The snow was red. Nearly all of it was red, a river of blood.
But it wasn’t the color that froze people that morning.
It was her.
She wasn’t a warrior. She wasn’t a Magi.
She was just a woman.
A mortal.
And she walked.
Her robes and scarf were dirty. Her lips cracked from the cold. Her hands trembled.
But she kept walking. Right past the stunned combatants and the murmuring priests.
In her arms was a child.
Skin and bones.
Eyes too tired to cry.
Cheeks like sunken cloth.
She stopped just outside the camp’s perimeter.
Not within. Not beyond. Right on the edge, where ice and danger met.
She didn’t speak right away.
But when she did, her voice…
“O people!”
It wasn’t loud.
“Listen to me.”
It didn’t need to be.
“O people!”
She held the boy higher with all the strength she could summon.
“This is only a child!”
Her arms shook.
“He has nothing to do with this war!”
Her voice cracked, but she pushed on.
“Please, for the sake of God…”
She coughed, swayed…
“Help this poor boy. Allow us… some water. That’s all I ask.”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
It wasn’t even silence that followed. It was the stopping of everything.
The bandits—who had been moving, readying themselves for the next cohort, screaming orders—just… froze.
Some stared blankly.
Some looked at one another.
A few lowered their weapons.
One man, somewhere near the back, muttered:
“She’s got nothing. Maybe we should…”
Another one:
“Just let her have water, man. Look at the kid.”
But then others yelled back:
“She’s the enemy!”
“Starve ’em out!”
“Mercy is for fools!”
“Strike them both!”
They began to argue…
Not all bastards were devils.
But there were some even the Devil ‘Himself’ would punish.
A face like rusted iron grinned from beneath a blackened helmet.
He raised his longbow.
“God’s mercy?”
He aimed it at the child.
“…Let’s see if God catches this.”
He pulled the string back and…
Twhip!
Released.
The arrow went.
It neared the child.
Straight. Sure. Silent.
The woman’s eyes reflected the arrow’s glint.
Yet, she didn’t realize that she had seen it.
She could do nothing about it.
The boy was dead.
But then—
BOOM.
A ripple cracked across the snow.
Malik stood before her.
No warning. No blur. No flash.
Just him. Still as a mountain.
One hand outstretched.
Clutching the arrow.
An inch from the child’s head.
He didn’t look at the woman. Not yet.
He looked up.
Sinbad circled above. Watching.
Then, and only then, did Malik glance at her.
His hand lowered, his grip subconsiously hardened, and the arrow broke in half.
The woman shook—trembled—but she didn’t fall.
She couldn’t fall. She was holding her world.
And Malik…
He was angry.
No, not just angry, he was enraged, absolutely furious.
Perhaps even more so than when he met Cyrus.
His eyes burned gold. Brighter than they ever had.
He vanished and…
BOOM.
Appeared before the bowman.
The bastard froze.
Didn’t drop the bow. Didn’t run.
He just stared, suddenly understanding.
This… this was death.
Malik’s hand closed around his throat.
The same hand that broke the arrow.
He casually held him up.
The bowman gagged. Kicked.
“Burn in Hell.”
What followed that sentence was flames.
Flames straight from Hell.
Malik’s Hell.
Golden fire trailed his arm and crawled towards the bastard.
On contact, it ignited him like a dry brush soaked in oil.
“AAAAAAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
He thrashed. Screamed. Flailing against the flames.
The tide of bandits surged back, forming a wide ring around them.
No one dared get close.
Malik held him there.
He watched him cook. Watched him suffer.
No satisfaction. No smile. No mercy.
There was only judgment.
The devil.
At that moment, he looked like a devil in their eyes.
Finally, when the screams died and only crackling remained, Malik tossed the body away.
BOOM.
He returned to his place. Sat. Placed the core in his lap and closed his eyes, as if he had done nothing at all.
The camp stared.
Mouths open. Children clutching their mothers. Men holding their breath.
They were absolutely terrified of his anger, but also… proud of it.
Though he didn’t solve their supplies problem, they could not be prouder of a Lord.
He indeed felt for them… but still, and again, they needed to find a way to survive, a way to eat.
Their Magi didn’t find much issue in not eating, though they would’ve certainly appreciated some good meat and water.
So, as it wasn’t exactly a need for them, they hadn’t really focused on it, preferring to keep their eyes on the bigger issue, the damn tide waiting on them to expire.
If not for Malik’s Aether core, they would’ve long been depleted of Aether, and thankfully, whatever byproducts of his cultivation and bits of Aether that squeezed through his metaphorical grip were enough to sustain them.
Malik, too focused on his cultivation, seemed to have forgotten that as well.
He appreciated how his people preferred risking their lives rather than disturb him, but there was a limit to that.
That woman… that widow going there to meet the enemy crossed that limit by far.
It hurt him, reminding him of the one he needed to be forgiven by; in turn, this ‘disturbed’ him more than she ever would have if she simply informed him of their struggles.
In any case, now that he knew, there was no way he’d stay still.
CRACK.
A deep sound suddenly resounded.
It came from above.
Everyone’s heads snapped up.
The dome’s peak—glowing purple—shivered.
Split.
And through it came a shadow.
A monstrous shape.
Black wings.
Feathers like blades.
Eyes like twin pink moons.
Sinbad.
But changed. Larger than ever. His wings stretched from one edge of the crack to the other.
He dropped slowly and landed with a thundering thud next to the supply tent.
No one screamed. They just stared, curious about the change.
More than willing to satiate their curiosity, Sinbad leaned forward…
Thud.
One barrel.
Thud.
Another.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Barrels upon barrels fell from his beak—water. Grain. Fruit. Even smoked meat.
Gasps resounded. Shouts. And then—
“FOOD!”
The camp erupted.
People ran. Cheered. Cried.
Mothers kissed the owl’s feathers. Children hugged his massive legs.
Even the few functioning combatants left screamed with joy.
The owl said nothing. He only watched. Calm. Gentle.
And then, when they were done pampering him, he slowly walked over and sat beside Malik.
Towering, but quiet. Watching him. Guarding him.
Just like the rest of them.
Kabir, the tall man, stepped forward, deeming this the right time.
He was one of the older Banu Sasan, yet no gray was in his beard.
The fire in his bones remained lit brighter than ever.
He looked at Malik and dropped to one knee.
“I am Kabir, my Lord. Head of this land’s Banu Sasan.”
Rami, stepping away from the celebrations, came next.
“I am Rami, my Lord. Veteran of this land’s Banu Sasan.”
Then Sarah, who did the same.
“I am Sarah, my Lord. Spear of Zaghari, a noble in this land.”
The final one—a young boy, no more than sixteen, sword nearly as long as he was tall—followed.
“I am Tarek, my Lord. A noble of no title, but I will earn one.”
They knelt together. Before their silent Lord.
“We are the final cohort.”
Malik opened his eyes.
He looked at them.
“Survive.”
Just one word.
And they nodded.
Malik said nothing more.
He didn’t need to.
Because they knew what it meant.
There would be no more help.
No more rescues.
If they fell…
They fell.
And Malik—
He had to ascend. Or they would all die.
Still…
“We will.”
Kabir promised.
Tarek grinned despite himself.
“Even if we have to break the sky to do it.”
And as they rose, gripping weapons, their edges glinting in the newborn Shams—
Malik closed his eyes once more.
The wind was quiet now.
But not for long.
Because the seventh day had begun.
And it would not end in quiet.
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