The memory shifted between heartbeats.
Now Malik stood taller. Older. Maybe six, maybe seven.
The light in his eyes had dimmed—just slightly, but it was there.
A podium rose before him, draped in ornate cloth. A grand chamber stretched around him, packed with nobles in jeweled robes and scented oils, all watching him, damned hawks circling above a dying lamb.
There were murmurs, whispers, and judgment that wrapped around the room.
To his left, a man with grey-flecked hair and hard eyes stood behind a wooden desk. The Qadi, a magistrate.
"—Henceforth, Malik is to be stripped of the Al-Zayni name. He, a bastard, is no longer bound to this family by blood, rite, or obligation."
His words echoed, the tolling of a bell that ended someone's life.
Unlike the crowd, which gasped and oohed, Malik didn't react.
He didn't even flinch at hearing them; he only turned his head, gaze falling on the woman standing beside the Qadi.
His mother.
