.
.
.
Blink.
The world rewound.
Same morning. Same steed. Same formation.
Same damned cadence of hooves against the desert floor.
He sighed, rubbing his temples...
Malik had done this before. Lived it. Died in it.
And now, here he was again, again, again, seated atop his horse with the knowledge of everything that would go wrong.
How many times had he done this by now?
He didn't know. He did not. No.
Malik knew which screams would be cut short.
He'd memorized whose blood would spill in patterns.
He knew where the arrows would fall before they were loosed.
He knew which riders would falter first, which swords would shatter, and which throats would be opened by the glinting edges of unseen enemies.
...Malik was greedy.
It had taken hold of him again.
He wanted the most perfect ending.
One that the world wouldn't allow him to get.
So he tried. Tried. And tried. He failed. He... failed.
Failed.
Failed.
Failed.
