Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

The checkpoint was slow.

Here, everything was slow.

Cold made people that way; it made them careful, suspicious.

Malik waited in line like the rest. But unlike them, he didn't speak, didn't shuffle, didn't sigh. He just waited, standing like a frozen man with Black on his shoulder, taking a short nap.

One merchant ahead got turned away for a torn trading permit. A woman tried to recite them a prayer so they could let her in even though she was blacklisted. Some kid just cried the whole time, parents barely paying attention to him. They were... tiring.

The guards were tired.

He was tired.

Eventually, and not soon enough, Malik reached the front of the queue.

Before him were many guards, all wearing layered crimson armor with fur-lined cloaks. Heavy spears in hand. Faces wrapped. Only their eyes visible through small slits.

One of them stepped forward.

"Halt. State your name and purpose."

Malik stopped, his dead eyes landing on the man, making him flinch.

"I'm here to visit my little sister."

The guards glanced at each other.

"And you are…?"

Malik's eyes narrowed slightly, not expecting trouble but mentally preparing for it.

"…Malik. Malik of Al-Zayni."

There was a pause.

The guard blinked, not expecting a response; he was already ignored once, so he automatically assumed he'd be ignored again.

Most lone travelers up here kept their names obviously fake or never gave one at all.

This was a welcome surprise.

Nodding, the guard took out a silver-edged scroll from his belt, unwrapped it, and pulled out the fancy-looking quill within.

He glanced at Malik, then began to write his name, his quill leaving glowing ink behind each stroke.

As soon as he finished the last letter, the ink disappeared, melting into the scroll, only to be replaced by a pulse of red, making him flinch once more.

The guard stared at it, squinting, then slowly raised his eyes to Malik.

"…You ever been to prison?"

Malik nodded once.

"...You broke out?"

Malik nodded a second time.

The guard chewed on his tongue for a few moments.

"...Are you a Jinn?"

Another nod.

A silence stood between them.

The wind howled, dragging snow across the flat plain behind Malik, kicking at his cloak.

Eventually, the guard clicked his tongue, giving up, and waved him through.

Those were the benefits of power.

Even though he had to be arrested if and when identified, no one bothered to do so.

It was too much trouble trying to contain a Jinn, especially someone with Malik's reputation.

Because, yes, mostly everyone knew the name now. The titles. The monikers. Even all the way up here, where the Shams barely rose and the sky bled pale.

Malik didn't thank him, didn't nod again; he just walked past the heavy iron gates as they screeched open and let him through the veil of warmth inside.

And oh, was it warm.

This place… this place was alive in ways he had not at all expected.

Al-Sayf's Kingdom, the North's Sword, the Frost Ring's Pride—a place where ice never won.

Inside the walls, great metal trees pulsed with warmth. They hissed steam, releasing heated air like breath. Thick ropes made of glowing threads stretched between towers of such trees, crackling with what appeared to be protective runes.

The roads were made of stone that shimmered beneath the ice.

Indeed, these were heated roads, warm enough to melt snow as soon as it touched.

Kids were running about as they did in every city, no coats adorning their little frames, just light clothes and boots. Women hung their laundry out to dry in glass domes, and the merchants had little stoves beside their stalls, heating their teas, soups, and sweets.

Malik stopped, not because he was amazed, though he was, but because he was…

Confused?

Right. Confused.

His hands twitched under his cloak.

His soul didn't know how to register a place that was both cold and warm.

Black, too, was confused, having woken up from his nap, unable to process the technical marvel unfolding before him.

Still, they didn't admire the place; they only acknowledged it. And once they were done with that, Malik looked down the path.

It led straight to what he assumed was his destination.

The Royal Hall.

He could see it from where he stood.

There, standing proud in crimson, high above the rest—the Palace of Crimson Frost.

It was a beautiful monument. The home of the one he once protected.

And so, he walked, calmly nearing it.

No one bothered him.

It wasn't that he was unnoticed.

The guards saw him. People whispered. Some even stepped back.

But... none stopped him. They had not the bravery to stand before him.

He passed through arches, climbed stairs made of marble, and soon, the hall loomed before him.

Malik had reached it.

Two guards stood at the doors, seemingly with no weapons on their persons.

"What are you here for, stranger?"

At the rough words of the older guard, Malik glanced at the palace, then looked back at them. At the one who spoke... and this one didn't flinch.

"I'm here to meet Huda."

The guard opened his mouth, closed it, sighed, and then finally asked:

"You seek an audience with Lady Huda?"

Malik nodded once.

"Name?"

"…Malik."

They stared at him.

One looked down and shook his head.

The other one, the older of the two, clicked his tongue.

"You're in the wrong place, boy."

He stepped forward, trying to intimidate Malik.

"T-This is the noblest of houses!"

But when he got close, he was forced to crane his neck.

Malik was towering over the poor man, embarrassing him.

"You don't belong here! I suggest you leave!"

***

{Outside The Projection}

"…Hah?"

Someone in the back let it out first.

A sharp, confused bark of a laugh.

"…Did he just—?"

"Did they just—?"

"Tell him that he didn't belong?"

They were stunned. Genuinely. Utterly. Gloriously stunned.

Whispers broke; stifled chuckles joined them. A sharp inhale here—a groan of secondhand embarrassment there.

Because, after everything Malik had been through—after tragedy, war and slaughter, prison and escape, vengeance and sacrifice—this… this finally happened.

They denied him at the door like some lost beggar?

They sassed him? The soon-to-be Sultan.

A Jinn?

They had no words for this.

It was too much. Too beautiful. Too cliché.