Malik reached the gardens...
And there he was.
Cyrus.
The Sultan.
Standing there in pink robes, white trim, smile as charming as the devil himself.
He was surrounded by a small crowd of his people, priests, nobles, even kids. Laughing, talking, and thanking him.
One of them, a woman, a merchant perhaps, handed him a basket of fruit.
"For your family, my Lord!"
He chuckled warmly.
"You are too kind. May the heavens bless your trade."
A boy tugged on his robe.
"L-Lord, t-thank you for—"
"Do not force yourself, little one."
Cyrus crouched down and ruffled the kid's hair.
"Study hard... One day, this city's Court will need you."
Huh... It was like watching an actor on stage.
But Malik didn't move to end the play.
His golden eyes were locked.
Drilling through him.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Until eventually, Cyrus's eyes casually floated through the crowd.
They scanned for a new presence, a threatening one.
They met Malik's gold.
