Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

Faqir wasn't the only one who felt that way.

Layla did too.

Her heart—her poor, exhausted heart—kept lurching every time she saw him.

Every time Malik so much as breathed on that damned projection, she felt something claw up her throat.

This was the man she knew.

The man she married.

The man she fell in love with.

The man who, despite everything, was still him.

Layla exhaled shakily, forcing herself to stay silent.

The world had twisted him into something else.

Something she couldn't recognize.

But these past few days?

She saw him again.

The real him, choosing to protect people who were nothing to him.

Fighting, even when he didn't have to.

Fighting, even when it would've been so much easier to turn away.

This was Malik.

Her Malik.

Not the Villain they had painted him as.

Just a man. A man who was too kind for his own damn good.

Layla bit the inside of her cheek, holding back the sudden, overwhelming urge to wail a third time.

Malik was good.

He was always good.

...Always.

She let out a slow, shaky breath.

He had done nothing wrong.

All his faults were misunderstandings.

They had to be.

Unless his Corruption took over, everything he did must have had an explanation.

Everything. Even the massacres he committed across the planet.

But Huda, who too felt grateful?

Huda knew... different.

She knew a truth, her truth.

Her pink eyes narrowed slightly as Crimson hooted beneath her, but she said nothing.

Malik wasn't innocent.

She had seen it with her own eyes.

She had watched as he slaughtered their people.

She had watched him step into their estate to demand vengeance.

To kill her uncle.

Huda heard a roar.

A roar that she'd never forget.

Malik killed, stole, and destroyed.

And yet…

Despite all that.

Despite everything he had done—

Huda could no longer hate him.

Never.

That was a mistake she would never ever repeat.

She knew better than to do that.

That didn't mean that she'd forgive him. No, but still...

Huda was not going to regress like they did.

She'd rather die before that happened.

NEVER AGAIN.

***

{Inside The Projection}

The dust clung to his cloak, snaking through the fabric, scratching at his skin. Annoying, but he barely registered it. His mind was too full. Too loud.

Brooding on the past.

On the future he wasn't even sure he wanted.

On her.

His disciple.

There was no escaping it now.

He'd made his choice, whether he liked it or not. And it wasn't the kind of choice he could take back. Running now would only make it worse. Again, he had to LIVE with what he chose. Had to carry it.

Malik could feel it, that slow, creeping feeling in his chest—the weight of inevitability. That same damn feeling he'd had every time his life had changed, every time he'd crossed a threshold he could never return from.

There were no wholly good sides in this war.

No shining banner of pure, unadulterated righteousness.

No noble cause untouched by ambition.

There never was. But for once, at least, it was clear.

For once, it was obvious which side held justice.

There were no illusions, no blurred lines of "maybe this is right, maybe this is wrong."

No. This was clear.

Black and white.

No gray marred this place.

No endless moral debates.

And he had already seen which side was which.

Faqir's broken body had been proof enough.

Yet, clarity didn't mean ease.

Even if he ignored his own feelings. Even if he pushed aside Faqir's broken ribs, his bloodied face, the sound of his body hitting the ground like discarded trash… this was still a nightmare of a decision.

Two evils.

No right answer.

Ignore the war or participate in it.

Because that's what it came down to, right?

No matter what, he'd have to pick one.

Ignoring the war meant turning his back on people suffering under a broken regime.

He'd let their cries go unanswered, let corruption fester, and rot everything in its path.

He'd let another child grow up trapped, powerless, waiting for a miracle that would never come.

That was its own kind of evil.

But stepping in?

Forcing the war to end.

That meant blood. A lot of blood.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of soldiers cut down by his hands.

Sure, they were soldiers. They knew what they were signing up for, the risks of fighting a bastard's cause. But what about their families? The innocents caught in the crossfire? The ones who never asked for war but had to live with the consequences? The ones who had no say, who just wanted to live their lives, to eat, to breathe, to see another starrise—they would suffer, too.

His participation was evil.

So, what was the better choice?

Let the status quo drag on; let people suffer for years, decades?

Or step in now—force the war to its peak, its bloody conclusion—so that at least it would end?

He chose the latter.

That was his choice.

The lesser evil.

Nasir Al-Sultan.

That was the side he had chosen.

Now... the harder choice had already been made.

So why was this so much harder?

Safira.

Eleven years.

A lifetime, but also nothing at all.

He doubted that was long enough for her to forgive him.

Not after what she thought he did.

Did she still hate him?

Would she even recognize him?

His hands curled into fists at his sides as he neared Nasir's camp in the base.

There was a weight in his chest he couldn't deny.

This moment was real.

He felt it sink into his bones, pressing down.

And just like that, he was hesitating again—

"T-Teach?"

The nickname cut through the noise.

Malik froze mid-step.

It hit harder than any blow he'd ever taken.

His head snapped toward the voice.

Her voice.

...Safira.

Older. Different. Not the scrawny little girl he remembered, but a woman now.

She stood by a long table littered with maps and weapons, her green eyes locked onto him.

Not a girl anymore.

Not even close.

She wore a white dress, soft and elegant—completely out of place in a warzone like this.

But that was Safira, wasn't it? Always standing where she shouldn't, always stubborn enough to make it work.

Malik met her gaze, wide-eyed.

Shock. Suspicion. A storm of emotions swirled in her stare, a thousand things unsaid.

And not a single one he could hold onto.

His throat went dry.

"It's me."

It was all he could think to say.

All he could manage.

The words barely left his mouth before she moved.

Fast.

Whoosh!

Pain.

A blade was punched into his ribs.

Malik sucked in a breath.

He looked down.

"...Oh."