Chapter 126: Old Cane

This banquet was quite unusual.

Instead of people dancing about, most sat.

The magnificent hall, built for grand balls and elaborate ceremonies, had been rearranged into something closer to a gathering of old friends than a display of political power.

Tables stretched in long rows, benches groaning under the weight of lords and ladies who had set aside their rivalries for the evening.

Instead of people avoiding food, most stuffed their mouths. Roasted lamb disappeared from platters. Flatbreads were torn and shared. Honeyed pastries left crumbs on silk sleeves.

No one counted portions or watched their figure. They ate because they were hungry, because the food was good, and because, for one night, they didn’t have to pretend.

Instead of getting drunk off wine or the like, most drank tea.

Malik had greatly enjoyed the tea he drank in the West, so he served that here too, and pots of it steamed on every table.

People were truly enjoying themselves.

Again, they didn’t need to scheme, or at least not too much.

The politics of Devil’s Maw would return tomorrow, sharp as ever.

But for tonight, the knives stayed in their sheaths.

This was a gathering of like-minded people who needed a break.

And it wasn’t just within the palace walls, either.

The Last City streets showed people enjoying themselves much the same.

Vendors had set up stalls in the squares, selling skewered meat, fried dough, and cups of that same tea. Musicians played on corners. Children ran between the legs of adults, laughing, their faces smudged with jam.

Of course, the daily Demon wave was upon them as well.

The Origin of Corruption didn’t take holidays.

But this one was being handled by mostly veterans—his shadows, Sinbad, Azeem, Zafar, Duban, and, surprisingly, Huda.

She claimed she wasn’t one for such celebrations. That the banquet would bore her and that she’d rather spill Demon blood than make small talk with nobles who’d once called for her head.

But, as always, it wasn’t the full truth with her.

There was a group here she didn’t want to meet.

Her own blood family.

It seemed they’d had something of a falling out.

Anyhow, thanks to those fighting, most of the soldiers were given a day off.

They barely had any of those, so it was very welcome.

Men and women who’d spent years on the front lines found themselves sitting in taverns, holding their children, and kissing their spouses. Some of them didn’t know what to do with themselves.

It was a happy day.

And to make things even better, the banquet was about to have its first show.

"Peace upon you, my people."

Hakim raised a bottle of wine, calling for the hall’s attention.

His voice carried across the room, cutting through the murmur of conversation, and he looked better than he had in days, his eyes bright, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

"I’m sure you’ve all had a good time so far, but like always, my son and Sultan likes to impress."

He gestured to the hall’s doors, where a group of beautiful girls began to enter.

"Led by my granddaughter, I welcome you to the Eastern Troupe!"

’...what?’

While everyone cheered, Malik tilted his head.

He’d heard of the Eastern Troupe—renowned across the West for their performances—but what Hakim said before that confused him. Since when was his daughter part of some dance troupe? Rather, since when did she dance?

’Is he joking?’

No. His father wasn’t.

Malik saw Amal wearing a dancer’s dress, shimmering dark red, with gold bangles on her wrists and little bells sewn into the hem of her skirt.

Behind her came Noor and a dozen other girls, dressed in similar silks. It was obvious at first glance that Noor was their actual leader—her movements far more practiced—and that Amal had only taken over for today.

Still... quite a surprise.

Hakim caught Malik’s eye from across the room and grinned.

’Bastard, trying to give me a heart attack.’

"Did we surprise you?"

Layla appeared at his side, her arm slipping through his.

"Our daughter’s a pretty good dancer, you know."

Malik softly smiled at her.

"It’s nice to see her have fun."

Just as those words left his mouth, the Eastern Troupe began their dance.

Musicians began to play. The lead was a flute, its notes rising high and sweet above the crowd. A drum joined, then a stringed instrument Malik didn’t recognize.

Fire erupted from the ground.

Red flame that circled the dancers, arched over their heads, and flowed around them.

The fire made them look majestic and otherworldly.

But Malik barely noticed any of it.

His eyes were stuck on his daughter.

She was far from the most skilled dancer in the troupe.

Her steps were a fraction too slow, her turns not quite sharp enough, her arms not fully extended. Next to Noor, who had spent decades perfecting her craft, Amal looked like exactly what she was: a child playing at something she loved.

