Chapter 127: The Circle’s Beginning

A memory came unbidden.

Malik found himself in a... southern court.

He, among many others, looked down at a child from the stands, almost as if deciding his Fate.

That child looked much like he did.

Rather, that child was him.

Only a much younger version.

There was no doubt about it.

This... this was the moment.

The moment his mother abandoned him.

Child Malik was six, maybe seven years old.

The light in his eyes was too dim for someone so young.

He stood by a podium draped in ornate cloth. It was made to seem ceremonial, especially with the grand chamber stretching around, but to the young Malik, it only felt like a chopping block.

Damned hawks circling above a dying lamb.

There were murmurs, whispers, and judgment that wrapped around the room.

Before him, a man with grey-flecked hair and hard eyes stood behind a wooden desk.

The Qadi, a magistrate.

"—Henceforth, Malik is to be stripped of the Al-Zayni name. He, a bastard, is no longer bound to this family by blood, rite, or obligation."

His words echoed, the tolling of a bell that ended someone’s life.

Unlike the crowd, which gasped and oohed, Malik didn’t react. Not the young nor the old.

But the young eventually turned his head, his gaze falling on the woman standing beside the Qadi.

His mother.

She stood in a tremble, draped in white and gold, her eyes cast down.

Behind her stood her husband, a noble from the Al-Ayan line.

He didn’t look at his son, nor did she.

They didn’t do so even once.

"By the grace of the court and the bastard’s biological mother, Malik shall be assigned a guardian until he comes of age. A man of loyalty and record. Former butler to the Al-Ayan main family, Mahdi ibn Saleem."

A gasp rose in the chamber once more, and Mahdi stepped forward.

He was a thin man, the color in his beard mostly gone. His eyes were glassy with tears, but his posture was proud and dignified... well, as much as his hunched back could allow.

His cane tapped once against the marble as he bowed his head to the court.

Young Malik turned his gaze to him, his expression still blank, and Mahdi nodded at him slowly, a shaking smile on his face.

"I’ll take care of him."

The Qadi raised a final scroll and read aloud:

"Now, Lady Mariam is acquitted of all past indiscretions. Her marriage shall remain recognized under Al-Ayan law. May they live long and prosper."

The chamber erupted into claps.

Smiles, cheers, and celebration.

Both Maliks just watched.

Their gazes swept across painted faces, glittering jewelry, and fake blessings.

And still... they did nothing.

Nor did they say anything.

For there was nothing more for them here.

Thump.

***

The memory shifted between heartbeats.

Malik found himself sitting in the driver’s seat of a carriage, next to the driver, who appeared barely awake.

They rode through the cracked stone roads of Zawaya, resuming young Malik’s tragedy.

Behind him, sand blew through the broken windows, and every turn of the carriage dragged them further from whatever was once his home.

They weren’t heading anywhere safe.

Zawaya was the worst town in Markaz.

Cracked houses, dusty air, and the scent of shit and spice mixed together. Crowded streets with children half-naked and stray felines barking through alleyways.

This was where they were sending the young Malik, not out of mercy, but out of shame.

A place where nobility didn’t reach and secrets went to die.

The young Malik sat with his knees tucked to his chest... thinking. Mahdi was beside him, staring out the window, with his cane resting across his lap.

Eventually, the boy glanced at his guardian and finally ended his streak of silence:

"...You don’t have to do this."

Mahdi looked at him.

"I want to do this."

"She only picked you to make herself feel better."

"Maybe. But I still want to."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence stretched between them, and Malik looked away. His face betrayed nothing, but his fingers had curled into fists.

"She didn’t have to send you. She could’ve just abandoned me."

Mahdi closed his eyes and breathed slowly.

"Some people love in broken ways... Some people protect without knowing how. She’s cruel... but not all the way through."

"..."

Malik didn’t answer.

He didn’t hate her. That was the truth.

It would’ve been easier if he did. If she was completely monstrous, he could’ve discarded her like a torn robe.

But she wasn’t.

She was the only family he had.

The only blood.

At least the only one he knew of.

And she’d thrown him away... halfway.

That halfway hurt more than hatred ever could. But even as Malik buried those feelings, something else remained.

Something stronger than betrayal.

