Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 406: Azeem

Chapter 406: Azeem

***

{Outside The Projection}

Every eye in the hall turned.

One by one to a man.

Him alone.

Azeem.

They knew it already.

Finally, finally, it was his turn.

The one they all previously hated.

Calling him the Sultan’s Right Hand as an insult.

Now, though, such a Title was of extreme honor.

It weighed completely differently.

Azeem had been there, beside him.

Through the rise, through the rot, through the fire.

He was one of only a few who stuck with Malik till the end.

A reliable constant that always supported his Lord.

And though he’d left near the end—abandoned or forced, it didn’t really matter—the truth was clear: Azeem had made it further than any of them.

So they all looked, waiting and expecting something.

But he didn’t move or reveal any reaction.

He remained on the ground, legs crossed, quietly staring at the projection.

Azeem stared for a long while until finally, a smile graced his face.

It was a small, happy smile, so warm, like it had waited decades to finally stretch across his face.

He didn’t care about the others, not even noticing their stares.

Because for Azeem, this was it.

This was what he’d been waiting for.

To know the truth that haunted him all this time.

After everything… Had he ever truly mattered to Malik? Had Malik ever looked at him and seen more? Truly trusted him? Respected him? Maybe even liked him, in that cold, distant way of his? Allow him a place in his stone heart?

Or was Azeem always just another piece in his grand plan?

He didn’t know, he couldn’t, but now…

Now he would.

From the source itself.

His Lord’s memories; his truth.

This was the only way.

Azeem was going to see exactly how his Lord saw him.

He was going to know if Malik had been indifferent to him since the beginning or if he had at least acknowledged him a tiny bit more than the others.

He knew that this truth would hurt him deeply, but still…

Azeem kept watching with that smile.

Even if he wasn’t of Malik’s people, at least he’d see their interactions again.

That was enough to keep him happy.

***

{Inside The Projection}

It was late, or maybe early… didn’t matter.

The Shams didn’t pierce these walls… walls that Malik barely left.

He sat in his chambers, behind a desk, in the corner of a room most would call paradise, one with silks in every corner and rugs soft enough to sleep on.

A tray of sweet dates sat on the edge of the desk, being picked at by Sinbad.

Usually, he hunted his own food, but after his Elder Brother became a Mithqal, making him something of a Mithqal as well, he no longer bothered to hunt, Aether being more than enough to sustain him, preferring to eat sweets now instead.

And, of course, now that they had all the money in the world, gorging on dates became something of a very expensive pastime.

Malik, though, and again, didn’t notice any of it, his focus singular.

He leaned forward on his throne, hands sifting through dozens of scrolls, all stacked, stamped, and sealed. His desk was more like a command table than a workspace; on it were maps, applications, and diplomatic reports—just all types of documents that he needed and requested.

Sinbad, after swallowing down another date, or ten, seed and all, waddled over beside him, one claw tapping a stack of scrolls rhythmically.

A cute little monocle materialized over his left eye as he resumed his reading.

It was a ridiculous sight; the thing didn’t even help him read. He didn’t at all need it, but Malik, on one of their walks through the Holy Palace, visiting one of their treasury vaults—when they got coin to throw at that town’s Silent Crescent—had found it and immediately picked it up, thinking it’d look good on his little brother.

It supposedly had belonged to a dead high noble, still smelling like shisha, so there weren’t any political games he had to weave through to get it.

Malik handed it to Sinbad without a word, thinking it’d suit him… it sure did.

Now, it sat on the owl’s head, making him out to be the scholar he always sounded like.

Hoot.

Sinbad blinked slowly at the scroll beneath him, then pushed it away with his claw.

“Tool.”

Malik raised a brow, silently asking, “Why?”

Sinbad, without looking at him and while rustling through another stack, answered:

“That child is full of theory and fanciful phrases… He likely writes speeches for his bedroom mirror.”

Malik took the scroll, still warm from Sinbad’s fluff, and glanced down at it.

The man appeared to have glowing recommendations, an educated pedigree, experience in economic counsel, and the ability to read some Old Tongue.

“Looks fine on paper.”

Sinbad chuckled.

“Sure. But drop him in a room of starving men, and he’ll faint before he can pronounce ’budget deficit.’”

Malik nodded once.

“Fair enough.”

He let the scroll roll back up and tossed it across the desk, not caring where it landed.

Malik then picked up another; it was smaller, thinner, the wax on its seal was dull and barely pressed.

It had no family crest or ribbon, and surprisingly, it wasn’t even dipped in fragrant oil, something of an expectation by now.

Whoever this was, they sent it as a Hail Mary.

A “Fuck it! It doesn’t hurt to try,” kind of application.

Malik unfurled the scroll and paused for a moment.

Stamped at the top was {Low Priority}.

His brows lowered slightly.

Yeah, it seemed like it wasn’t him who messed this up.

Whatever service this man hired fucked him over hard.

Flipping the scroll further open, Malik began to read, noticing no ’impressive’ lineage, no endorsements from temples or academies, no seal from a noble house, not even a servant’s signature.

This man had to be a commoner.

“Check this one out.”

Malik dragged the scroll across the desk and turned so that it faced Sinbad.

The owl waddled over, pulling the monocle down over his eye as he leaned over the script.

For a while, he didn’t speak and read everything, line by line.

A few hums left him.

A few small clicks of his beak.

Then, finally, a low whistle.

“Impressive.”

He looked at Malik.

“A child of his birth… to rise so high without a single patron? He clawed his way into those ranks, cast out twice, and yet each time, he returned.”

Malik leaned back in the throne, arms draping off the armrests, a man in black robes, tired but not tired, detached in that way only he could manage.

“So?”

Sinbad tilted his head.

“A little young… but he’ll do.”

Malik nodded.

Without another word, he snapped his fingers.

The sound cracked sharp through the room like a whip.

Stone echoed it, and curtains stirred.

It didn’t take long for knocks.

Two of them.

The doors opened with the third, and one attendant stepped in, eyes already halfway to terrified.

“Y-You called, my Lord?”

Malik, without looking at the attendant, tightly rolled up the scroll and flicked it towards him.

“Bring this man to me.”

The servant tried to catch it, but it fell and landed at his feet.

“S-Sorry.”

He bent to pick it up, blinking.

“Wh–Who, my Lord?”

Malik finally looked up.

“Azeem.”

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