And yet, she seemed to be the most beautiful to watch..

Because she was smiling.

From ear to ear, unrestrained and pure.

She was having the time of her life.

Tears threatened to leave Malik’s eyes, but he quickly pulled himself together, blinking them back and swallowing the lump in his throat.

He didn’t know it was possible to feel this happy.

Was this what his people felt when they saw him?

No wonder they reacted that way.

Blink.

...a black snake appeared around Amal’s body.

It was wrapped around her torso, its head resting on her shoulder.

I...T was looking at him with IT’s white eyes.

IT was here.

No one else seemed to notice.

The nobles kept watching the dance with enraptured faces.

The musicians played on, their notes undisturbed; not even Amal herself noticed.

Only Malik did.

His heart sank deep.

’No...’

This didn’t make sense.

He’d only just cleansed Amal’s Soul and burned the Corruption out of her with his own fire.

There was no way IT could’ve taken over again.

Malik didn’t know what to do.

’...’

’...’

’...’

So he did nothing.

And Amal danced away...

But the snake didn’t move with her.

She stepped left. The snake stayed where it was. She spun. The snake watched her go, still as stone.

IT hadn’t been wrapped around her at all.

IT had never been wrapped around her.

The snake blinked out of existence.

And reappeared before him.

In the form of a woman.

She wore a simple dress, the kind worn by merchants’ wives in Zawaya.

Her hair was black, streaked with gray, and tied back in a loose bun.

Malik immediately realized who this was.

Or rather, what form the snake had taken.

Mariam.

’My mother.’

Malik didn’t remember much of her.

But he knew her the way a wound knows the blade that cut it.

Behind her, from outside the hall, an old man with a cane came through.

Thump.

His steps were slow, each one accompanied by the tap of wood against marble.

Thump.

His skin was like bark, his eyes like coals, and his beard was white with age.

Thump.

He wore the simple robes of a scholar.

Thump.

Malik realized who this was as well.

Thump.

Mahdi.

Thump.

’...my guardian.’

Thump.

The one who’d cared for him before and after he was abandoned in Zawaya. Who taught him and who stayed by his side until his very last breath... until Malik, only a mere child, had to bury him, abandoned and all alone.

Thump.

Following Mahdi were children dressed in plain clothes.

Thump.

As they drew closer, Malik started recognizing them, one by one.

Thump.

They were the same ones he’d pulled from cages in the Abyss’s first layer. The ones he’d fed and sent away, hoping that would be enough. But it seemed that all of his efforts were for naught.

Thump.

Their being here, young as they were, meant that they had died.

Thump.

IT had resurrected them with Corruption to haunt Malik.

Thump.

He began to tremble quietly.

Thump.

And no, it wasn’t from anger.

Thump.

Definitely not fear.

Thump.

It was sadness.

’...Old cane.’

Malik’s eyes fixed on it.

Thump.

The wood was dark, worn smooth by years of use.

He remembered that cane. Remembered the way Mahdi leaned on it and the way he tapped it against the floor to emphasize his words...

Thump.

IT had taken that too.

IT had taken everything.

The dance continued around him.

The music played, and the nobles cheered.

Thump.

Amal spun and smiled, unaware of the darkness that had entered the hall.

And Malik stood frozen, staring at the ghosts IT had brought to haunt him.

Only now did he realize that this thumping...

Thump.

Also came from his own heart.

...

End Of Chapter, Repeating Chapter Issue:

This banquet was quite unusual.

Instead of people dancing about, most sat.

The magnificent hall, built for grand balls and elaborate ceremonies, had been rearranged into something closer to a gathering of old friends than a display of political power.

Tables stretched in long rows, benches groaning under the weight of lords and ladies who had set aside their rivalries for the evening.

Instead of people avoiding food, most stuffed their mouths. Roasted lamb disappeared from platters. Flatbreads were torn and shared. Honeyed pastries left crumbs on silk sleeves.

No one counted portions or watched their figure. They ate because they were hungry, because the food was good, and because, for one night, they didn’t have to pretend.

Instead of getting drunk off wine or the like, most drank tea.

