Malik’s father woke up.
The news ca from Dunya’s script like any other report, purple letters hanging in the air between them, but he felt a shift sowhere deep in his chest.
It was a tightening that had nothing to do with the battle he had just fought or the hill he had raised.
Hakim, his father, the man who had ruled in his absence, shouldering a crown that was never ant to be his, which eventually led to him being injured by assassins, was awake.
Malik went to the dical hub in the Holy Palace with barely a word to Layla and Dunya, his boots carrying him through corridors he had only seen a handful of tis.
The walk was long, the halls stretching with doors that led to rooms filled with the wounded and the dying.
Guards saluted as he passed, their fists pressed to their chests, surprised at seeing the Sultan in this part of the palace.
He didn’t see any of them.
His mind was elsewhere, fixed on the room at the end of the hall, on the conversation he had been dreading since the mont he first sat on the Golden Throne.
Malik stood before his father.
The room was small and white, with a single window that looked out onto the gardens.
A bed took up most of the space.
Hakim lay in it.
It was too small for a man who had once ruled.
Blankets were pulled to his chest, his arms resting on top of them, looking thin.
His eyes were open, gold as the Suns.
Malik stopped in the doorway, his hand still on the fra, and noted the man’s appearance.
Shoulder-length grayish blonde hair, the color struggling to hold on. A face lined with years, worry, and wounds that hadn’t fully healed. Scars that spoke of battles fought and lost, of assassination attempts barely survived.
Hakim wasn’t worse than Malik’s weakened appearance—that was still up there—but close. Heartbreakingly close.
There was no doubt about it.
They were father and son.
Malik and Hakim stared at each other across the small room.
An awkward silence settled between them.
Neither knew what to say to the other.
Both were trapped in a mont that should have been deeply emotional but felt instead like two strangers eting for the first ti.
mory loss or not, Malik hardly recognized Hakim, and that spoke of just how little his father had been in his life.
Which was not at all.
Though the Sultan’s mories were buried deep, locked behind chains of Rukh, what few fragnts had surfaced contained barely any images of this man.
’I don’t know how I used to call him in the past. Dad? Was it more formal?’
"...Father."
Malik chose the latter.
"Ah."
His father’s eyes widened, then softened, the tension draining from his shoulders.
"Yes, son."
And it seed to be the correct choice.
Malik stepped further into the room, and the door clicked shut behind him.
No one else was there, just them, two n who shared blood and a crown.
"I’m back."
His father smiled, a tired, worn thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"Welco back."
The two stared at each other again, the silence returning, heavier than before.
What else could they say?
Neither was exactly known for pleasantries, being delicate, filling silences with empty words, or pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.
Though perhaps because this Malik was less traumatized, less broken by years of war, he managed to find the words first.
"It is good that you are better, Father. But you don’t need to worry anymore. I’ll be taking over."
Hakim looked down at his hands, the pale fingers resting on the white blanket, and his expression shifted until disappointnt was clear on his face.
It wasn’t because of this developnt, no, but because of his own inability.
The gap between what he had tried to do and what he had actually accomplished.
The realization that even with everything he had, even with the support of his people, his family, and his allies, he couldn’t hold onto what his son had built when those sa people were all against him.
"Son..."
Hakim sounded really rough.
"How did you do it?"
Malik tilted his head, not understanding the question, and his father elaborated:
"How did you save them all? Even with everyone behind , I couldn’t hold onto our lands as well as you did. I was forced to abandon the North."
Hakim clenched the blanket, his knuckles going white.
"Thankfully, Huda and her Great Family, the Sword, supported the decision. They knew well that the... interim Sultan couldn’t replace his son and help protect their lands."
He sighed heavily.
"Much of the South was lost due to infighting, leaving only consolidated cities and kingdoms. And that’s for a simple reason. Many doubted my leadership. Without Sinbad’s and Aladdin’s support, our situation would have been much worse."
He t Malik’s eyes, and there was sothing that looked like sha in his gaze.
"Still, we are on our last leg here. I am sorry, son... to give this heavy crown back to you."
Malik stared at his father and processed the words.
The North was abandoned. The South beca fractured. The people were doubting. And through it all, this old man had held on, refusing to let everything collapse, keeping the fla burning until his son could return to tend it.
"Father..."
Malik gestured towards the window, or rather, the barracks visible through the glass.
It housed the training grounds just outside the gardens where inner Holy Palace guards practiced.
"Duel ."
Hakim raised a brow, a flicker of amusent, perhaps, or disbelief crossing his face.
"Do you wish to beat up every ti we have a reunion?"
Those words gave his son surprise rather than a chuckle.
’Did I do the sa to him in the past as well?’
He found that funny.
’Indeed, mories or not, we are the sa.’
Saying nothing, Malik shrugged and walked out.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of blankets, the grunt of an old man forcing himself upright, and the shuffle of feet finding the ground.
"Okay, I’m coming; I’m coming."
Hakim was prompted to quickly follow, his breath coming in short huffs as he caught up.
"Please go easy on , son."
A hint of dry humor was now in his voice.
"I’m too weak."
How the mighty had fallen.
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