Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 420: Inevitable

Chapter 420: Inevitable

***

{Inside The Projection}

Since their little date, the one that had ended in eventual failure…

Layla started drifting closer.

Of course, it wasn’t all at once; there were no dramatic moments or any sort of confession, only the small things.

The ones Malik almost missed because, these days, his mind was like an empty room with the curtains drawn, feeling like a stranger in an unfamiliar town.

Not noticing that, because, well, there wasn’t much to notice, Layla started touching him more, in a surprisingly non-forced way, making it obvious that she was not trying to spark something but simply trying to make this… contract feel like a home for the both of them, a home that she could live in despite all the hate within her.

And so, she’d be there, in every one of those quiet, domestic beats where ’normal’ people usually wouldn’t think twice to get close.

If they walked through the palace corridors, her hand would find his without even looking, her thumb brushing over his knuckles like it was something she’d always done.

It became so natural that every time they were among company, in one of their weekly outings, ensuring the world remained seeing them as husband and wife, her right arm would always smoothly slip around his.

She’d apply just enough weight for him to notice, never enough to pull him in.

Layla would do the same whenever they slept as well, pressing her back against his chest.

Some nights, she didn’t fall asleep right away; he could feel her breathing slow on purpose, like she was matching herself to his rhythm.

He never moved away; he couldn’t bring himself to, nor did he ever want to.

Her touch was warm and grounding—a steady point in the fog his mind had been trapped in for nearly all of time, something which had only gotten worse recently… if not for her, he definitely would’ve struggled adjusting to this new life a lot more.

She was more comforting than she’d ever know.

It wasn’t exactly the heat of her skin or the softness of her hands, though that helped. It was that she touched him like he was still a man, not a throne to bow to, a weapon to fear, a Lord that could do no wrong, or some hollow thing that always fought against Corruption and madness.

Though he never once said it, Malik really appreciated it, especially in the rare moments when his thoughts weren’t weighed down by the noise of the realm, he’d feel it—a quiet, stubborn gratitude sitting deep in his heart.

…A secret he didn’t want to name.

But he kept it there, always. Because, truth was, anything he gave her in return would pull her deeper into the shadow he had become.

He knew very well what happened to those who stayed too close for too long.

They wilted under the same cold air that kept him standing, becoming much like him, hollow ones who saw nothing but the end goal: his Silent Requiem.

So he said nothing.

Malik didn’t thank her; he didn’t lean into her touch. He just let her keep holding him, like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t saving what little fraction of a fraction of a fraction of him was left.

Cruel? Perhaps… but maybe…

Maybe that was the only kindness he had left to give.

***

{Outside The Projection}

“NO!”

Layla despised that.

Her bitterness wasn’t anything one could mistake.

Her rage wasn’t for show; her grief wasn’t meant to win sympathy.

It was so very intense… erupting from deep within her bones, making everyone around her flinch.

She wanted to scream at him, scream at the chained body on the Golden Throne, and tell him that he was so very wrong. She NEEDED to climb those steps, grab him by the shoulders, and shout so loud her lungs would rupture.

THIS WAS SOMETHING HE SHOULD’VE TOLD HER.

And so, she went forth to do what she so desperately ’needed,’ stumbling towards him.

Her steps kept wavering, becoming only clumsier as she entered the pain zone beneath the projection, a zone that she barely managed to pass after many long, painful seconds before suddenly dropping to her knees at the foot of the stairs leading to the throne.

The marble rang with sound as she looked up, her eyes locked on him.

Her once husband, her Lord, Malik, chained by gold.

They should’ve tried to fix this.

’…I-If only h-he—’

Somewhere inside her, the thought repeatedly curled and burned, much worse than before, bringing up a million ’what ifs:’ maybe she would’ve stood with him. Become his backbone, the one that straightened his bent spine when the realm pressed too hard.

That was the bitterest part. ’Maybe.’ A word that shook in her throat but showed plainly on her body, in the way she had always leaned toward him, those small, unthinking touches, and the way her hand always found his.

If he had reached back—truly reached—she could have been there.

Spine to spine together against the weight of the realm.

But he didn’t… neither of them tried hard enough.

Both of them had given up.

Both had let it go.

And Dunya knew that very well.

She once thought the same; this ’if only’ wasn’t Layla’s alone… she knew it very well.

The hall went quiet as her once lady’s grief filled it, the sound of her cries falling heavy in their ears.

Sinbad, with his left wing patting Dunya, turned his head, pink eyes dimming, beak lowering slightly as if bowing toward the Golden Throne next to him. Dunya, Sinbad’s feathers soft against her cheek, followed his gaze, her lips pressed thin.

They looked at Malik, who was hours away from death, his soul weaker than ever, a sight that broke their hearts forevermore. They could not bear to see him like this, yet they had to say it directly to him—if not aloud, then in their minds.

’You are the epitome of nobility, Elder Brother.’

’None are like you, big brother.’

Azeem’s eyes, too, had lifted toward the chained figure.

His jaw tightened, his expression carved from the same blind loyalty.

He didn’t need to raise his voice; it was clear in the way his stare refused to look anywhere else.

’You’ve done all you could, my Lord.’

Huda thought the same, but she, unlike the rest, couldn’t bear to look at him.

She, unlike the rest, couldn’t dare speak to him.

But not all shared their praising thoughts.

One of them was Noor, who, still surrounded by her guards, leaned against the pillar at the right edge of the crowd, her arms crossed and her face unmoved.

’A Sultan shouldn’t sacrifice for anyone… It’s foolish.’

Though she’d never change her mind about such a thing, her ideals baked into her very being, incapable of amending, her thoughts weren’t said out loud, knowing the price full well.

She wasn’t planning to throw her life away for a mere comment.

In any case, whether noble or foolish, everyone knew it as one thing.

Tragic.

So incredibly tragic.

And worse, it was…

Inevitable.

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