Malik had greatly enjoyed the tea he drank in the West, so he served that here too, and pots of it steamed on every table.

People were truly enjoying themselves.

Again, they didn’t need to scheme, or at least not too much.

The politics of Devil’s Maw would return tomorrow, sharp as ever.

But for tonight, the knives stayed in their sheaths.

This was a gathering of like-minded people who needed a break.

And it wasn’t just within the palace walls, either.

The Last City streets showed people enjoying themselves much the same.

Vendors had set up stalls in the squares, selling skewered meat, fried dough, and cups of that same tea. Musicians played on corners. Children ran between the legs of adults, laughing, their faces smudged with jam.

Of course, the daily Demon wave was upon them as well.

The Origin of Corruption didn’t take holidays.

But this one was being handled by mostly veterans—his shadows, Sinbad, Azeem, Zafar, Duban, and, surprisingly, Huda.

She claimed she wasn’t one for such celebrations. That the banquet would bore her and that she’d rather spill Demon blood than make small talk with nobles who’d once called for her head.

But, as always, it wasn’t the full truth with her.

There was a group here she didn’t want to meet.

Her own blood family.

It seemed they’d had something of a falling out.

Anyhow, thanks to those fighting, most of the soldiers were given a day off.

They barely had any of those, so it was very welcome.

Men and women who’d spent years on the front lines found themselves sitting in taverns, holding their children, and kissing their spouses. Some of them didn’t know what to do with themselves.

It was a happy day.

And to make things even better, the banquet was about to have its first show.

"Peace upon you, my people."

Hakim raised a bottle of wine, calling for the hall’s attention.

His voice carried across the room, cutting through the murmur of conversation, and he looked better than he had in days, his eyes bright, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

"I’m sure you’ve all had a good time so far, but like always, my son and Sultan likes to impress."

He gestured to the hall’s doors, where a group of beautiful girls began to enter.

"Led by my granddaughter, I welcome you to the Eastern Troupe!"

’...what?’

While everyone cheered, Malik tilted his head.

He’d heard of the Eastern Troupe—renowned across the West for their performances—but what Hakim said before that confused him. Since when was his daughter part of some dance troupe? Rather, since when did she dance?

’Is he joking?’

No. His father wasn’t.

Malik saw Amal wearing a dancer’s dress, shimmering dark red, with gold bangles on her wrists and little bells sewn into the hem of her skirt.

Behind her came Noor and a dozen other girls, dressed in similar silks. It was obvious at first glance that Noor was their actual leader—her movements far more practiced—and that Amal had only taken over for today.

Still... quite a surprise.

Hakim caught Malik’s eye from across the room and grinned.

’Bastard, trying to give me a heart attack.’

"Did we surprise you?"

Layla appeared at his side, her arm slipping through his.

"Our daughter’s a pretty good dancer, you know."

Malik softly smiled at her.

"It’s nice to see her have fun."

Just as those words left his mouth, the Eastern Troupe began their dance.

Musicians began to play. The lead was a flute, its notes rising high and sweet above the crowd. A drum joined, then a stringed instrument Malik didn’t recognize.

Fire erupted from the ground.

Red flame that circled the dancers, arched over their heads, and flowed around them.

The fire made them look majestic and otherworldly.

But Malik barely noticed any of it.

His eyes were stuck on his daughter.

She was far from the most skilled dancer in the troupe.

Her steps were a fraction too slow, her turns not quite sharp enough, her arms not fully extended. Next to Noor, who had spent decades perfecting her craft, Amal looked like exactly what she was: a child playing at something she loved.

And yet, she seemed to be the most skilled.

Because she was smiling.

From ear to ear, unrestrained and pure.

She was having the time of her life.

Tears threatened to leave Malik’s eyes, but he quickly pulled himself together, blinking them back and swallowing the lump in his throat.

He didn’t know it was possible to feel this happy.

Was this what his people felt when they saw him?

No wonder they reacted that way.

Blink.

...a black snake appeared around Amal’s body.

It was wrapped around her torso, its head resting on her shoulder.

I...T was looking at him with IT’s white eyes.

IT was here.

No one else seemed to notice.

The nobles kept watching the dance with enraptured faces.

The musicians played on, their notes undisturbed; not even Amal herself noticed.

