The war was over.
And weirdly? The world didn't end.
Malik kept waiting for something—anything—to fall apart.
Some twist. Some second army. A Mithqal rising from the dirt, going, "Surprise, round two."
But no.
It was truly done.
And now, they were here.
Standing in this big hall with walls painted in warm yellows and greens, everything smelling of rosewater and that sweetness of cinnamon.
It was a place common with silk. Laughter. Humming oud strings. Nicely dressed people. Too nice. And in the middle of it all—Duban.
That bastard was grinning from ear to ear, looking like he'd just won another war, except this one didn't need swords—just a bride and a dowry.
Yup.
Duban was getting himself a second wife.
Not even a day after burying half their dead, they were throwing a damn wedding.
Malik couldn't decide if it was insane or brilliant. Maybe both.
But hey—tonight wasn't about the dead.
Tonight was about life.
Loud, messy, stubborn, beautiful life.
