Misunderstood Villain Heroines Mourn My Death Chapter 107
107: i wouldn’t know[ … words ]
[ … words ]
***
{Outside The Projection}
The projection paused, and the crowd was stunned silent.
It wasn’t the deal. It wasn’t the story itself. It wasn’t their origin. The Dark Continent stopped being perceived in such a light long ago. Racism remained, of course; it could never be wiped completely, but it was frowned upon. So no one cared for that. It wasn’t Ali Baba swindling his way into a shah’s vault. A man able to trade sand for water. His eloquence. Personality. It wasn’t the story of a caravan built on a thousand deals, a thousand lies, a thousand nights spent in pursuit of something greater. No. It wasn’t their history. It wasn’t their legacy, code, or way of life.
No. It was him.
Their Sultan.
Malik.
“Did he just say… ‘okay’?”
“Yeah, like it was just a mild inconvenience!”
“You’re joking. He has to be joking.”
“‘Oh, you’re dying, by the way’—’Okay.’ What in the seven Hells is that?!”
“The Sultan… he knew. He knew that he was living on borrowed time since the beginning.”
“I told you.”
An older man grumbled.
“I TOLD YOU. That black in his soul? That’s corruption. And that little pink flicker? It was keeping him from falling completely.”
“It’s nothing to celebrate. You know what happens when that flicker runs out, don’t you?”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Silence. Uncomfortable shifting. And then someone coughed.
“Then… what kept him going? Was revenge really enough?”
They could not say.
Layla couldn’t either.
She was still crying, but she was smiling, too.
Because she hadn’t known about any of this—Malik and her father’s secret conversation, the quiet protection. She hadn’t been meant to hear this. Yet here she was, watching it unfold. A story never meant for her eyes had reached it anyway.
And it was so strange.
To see her father and husband like this.
To see them understand each other in ways she never could.
To see Malik—her Malik—shrug off death like it was just another obstacle to barter with.
Her purple eyes turned to Crimson.
As did the others. Huda, Safira, Azeem, Zafar, Noor, and Roya.
All feeling the same shock, their gazes silently asked him:
‘Did you know about this?’
Yet the owl did not answer.
Again. He didn’t even acknowledge them.
Again. His gaze was locked onto the projection as if nothing else in the world existed.
And that silence said more than a few Hoots ever could.
There was something more. Something worse.
Something they all knew.
Once someone began to Fall… there was no coming back.
Like everyone else, Layla now understood. She understood what her father had seen in him. She understood why he kept away from her, despite her endless flirting. And it wasn’t just the corruption. It wasn’t just the black in his soul. It was the way he carried himself. Like a man already buried.
And that realization… that knowledge… it made her heartache like nothing else.
***
{Inside The Projection}
Just as Malik and Ali Baba got back to the caravan, the camp was already alive with the warm glow of a large fire, tents neatly set up around it.
The smell of roasting meat filled the air, making their stomachs rumble.
Malik joined them, but he barely had a second to sit before Layla tugged on his sleeve.
“Sit with me.”
She patted the ground next to her.
Malik hesitated, then glanced at Ali Baba, who only shrugged.
The man clearly wanted Malik to keep his distance, but he wasn’t about to make his daughter sad over it.
With a sigh, he walked over and sat down. Seeing no reason to refuse.
Layla grinned.
“Here, hold this.”
She handed him a skewer with seasoned meat.
“You ever cooked over a fire before?”
Malik turned the stick over in his hands, inspecting it.
“Once or twice.”
“Good! Then don’t burn it.”
She poked at the fire, moving the wood around, then placed her own skewer at the contraption above. Malik did the same, feeling quite relaxed.
But not for long, as Layla began bombarding him with questions:
“Where are you from?”
“…Zawaya. Not a place worth talking about.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Anything that won’t kill me.”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“…Surviving.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Never thought about it.”
“Come on, just pick one.”
“…Gray, I guess.”
“Gray? That’s so boring.”
“It’s practical. Neither white nor black.”
“Pick another one.”
“Gold.”
“Because of your hair and eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Boring.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Okay, fine. What about monsters? Do you like any?”
“I don’t mind them.”
“That’s not an answer. Pick one.”
“…Roc.”
“Ooooh, because they’re cool and strong?”
“They don’t get eaten. They eat. And they’re a tough fight.”
Layla rolled her eyes but kept going.
“Alright, what’s the scariest thing you’ve ever faced?”
Malik poked at the fire.
“…Silence.”
Layla blinked.
“Like… actual silence?”
He shrugged.
“Okay, that’s kinda deep. What about—hmm—oh! Have you ever been in love?”
Malik glanced at her, then back at the fire.
“I’ve been in a lot of things. Love ain’t one of them.”
Layla huffed.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re persistent.”
“And you’re secretive.”
“I’m alive.”
“Alright, what about music? Do you like any kind?”
Malik exhaled through his nose.
“If it ain’t screaming or trying to kill me, it’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me.”
Layla groaned.
“Tell me.”
“I like the Oud… it sounds beautiful. Back when I was a kid, I used to sit outside a tavern just to listen to it. There were plenty of musicians who played, but I only ever came for one. I never knew their name or what they looked like… but I could always recognize their style.”
She smiled.
“That actually sounds nice.”
“It was.”
Layla nudged his shoulder.
“See? You can give normal answers.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Okay, how about this—what’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten?”
Malik paused, eyes flicking to the fire.
“…There was this stew once. Don’t know what was in it, don’t care. It was warm.”
“That’s the bar? Just warm?”
“When you’ve had worse, warm is good enough.”
Layla fell quiet for a second before grinning.
“Alright, what’s your least favorite food?”
“Anything that moves on the plate.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“Ew. That happened to you?”
He just gave her a look.
“Right. Stupid question… Okay, next one—do you have a favorite season?”
“Not really.”
“If you had to pick?”