Only Malik did.

His heart sank deep.

’No...’

This didn’t make sense.

He’d only just cleansed Amal’s Soul and burned the Corruption out of her with his own fire.

There was no way IT could’ve taken over again.

Malik didn’t know what to do.

So he did nothing.

And Amal danced away...

But the snake didn’t move with her.

She stepped left. The snake stayed where it was. She spun. The snake watched her go, still as stone.

IT hadn’t been wrapped around her at all.

IT had never been wrapped around her.

The snake blinked out of existence.

And reappeared before him.

In the form of a woman.

She wore a simple dress, the kind worn by merchants’ wives in Zawaya.

Her hair was black, streaked with gray, and tied back in a loose bun.

Malik immediately realized who this was.

Or rather, what form the snake had taken.

Mariam.

’My mother.’

Malik didn’t remember much of her.

But he knew her the way a wound knows the blade that cut it.

Behind her, from outside the hall, an old man with a cane came through.

Thump.

His steps were slow, each one accompanied by the tap of wood against marble.

Thump.

His skin was like bark, his eyes like coals, and his beard was white with age.

Thump.

He wore the simple robes of a scholar.

Thump.

Malik realized who this was as well.

Thump.

Mahdi.

Thump.

’...my guardian.’

Thump.

The one who’d cared for him before he was abandoned in Zawaya. Who taught him and who stayed by his side until his very last breath... until Malik, only a mere child, had to bury him, abandoned and all alone.

Thump.

Following Mahdi were children dressed in plain clothes.

Thump.

As they drew closer, Malik started recognizing them, one by one.

Thump.

They were the same ones he’d pulled from cages in the Abyss’s first layer. The ones he’d fed and sent away, hoping that would be enough. But it seemed that all of his efforts were for naught.

Thump.

Their being here, young as they were, meant that they had died.

Thump.

IT had resurrected them with Corruption to haunt Malik.

Thump.

He began to tremble quietly.

Thump.

And no, it wasn’t from anger.

Thump.

Definitely not fear.

Thump.

It was sadness.

’...Old cane.’

Malik’s eyes fixed on it.

Thump.

The wood was dark, worn smooth by years of use.

He remembered that cane. Remembered the way Mahdi leaned on it, the way he tapped it against the floor to emphasize his words...

Thump.

IT had taken that too.

IT had taken everything.

The dance continued around him.

The music played, and the nobles cheered.

Thump.

Amal spun and smiled, unaware of the darkness that had entered the hall.

And Malik stood frozen, staring at the ghosts IT had brought to haunt him.

Only now did he realize that this thumping...

Thump.

Came from his own heart.

This banquet was quite unusual.

Instead of people dancing about, most sat.

The magnificent hall, built for grand balls and elaborate ceremonies, had been rearranged into something closer to a gathering of old friends than a display of political power.

Tables stretched in long rows, benches groaning under the weight of lords and ladies who had set aside their rivalries for the evening.

Instead of people avoiding food, most stuffed their mouths. Roasted lamb disappeared from platters. Flatbreads were torn and shared. Honeyed pastries left crumbs on silk sleeves.

No one counted portions or watched their figure. They ate because they were hungry, because the food was good, and because, for one night, they didn’t have to pretend.

Instead of getting drunk off wine or the like, most drank tea.

Malik had greatly enjoyed the tea he drank in the West, so he served that here too, and pots of it steamed on every table.

People were truly enjoying themselves.

Again, they didn’t need to scheme, or at least not too much.

The politics of Devil’s Maw would return tomorrow, sharp as ever.

But for tonight, the knives stayed in their sheaths.

This was a gathering of like-minded people who needed a break.

And it wasn’t just within the palace walls, either.

The Last City streets showed people enjoying themselves much the same.

Vendors had set up stalls in the squares, selling skewered meat, fried dough, and cups of that same tea. Musicians played on corners. Children ran between the legs of adults, laughing, their faces smudged with jam.

Of course, the daily Demon wave was upon them as well.

The Origin of Corruption didn’t take holidays.

But this one was being handled by mostly veterans—his shadows, Sinbad, Azeem, Zafar, Duban, and, surprisingly, Huda.

