Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

In what seemed to be random intervals, he would completely disappear for hours, and none of them knew where or why.

Malik would meet up with the owl at those times, as it was following them for a reason he had yet to know.

He'd sometimes see it, or rather, him, float with a few birds different from its kin, seemingly wanting to bed anything his pink eyes landed on.

Over time, Malik started learning more about the people in the caravan.

He grew closer to the scouts and a few guards that Ali Baba trusted. Those ones actually bothered to clean themselves.

The others—newly hired guards like him—weren't worth being remembered. Even the one that kept pestering him since that night at the campfire, asking about tips on how to get with the ladies or something along those lines.

Ali Baba, though, seemed to remember everyone—even those he didn't really care about.

Despite being the leader, he was surprisingly hands-on.

He handled business deals personally, scouted the best trade opportunities, and even made sure to train some of the younger guards himself.

And Malik—well, Malik learned those things too.

His learning didn't stop at trade routes and people—it turned inward as well. This peace gave him time to think. To reflect on himself—who he was, who he had been, and who he would become.

For one, Malik learned the hard way that sleep wasn't something his body just did anymore.

No. Sleep had conditions. Rules.

Rule one? He had to be completely, utterly, mind-numbingly exhausted—physically, mentally, spiritually—all of it. If even a fraction of his brain had energy left, his hallucinations would creep in, vivid and merciless.

And when he did sleep?

It was a mess.

Tossing, turning, muttering things he wouldn't remember in the morning. Sometimes, he cried—not that he believed it at first. Until Layla, ever the nosy little shit, hesitantly pointed it out, her usual teasing nowhere to be found.

And the worst part? The screaming.

That one? He did believe.

Because it wasn't just some whispery nightmare thing—it was violent, like his lungs were trying to rip themselves out of his throat.

At first, he had no idea. He never woke up to his own voice, just to Layla staring at him like he was about to explode, or Ali Baba giving him that heavy, knowing look.

"Malik... you should talk about it."

"No."

"Malik—"

"Drop it."

Layla didn't. Of course she didn't.

But she did change tactics.

Her solution? Absolute terrorism.

If he woke up grumpy? She teased him about whatever nonsense he muttered in his sleep.

If he looked extra haunted? She'd dramatically throw herself in his lap, loudly declaring that he needed "some softness" in his life.

If he flinched at a sudden sound?

"Oh no, don't tell me the mighty Malik is scared of the wind now?"

It was relentless.

Ali Baba took the more subtle route, cracking jokes at Malik's expense while keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder when no one was looking.

Slowly, painfully slowly, it worked.

The nights stopped feeling like death traps waiting to snap shut.

Sure, he still slept like a man waiting for a knife to the ribs. Sure, he still woke up at the slightest sound, hand already gripping his weapon before his brain even caught up.

But the screaming?

It was quieter now.

Malik also learned that Ali Baba was a much better fighter than he let on.

When monsters attacked the caravan—which happened at least a few times a week—the young dad was right in the thick of it, killing everything around him with a wave of his staff.

And Malik? He found himself enjoying the battles more than he should have.

The rush of combat, the way his curved sword felt in his hands, the satisfaction of cutting down threats—it was exhilarating. To the point that he'd forget about his little trauma for a while.

He was growing addicted to it.

Layla, of course, never strayed far from his side. Even in battle.

"Stay back."

He'd tell her.

"Not a chance."

She'd reply, gripping a dagger she barely knew how to use.

It was frustrating. But also… oddly comforting.

Ali Baba took note of it, too.

One night, after a particularly rough fight with a pack of hounds, he sat Malik down by the fire.

"You ever thought about settling down?"

Malik stared at him.

"What?"

"You know what I mean."

Ali Baba smirked, glancing over at Layla, who was busy cleaning her dagger nearby.

"Girl follows you around like a shadow. Jumps at you every chance she gets. Can't you just... accept her?"

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Malik sighed slowly.

"Didn't you warn me not to get involved?"

"But you ARE involved. My words lost their meaning the very night I said them. You know I can't hurt my daughter like that."

"Yeah, yeah... but well... Either way, I'm not… built for that."

Ali Baba hummed.

"And yet, she sticks around anyway."

"..."

Malik had no response to that.

"What are you guys talking about?!"

Layla hugged her dad from behind, peeking over his shoulder, her purple eyes landing on Malik.

"Me, right? The most beautiful girl in the world~?"

Their replies couldn't be any different from each other:

"Oh, yes you are~!"

"Your father was."

One was pure love and the other was detachment.

Pouting her cheeks, Layla hmphed! at Malik, making her father chuckle.

"Looks like my lineage will end with you."

"Baba~ don't tease me..."

"Okay okay."

Raising his hands in surrender, Ali Baba stepped away.

"I'll leave you lovebirds to it."

Ignoring her father's words, Layla sat beside Malik.

This time, she didn't say anything. Just sat there, looking up at the twelve moons.

"Why do you stick around?"

Malik finally asked, breaking the silence.

She blinked at him.@@novelbin@@

"Do you want me to leave?"

"..."

He didn't answer.

She grinned.

"That's what I thought."

He rolled his eyes but didn't push her away.

The days continued, and their journey south remained mostly peaceful, a strange warm monotony. Every village they passed by had its own stories, its own people with their struggles and triumphs.

Malik listened, observed, and for the first time in a long time, felt a part of something.

He found himself feeling lighter, even if he didn't want to admit it.

But peace never lasted long.

They had crossed a significant distance in their travels, and were set to arrive at another village once they went past the mountain roads.

According to Ali Baba, the passageway was of varying length; some had considerable width, and the others not so much. So they had to adjust every time it changed.

At around the halfway point, they finally entered a wide clearing, the roads showing history of the travelers that had crossed this road before them.

Malik blinked, and as if the steed had listened to some unspoken demand, it stopped.

Some of the people were still exiting the narrow winds that they'd just gotten out of.

"Malik?"

Layla peeked from behind him, trying to glimpse the front.

SWOOOSHH!

The head of the guard in front of him exploded, blood staining his face.

Some of it made past him, dripping on the girl's nose.

GHOOOOAAAN!

A warhorn bellowed.

Malik already moved—Ting! Ting! Ting!

Deflecting the three arrows that'd come for him and Layla.

The rest?

A rain of arrows that darkened the dimming sky.

And worse yet, almost as if hidden amidst the rain and the backdrop of the afternoon Shams, an extremely lethal one shadowed past them all, a three-pronged arrow, striking into the eyes of Sparrow.

The mighty steed stomped and whined, throwing Ali Baba off, then as if its strings had been cut—THUD!

Dead.

A beat... Another.

It was as if time had frozen.

But the rain did not. It came in waves.

It fell. Tragedy fell.

"ATTACK!!"