A truth that anchored him.

He glanced back at Mahdi.

The old man was wiping his cane with the edge of his sleeve, pretending not to cry.

Young Malik looked forward again.

Yeah.

They’d be fine.

They didn’t need anyone else.

But older Malik, who knew the truth, could only look down.

’So this was my...’

Thump.

***

The memory shifted between heartbeats.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...I was naive."

The words echoed like the scrape of metal on stone, and with them, a world was shattered.

Gone was the warmth of soft-spoken promises. Gone was the mother’s embrace and the bittersweet weight of broken love.

In its place was cold. Filthy, foul-smelling, cold, a wind biting into skin, and cobbled streets slick with grime and rot.

Zawaya was truly the gutter of the region.

A town forgotten by time and mercy.

And in the middle of one narrow alley, soaked with piss and blood...

"I was so damned naive."

...Mahdi lay dying.

Slumped against a crumbling wall, the old man wheezed and hacked, his fingers twitching weakly on the ground, every breath sounding like death crawling up his throat.

Hrrchhk—he coughed again, and blood splattered onto his wrinkled clothes.

His body spasmed and shivered. Sweat drenched his skin even in the cold.

And before him...

Young Malik stood frozen.

Eight, perhaps nine years old.

He was still just a kid, but his face certainly wasn’t.

His golden eyes were hollow. Shadows pooled under them like permanent bruises.

His arms were raised, trembling.

In his hand was a kitchen knife.

It was dull... not made to kill.

Especially not for mercy.

But there was no one else left.

No one was left for them.

They were alone.

Just a son...

"P-Please."

And his father.

"...Please, son..."

Mahdi’s voice was a broken wheeze, barely more than wind. He reached out a shaking hand, brushing Malik’s knee.

"Please..."

His voice cracked from shame.

Incredible shame... he failed the boy.

He failed the boy he promised to protect.

Young Malik’s jaw clenched.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to throw the knife and run.

He wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous—that he could survive this, that they would find something, someone—anything—

"..."

But no words came.

Only tears fell from Malik’s eyes.

Mahdi let out a soft laugh, choked by blood.

"Look at me... couldn’t even die like a man..."

The knife hovered... closer and closer.

But then—

Thump.

A figure stepped from the shadow.

This one was calm.

An older man.

No, not just any man.

He was Malik.

The same Malik the world now knew.

He walked forward until he knelt beside the young Malik. Shoulder to much short shoulder.

Older Malik looked down at Mahdi, whose glassy eyes stared through him, unaware.

The older Malik said nothing.

He simply reached forward...

Thump.

...and gently pressed down on the boy’s hands.

The knife sank.

There was no scream.

Just a wet crunch as the blade pushed into Mahdi’s chest, his weak ribs giving way beneath Malik’s shaking weight.

"Haaaaaaaaaaa..."

Mahdi exhaled.

One last time.

Then...

"..."

Nothing.

Young Malik’s arms fell.

The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

His body hit the stone next, followed by his chest and his forehead, until he lay collapsed in the old man’s lap.

He wept.

And from the memory beside him, words were spoken:

"I love you, father."

His voice was dull. Like the words had been rehearsed a thousand times but were still never made easier to say.

Thump.

And with that, he faded.

Leaving only the broken boy behind.

"Goodbye."

Young Malik sniffled.

Lifting his head, he looked around the alley, seemingly confused.

For a moment, he thought he’d heard something... but there was no one there. Nothing left but rats hungry for a fresh corpse.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, smearing tears, blood, and sand across his cheeks.

His eyes drifted downward once more—

Thump.

—and there, beside the body, lay the cane.

Mahdi’s old cane.

The one he never let go of.

Gnarled wood, chipped on one side, with a cloth charm tied near the handle.

Young Malik stared at it for a long, long time.

Then reached out.

His hand wrapped around it.

It was heavier than he remembered.

No matter... he picked it up and stood up.

The cane pressed into the ground with a soft thump.

He then reached down, hooked his other arm under Mahdi’s leg, and began dragging him out of the alley.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

No one came to help.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

No one even looked.

Step.

Drag.

Thump.

Just a boy, a body, and an old cane.

That was the circle’s beginning.

Blink.