She claimed she wasn’t one for such celebrations. That the banquet would bore her and that she’d rather spill Demon blood than make small talk with nobles who’d once called for her head.

But, as always, it wasn’t the full truth with her.

There was a group here she didn’t want to meet.

Her own blood family.

It seemed they’d had something of a falling out.

Anyhow, thanks to those fighting, most of the soldiers were given a day off.

They barely had any of those, so it was very welcome.

Men and women who’d spent years on the front lines found themselves sitting in taverns, holding their children, and kissing their spouses. Some of them didn’t know what to do with themselves.

It was a happy day.

And to make things even better, the banquet was about to have its first show.

"Peace upon you, my people."

Hakim raised a bottle of wine, calling for the hall’s attention.

His voice carried across the room, cutting through the murmur of conversation, and he looked better than he had in days, his eyes bright, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

"I’m sure you’ve all had a good time so far, but like always, my son and Sultan likes to impress."

He gestured to the hall’s doors, where a group of beautiful girls began to enter.

"Led by my granddaughter, I welcome you to the Eastern Troupe!"

’...what?’

While everyone cheered, Malik tilted his head.

He’d heard of the Eastern Troupe—renowned across the West for their performances—but what Hakim said before that confused him. Since when was his daughter part of some dance troupe? Rather, since when did she dance?

’Is he joking?’

No. His father wasn’t.

Malik saw Amal wearing a dancer’s dress, shimmering dark red, with gold bangles on her wrists and little bells sewn into the hem of her skirt.

Behind her came Noor and a dozen other girls, dressed in similar silks. It was obvious at first glance that Noor was their actual leader—her movements far more practiced—and that Amal had only taken over for today.

Still... quite a surprise.

Hakim caught Malik’s eye from across the room and grinned.

’Bastard, trying to give me a heart attack.’

"Did we surprise you?"

Layla appeared at his side, her arm slipping through his.

"Our daughter’s a pretty good dancer, you know."

Malik softly smiled at her.

"It’s nice to see her have fun."

Just as those words left his mouth, the Eastern Troupe began their dance.

Musicians began to play. The lead was a flute, its notes rising high and sweet above the crowd. A drum joined, then a stringed instrument Malik didn’t recognize.

Fire erupted from the ground.

Red flame that circled the dancers, arched over their heads, and flowed around them.

The fire made them look majestic and otherworldly.

But Malik barely noticed any of it.

His eyes were stuck on his daughter.

She was far from the most skilled dancer in the troupe.

Her steps were a fraction too slow, her turns not quite sharp enough, her arms not fully extended. Next to Noor, who had spent decades perfecting her craft, Amal looked like exactly what she was: a child playing at something she loved.

And yet, she seemed to be the most skilled.

Because she was smiling.

From ear to ear, unrestrained and pure.

She was having the time of her life.

Tears threatened to leave Malik’s eyes, but he quickly pulled himself together, blinking them back and swallowing the lump in his throat.

He didn’t know it was possible to feel this happy.

Was this what his people felt when they saw him?

No wonder they reacted that way.

Blink.

...a black snake appeared around Amal’s body.

It was wrapped around her torso, its head resting on her shoulder.

I...T was looking at him with IT’s white eyes.

IT was here.

No one else seemed to notice.

The nobles kept watching the dance with enraptured faces.

The musicians played on, their notes undisturbed; not even Amal herself noticed.

Only Malik did.

His heart sank deep.

’No...’

This didn’t make sense.

He’d only just cleansed Amal’s Soul and burned the Corruption out of her with his own fire.

There was no way IT could’ve taken over again.

Malik didn’t know what to do.

So he did nothing.

And Amal danced away...

But the snake didn’t move with her.

She stepped left. The snake stayed where it was. She spun. The snake watched her go, still as stone.

IT hadn’t been wrapped around her at all.

IT had never been wrapped around her.

The snake blinked out of existence.

And reappeared before him.

In the form of a woman.

She wore a simple dress, the kind worn by merchants’ wives in Zawaya.

Her hair was black, streaked with gray, and tied back in a loose bun.

Malik immediately realized who this was.

Or rather, what form the snake had taken.

Mariam.

’My mother.’

End of repeating Chapter.

Read author’s note for context.