Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

A village that wasn't supposed to be there.

It wasn't on any of the maps they purchased.

Not in any of their routes.

Ali Baba frowned.

"That... that's not right."

Malik did the same.

"No, it isn't. Why did they hide this?"

The answer, whatever it may be, sounded like a problem.

But that wasn't the REAL problem. That? Well...

"Who did this?!"

The village wasn't just "wrong."

It was gone.

Burned to the ground.

Blackened ruins stretched before them, houses, surprisingly made with wood, reduced to skeletal remains, nothing but cinders and soot where life had once been.

It reeked of smoke. Rot. The kind of smell that told you bodies had burned here.

Layla clutched her baba's sleeve.

"What... what happened?"

Dra answered in his stead:

"Slaughter."

Ali Baba ran a hand over his face.

"Shit."

Another scout, Bashir, spat on the ground.

"Boss, you can guess what happened here, right?"

Ali Baba said nothing. Neither did Malik.

Because they both knew what happened.

That wasn't all they knew, though.

Whoever did this? They weren't done yet.

They planned to do the same to the village the caravan had just left.

Not burn them, but ruin them. And... for whatever reason—one known only by the still-shocked Ali Baba—it involved him and his daughter.

Their deaths.

If not, then their targeting of Layla wouldn't make much sense.

She wasn't the leader of One Thousand Nights; Ali Baba was.

If it were a bounty, only he needed to die.

That made it apparent that they only targeted her because she was an easier kill.

This confirmed what they knew a third time.

By coming here, they had involved themselves in a conspiracy with the entire region at stake.

Worse, by picking up the clues and piecing things together, maybe not the full picture, but enough. Enough to recognize the shape of what was happening. They involved themselves even more, giving the one responsible another reason to kill them. To silence them.

"...Fate sure is a bitch."

Ali Baba and Layla turned to Malik.

He met their gaze, waiting for the go-ahead.

"You should check it out."

Ali Baba commanded.

"There might be survivors."

Malik nodded once.

"Keep her close."

He waved at Layla before walking ahead alone.

...

The village was dust and ruin, the kind of destruction that left nothing but ghosts behind. Charred wood crumbled beneath his boots, turning to ash with every step.

Malik wrinkled his nose.

"Damn."

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He moved forward, scanning what was left—if you could even call it that.

Blackened ribs of wood still smoldered in places. A cart lay overturned, its wheels melted into the sand. A clay pot had shattered nearby, its contents turned to dust.

"...Hm."

Malik crouched, fingers brushing against the ground, feeling the warmth still trapped in the embers.

"This wasn't long ago—"

Hhkk!

A cough. Faint. Weak.

His hand went to his blade almost instantly as his head snapped toward the source, eyes narrowing at a pile of collapsed beams.

For a second, he did nothing. Then he was on it in a blink, kicking aside debris, heart hammering in that quiet, instinct-driven way.

Someone was alive!

His fingers curled under a chunk of wood, easily lifting it up.

Beneath it, two bodies lay, eyes black, arms wrapped protectively around something—someone.

A girl.

She was barely breathing, having likely suffered for hours, trapped beneath the corpses of who seemed to be her parents, the ones who had shielded her from the flames.

Gently, Malik freed her, and her eyes fluttered open, locking onto him.

He smiled at her.

"...Sorry."

This wasn't an apology to her, no.

This apology was to Sinbad—because he knew what this meant.

Another child in his hands. Another life he had to carry. Another life he would lose.

His fourth complacency.

Malik took out his gourd and pressed it to her lips.

She drank desperately as if she hadn't had water in days.

He let her. He let her have all she needed. And it reminded him of... a happier time.

When she finished, her small body sagged, drowsy, exhausted, but alive.

Malik carried her back, his grip firm but careful, afraid she'd slip through his fingers.

The second the caravan spotted him, voices rose.

"A survivor?!"

"Shit, a kid?!"

"Get the healer!"

The girl, spurred awake by the noise, barely reacted, her tiny fingers clutching weakly at his shirt, too drained to do anything else.

The healer, an older man with steady hands and tired eyes, stepped forward, already assessing her with a quick scan.

Malik lowered her onto a mat, and the old man quickly got to work.

A touch to her throat, fingers pressing gently, he chanted, a few murmurs, and a bright, holy light appeared, infusing itself into her body, healing it.

Then, after a minute or so of healing, he let out a slow sigh.

"She'll breathe fine, but..."

He looked up at Malik, shaking his head.

"Her throat was crushed too long. I can't fully fix it."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Malik exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.

Behind him, someone scoffed.

"You're really collecting 'em now, huh?"

Malik turned his head slightly.

Sinbad.

This little shit always had something to say.

"Shut up."

Jasmine snapped before Malik could do or not do anything.

"What? I'm just saying!"

Sinbad held up his hands, grinning.

"He keeps picking up strays—what's next? A baby? Maybe a whole orphanage?"

Malik didn't answer. Didn't roll his eyes. Didn't snap back. Because he couldn't.

These two were dead. He was talking to himself. This was just...

'Whatever.'

He picked the girl up once more, cradling her light frame against him as he stepped away from the crowd.

Layla called after him, voice soft:

"Malik—"

He ignored her.

Malik didn't want to see her smile, thanking him for saving a child. Didn't want to hear Ali Baba's wisdom. Didn't want to deal with the way they looked at him—like he'd done something noble, risking his life to enter a Corrupted village and save someone.

Because he wasn't. He wasn't doing anything noble.

Every child he'd tried to protect had faced fates worse than death.

Every single one.

And yet here he was.

Holding another one.

Another life in his hands.

Another weight on his already broken back.

A "hero?" No. A jinx was what he was.

Even thinking it made him grit his teeth.

'How much longer can I fight this?'

How much longer before fate took this one, too?