The blue, fiery sun dipped below the horizon, casting a molten glow that slowly cooled into shades of indigo and violet, signaling the arrival of night. Its fading light stretched long, trembling fingers across the sky, as if reluctant to relinquish its hold on the world.
In the dim, fading light, Maliki laid beside his wife, Yomi, on their bed—a sturdy thing, firm yet softened by years of use, much like their lives together. Yomi was curled into a ball, her delicate fingers gently wrapped around Maliki's forearm, her breath was soft, almost rhythmic against his skin.
But Maliki—The Scion, warrior king of his people—could not sleep. His eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling above, his thoughts spiraling in endless circles. The ceiling was plain, unremarkable, and yet to Maliki, it was a canvas of memories, each knot and grain of wood was a story etched into the fabric of his life.
He remembered the labor of its construction, the struggles and victories that had brought him to this point. Every beam, and every nail told a tale, everything had their own stories, yes, Maliki knew… but he felt detached from these stories, as though he were merely a spectator in his own life.
What was his story?
Had it ever been great?
Could it ever be?
Or was it?
Maliki contemplated.
With a heavy sigh, Maliki turned his head, his gaze settling on the small wooden drawer beside the bed. He glanced back at Yomi, ensuring she was still lost in the quiet realm of dreams, then carefully disentangled her gentle grip from his arm.
He moved slowly, afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the moment. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the floor with a soft thud.
Reaching out, he opened the drawer, the sound of wood sliding against wood was rather quiet. Inside, the contents were sparse—only two items laid within: a ring and a picture. Ignoring the golden-crested ring, he carefully picked up the drawing, his fingers brushing over the parchment as he pulled it free, then gently pushed the drawer shut.
The drawing was simple, devoid of color, but it held a vibrancy all its own in the careful strokes that captured a moment. There was a youthful Maliki on the right, his hair short and spiky, different to the long, blood-red hair he now wore—hair that spilled past his shoulders in uneven, jagged strands.
In the drawing, he looked to the left, toward a smaller child with short gray hair—a friend. Maliki knew the child well; they had been best friends, brothers in all but blood. The sight of the drawing tightened something in his chest.
Maliki's eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as he let out a shaky exhale.
Whether you like it or not.
When?
Meet it!
Them? All of them? End it.
Fire!
Fire, fire!
OPEN.
His eyes snapped open, and in that instant, the room erupted into flames. Fire burst forth, licking the walls, devouring the wood and stone in greedy, ravenous gulps.
The inferno roared to life, its heat searing Maliki's skin. Maliki leapt to his feet, his heart racing as he scanned the room, desperate for his weapons. His eyes fell upon his axes from their place on the wall. Without a second thought, he tore them from their hooks, he spun around, ready to charge into the blaze, to fight or die as he had done so many times before.
The flames bit and scarred his skin, yet he did not care, the pain was only an illusion.
Illusion.
Then the fire—suddenly, inexplicably—was gone. The flames vanished, leaving the room untouched and whole. Maliki stood there, breathing heavily, his skin still tingling with the ghost of the fire's heat. His mind spun, his heart still hammering in his chest. He turned, eyes wide, trying to make sense of the impossibility.
A faint voice echoed in his ears. Then it got closer, and it turned into a loud ring.
Yomi.
All he saw was Yomi, standing there, her hands gripping his arm, her eyes filled with worry.
"Maliki, gods, stop! There's nothing there!" Yomi's voice was strained, pleading as she looked up at him, her dark, abyssal eyes wide with concern.
Maliki's breath caught in his throat, he felt a heavy weight in his hands. He looked down, seeing the weapons clenched tightly in his grasp. He released them, the axes falling to the floor with a dull thud, and he reached for Yomi, pulling her into a tight embrace.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her, trying to ground himself in the reality of her presence.
"I—" Maliki's voice faltered, the words catching in his throat. He clung to her, his grip tightening as if he feared she might slip away. "I am sorry, Yomi."
"Maliki?" Yomi whispered, her voice trembling. She pulled back slightly, her hands resting gently against his chest. "Please, what's wrong?"
Maliki shook his head, stepping back, his gaze distant as he turned toward the bed. "I… do not want to speak of it. Please. Let's just sleep," he murmured, his fingers brushing against the black sheets, his movements slow.
Yomi hesitated, her eyes searching his, but when she found no answers, only shadows, she nodded meekly. Following him to the bed, crawling onto it with grace. Maliki joined her, lying beside her once more, but this time he turned away, his back to her, head sinking into the pillow as he stared into the darkness, and he struggled to even make his eyes shut.
What was wrong with Maliki?
He did not know.
All he could hope was that he could sleep without a problem.