Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death - Chapter 422: A Fluffy Family
Chapter 422: A Fluffy Family
***
{Inside The Projection}
The quiet had not left the room.
Malik remained where he always was—back straight, legs folded beneath him, eyes lowered. The faint whisper of Aether still drifting about him, thumping, pushing back against something.
After many long minutes of that, Dunya slipped back inside, softer than the latch of the door.
She crouched low near him, tilting her head as if to study him, something he’d found her doing a lot recently.
Her hands folded behind her knees as she carefully tapped his side with a single finger.
“…”
No response.
Another poke, firmer this time.
“…”
Still, no response.
Another poke, and another, and another, her way of repeatedly asking the same question, annoying him, until finally…
“No. I won’t join you for breakfast.”
Malik exhaled, opening his eyes to meet her stubborn gaze.
“I don’t require food.”
Her eyes widened, head cocking, one brow rising as if he had just spoken some unspeakable crime. Then, without a word, she jabbed her thumb proudly at herself.
“…Ah. You’re cooking.”
She nodded, once, then twice, then several times in rapid little bursts until her hair slipped loose against her cheek.
Malik blinked; his lips pressed together.
“Very well.”
He couldn’t find himself to refuse her.
“Bring it to my office.”
She smiled but then quickly shook her head in panic, waving her hands frantically, mime sealing her lips, her gestures desperate:
Don’t you dare tell, Lady Layla.
“Don’t worry.”
Malik’s eyes closed halfway, as if he could sigh without making a sound.
“Your secret’s safe.”
***
{Outside The Projection}
The hall glanced at Layla again, their eyes asking an already answered question…
Like, really? Do you REALLY not feel jealousy for this?
And she just shook her head, sure of it.
It wasn’t jealousy she felt but something else…
Something completely different, and yet not so.
***
{Inside The Projection}
The office was quiet except for the soft clink of bronze dishes being laid across the table.
A lovely smell came first—warm bread brushed with sesame, a hint of honey clinging to its crust. A small dish of olives, both black and green. A platter of eggs beaten with herbs until golden, sprinkled with dried mint. Slivers of spiced lamb nestled between roasted dates and figs, glistening with syrup. Bowls of laban, still cold, their surface rippling like glass as she set them down. And finally, a copper tray of flatbread pulled straight from the coals.
Malik sat before it all in silence, the faintest twitch at his brow betraying his unfamiliarity.
Dunya pushed a plate gently toward him. She didn’t reach out to eat; she only stood there, watching him with those impossibly soft eyes.
“…I’m having a hard time holding IT back.”
It appeared that those eyes had asked a question, one that only he picked up on.
Dunya shook her head, firm, then set another plate before him, as if correcting him without language.
Yeah, she wasn’t asking about that, and Malik seemed to know.
Perhaps it was an attempt to avoid talking about it, but he seemed to have accepted that there was no escaping this.
“…I see.”
Slowly, his head inclined.
“My day.”
His voice was softer this time.
“It is… strange. To walk these halls as if I belong. Every wall I pass tells me otherwise. I am… a stranger again. I had let go of that once, long ago. Yet here I am, back to the same beginning. It’s almost as if nothing has really changed. I’m still that lost child pretending to be something I’m not.”
The words should have crushed the room, but Dunya only smiled brighter, her lips trembling at the edges, yet filled with a light that insisted on staying.
It was her way of saying thank you, thank you for letting me in where no one else is allowed.
With that, the final plate arrived in her hands, small and polished, covered with a bronze lid.
She set it before him, lifting the cover with a little flourish.
Inside lay a neat arrangement of sweets—diamond-shaped baklava, their honey dripping slow, pistachio crumbles bright against golden layers. The syrup’s aroma carried through the room, incredibly rich.
“What is that sinful aroma that beckons me so cruelly from my slumber?”
Following a familiar voice, Sinbad shimmered into being on the back of a chair before hopping straight onto the table.
His talons clinked against wood as he waddled to the plate, beak dipping eagerly into its contents.
“Ah, Dunya, a saint among devils—may your hands never tire, may your kitchen never grow cold.”
She laughed—or, again, tried to, a sound like air escaping a cracked flute—as she reached forward to pat his feathery head.
Sinbad leaned into it shamelessly; crumbs stuck to his beak.
Malik, meanwhile, finally took a piece of bread in hand. He chewed awkwardly, movements stiff, as though rediscovering what it meant to eat. He swallowed once, slowly, before picking at another dish with the same unfamiliarity.
Intently watching that, Dunya said nothing.
She simply stood back, her hands folded before her, smiling through eyes that glistened.
“Elder Brother…”
Sinbad, pausing mid-bite, turned to peer at Malik’s plate.
“That is far too much for you. You won’t finish.”
Malik glanced down, then nodded in agreement.
Hoot.
Sinbad puffed his chest, wings half-spreading.
“Then, we call for reinforcements!”
Before Malik could answer, the owl spun, flapping once.
A gust of conjured wind flung the windows wide, morning light spilling into the chamber.
Through it poured four Crimson Owls, their feathers actually crimson instead of Sinbad’s current black, their wings small yet graceful.
Behind them came much smaller shapes, twelve in total, hopping and flitting into the room. Tiny owlets, their down tinted the same but slightly different shades of red.
They descended upon the table in a flurry of feathers and hoots, crowding Malik on every side.
One of the four adult owls, presumably a wife, tilted her head curiously, stepping close enough to peck gently at Malik’s hand.
“Heeeq!”
Dunya squealed—her voice catching halfway into a squeak—as she rushed forward, unable to stop herself from patting them all at once, her hands disappearing into a cloud of crimson fluff.
The owls welcomed her, hooting softly, nuzzling against her palms, wings brushing her arms in affection.
Back at his plate, Sinbad watched, his pink eyes curving in a smile.
“Family, Elder Brother. That is all it is. I was only with them earlier, thinking perhaps… one of our Kahins might build them a sanctuary. A small green garden, like the ones in our Holy Palace. A home for them.”
Malik’s gaze lowered as he ran a hand along the feathers of the curious wife at his side.
“…Of course.”
He looked at them, the table crowded with warmth and wings, Dunya’s attempt at laughter mingling with their soft hoots, Sinbad preening at their joy.
“They are family.”
***
{Outside The Projection}
Yes, they were family.
A very lovable and fluffy family.
The hall had grown still when the sight unfolded: the image of Malik surrounded by owls, Dunya’s trembling joy, and Sinbad’s laughter folded into feathers and warmth.
To the world that watched, this was way more than sweetness at the core of tragedy—it was revelation.
This was the backbone of their Sultan.
The Golden Throne was a prison, as were the chains of duty.
The endless weight of authority was only suffocating, as was the treasury; none were his support.
It was this. A table crowded with bread and honey, a girl smiling through her own pain, the owls pressing close like children who never questioned if they were loved.
Of course, his Shurṭat al-Khamīs were his strength too, the steel edge that followed him into every storm, the wall that shielded him from its winds, but that was another matter entirely.
They were the best of his people, the most disciplined, yet they only stood behind him.
This family, however—this strange little flock—they stood beside Malik. Shoulder to shoulder, wing to hand, smile to silence.
And oh, how the crowd envied them.
Huda and Layla most of all.
They could not help it.
This was their dream.
Source: Webnovel.com, updated by novlove.com
