that the speaker was strong enough to bear the weight of that name.

It revealed that the speaker truly was...

"My Sultan!"

The captain said again, her voice thick with emotion, finding herself honored to be able to call the Sultan of her home, Devil’s Maw.

She then quickly rose to her feet and turned on her heel. The other guards split into two columns, flanking Malik as he walked through the gates.

The castle was quite different from his palace.

Where the Holy Palace was all reverence and awe-inspiring, Scheherazade’s castle was oppressive and overwhelming.

The hallways wound around each other, the ceilings arched low overhead, painted with dark colors that only increased this feeling of being... crushed.

Lamps burned along the walls, their flames casting shadows across the stone floors. Rugs softened every step while tapestries on the walls told stories in woven thread.

This castle wasn’t meant for Scheherazade’s own. It was for her enemies. Her last stand and their resting place.

Malik carried Huda through the corridors, with Isha having moved from his shoulder to the top of Huda’s head, nesting in her crimson hair like a feathered crown.

Servants pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, their eyes downcast, their hands clasped in front of them.

A daring few risked glances at his face, only to look away just as quickly.

Nobles in fine clothes did the same, bowing at the waist, their expressions frozen somewhere between awe and terror.

Malik, of course, ignored them all.

The guards led him up a wide staircase, then down a long hallway, then through a pair of massive wooden doors carved with the image of a strong olive tree.

The doors opened into the throne room.

The throne sat on a raised platform at the far end of the hall, elevated on a flight of stairs much longer and steeper than the ones in Malik’s Sultan’s Hall.

A figure sat on that throne, lounging sideways, her legs draped over one armrest, her head propped on her hand.

She appeared busy reading a book but still looked up when the doors opened, obviously annoyed.

"Who dares to interrupt my free time?"

She looked down.

"I told you not to annoy me unless the Sultan came to..."

Her mouth closed.

The book slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thump.

This woman was extremely beautiful.

Her silver hair fell past her shoulders in waves. Her almond-shaped eyes were dark and deep, holding centuries of knowledge in their depths. Her forming smile was bright enough to fold people up and keep them in her pocket.

Her dress was multicolored, with layers of silk and chiffon in shades of purple, gold, and red. The cut was a little revealing, showing her collarbones and the curve of her shoulders. She wore jewelry, bracelets on both wrists, and a necklace that hung down to her chest.

But Malik didn’t focus on any of that.

The moment she saw him, she moved.

In one second, she was standing in front of him, so close he could smell the flowers in her hair and the faint scent of rain that clung to her skin.

She had crossed the distance without seeming to move at all, too fast for him to even attempt to perceive.

Unlike the others, she didn’t stare.

She didn’t cry, nor did she kneel. She simply stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Her body pressed against his, and her cheek rested against his chest.

"You’ve taken your time..."

Her voice was soft and warm.

"My love."

Indeed, she was Scheherazade.

Malik stood there, holding his unconscious sister in his arms, his little brother’s daughter nesting on her head, and the second most powerful Magi in Devil’s Maw hugging him like a long-lost lover.

’This is not what I expected.’