Months had drifted by since that fateful day in the palace, the echoes of battle still lingering in the hearts of the city’s people. The loss of Abel and Maya weighed heavily on the royal family and on Malin, who had come to view them not only as comrades in battle but as family. Their absence left a void, an ache that could not be mended by time alone.
The wedding and Malin’s inauguration were postponed in respect, allowing a season of mourning to sweep over the kingdom. When the day arrived to honor Abel and Maya, the city of Bulsi-Jan stood still. Their bodies, lovingly prepared, were set adrift in a royal tomb, their vessels floating through the grand canals of the city, a final journey through the heart of the land they had protected with their lives. Alongside them, the Queen’s tomb joined the procession, a quiet farewell that allowed the people to grieve the royal sacrifices that had shaped their lives.
Every face in Bulsi-Jan turned to watch the silent procession; grief hung in the air, but so did gratitude. The people came out in droves to pay their respects, whispering of the bravery that had saved them, of lives laid down so they could stand free. Word of the fallen spread to every corner of the Kalkan Federation, with stories retold in market stalls and fireside gatherings.
In the wake of the tragedy, the Fonrakey region was combed over, and the dark revelation unfolded: the entire Ames family had been wiped out, replaced by demons who had manipulated and infiltrated their lives, using human faces to mask their corruption. This Lord Youma was spoken of in whispers, his name elusive as a shadow slipping through fingers. The court searched tirelessly, but all clues led only to the void; it was as if Youma was a being known only to demons themselves.
In the heart of the city, Malin’s journey became legend. His mother’s bakery, once a humble establishment, flourished beyond imagination, a place where people gathered to share in the legacy of the young baker who had risen to be their Sultan. People came not only for the bread but for the sense of connection to the story that had woven them all together. Malin’s mother, now able to reach into the royal treasury with the Sultan’s blessing, extended her newfound fortune to help others. Families in need found their burdens lightened, and poverty, long a shadow on Bulsi-Jan, began to recede under her generosity.
As the city moved forward, the people awaited a new dawn for the Kalkan Federation, and the day had finally arrived. The streets buzzed with life as they prepared for the coronation, for the marriage that would unify the kingdom in a new era of hope and renewal.
Today was that day. The city was alight with celebration, vibrant colors hanging from balconies and windows as music drifted through the streets. The people gathered in joy and reverence, ready to witness the beginning of a new reign. And at the heart of it all, Malin, once a simple baker with dreams that stretched beyond the stars, would ascend to the throne—a Sultan forged by fire, tempered by loss, and held by the love of his people.
On a peaceful hill overlooking the bustling city of Bulsi-Jan, the morning sun cast a warm glow over the buildings, their rooftops catching the light as life moved below. Standing atop this hill were two figures: a radiant man who emanated a serene, calming light, and beside him, a sleek black cat with piercing golden eyes. The two stood silently, taking in the city as it prepared for a day of celebration and new beginnings.
The man, The Son, looked down at the cat, his expression one of fondness and satisfaction. “You did well,” he said gently. “The Kalkan Federation is safe, and darkness has been swept away from this place.”
The cat, with an air of quiet pride, looked up and replied, “I’m an archangel for a reason, after all.” His gaze was sharp and unyielding, a reminder of the power and purpose he carried.
The Son raised an eyebrow, a slight smile touching his lips. “True. Though, I do think you went a bit overboard with the sorcerers.”
The cat who had a glint in his golden eyes, let out a soft, amused rumble. “You knew what would happen. I am the Angel of Death, not the Angel of Mercy and Cuddles.” He lifted his head, his demeanour embodying both pride and mischief.
The Son chuckled, bending down to lift Azrael into his arms. As he gently stroked the sleek fur, Azrael’s typical sharpness softened, allowing himself to relax under The Son’s hand. “Next time, maybe consider a lighter touch,” The Son suggested, his tone affectionate.
Azrael’s eyes glimmered as he replied, “If you truly wanted mercy, you’d have sent someone else.”
The Son laughed, his warmth radiating like the sun rising over the city. He continued to stroke Azrael, looking out over Bulsi-Jan, where the people were coming together, celebrating the lives of those they had lost and honouring the sacrifices made. “Yes, I suppose everyone found their own happiness and closure in the end.”
Azrael nodded, his gaze contemplative as he watched the city below. “And Abel,” he began, a rare note of curiosity in his voice, “was he truly noble in the end?”
The Son’s expression softened further, his eyes filled with both pride and sadness. “Far more than noble,” he answered, his voice reverent.
“He was a Prince.”
The two stood together in silence, sharing a moment of peace on the hill as Bulsi-Jan moved forward, ready to embrace the dawn of a new era.
The royal wedding of Malin Osuninya and Nahra Kalkan was a sight to behold. From every angle of Bulsi-Jan, the citizens gathered, their hearts and eyes lifted toward the grand event unfolding atop the palace steps and spilling out into the streets. Bright banners draped from the highest towers to the humblest balconies, and flowers—deep indigos, brilliant reds, and soft whites—wreathed the doorways and lined the bustling canals, symbolizing unity, love, and peace. The entire city had come together to celebrate the joining of a baker and a princess in a marriage that transcended class and tradition.
The procession began early in the morning, as Malin and Nahra moved through the city streets, accompanied by members of both their families, friends, and well-wishers. People tossed flower petals from balconies and cheered from every corner. Little children giggled as they followed along, trying to catch glimpses of the couple, their eyes wide with wonder.
Malin walked proudly, his face calm but brimming with joy, wearing the traditional royal robes of the Kalkan family, yet woven with patterns inspired by his mother’s humble bakery. He bore himself with the honor and grace expected of a Sultan, but with a warmth that reminded all of his roots in Bulsi-Jan. His hand stayed intertwined with Nahra’s, her regal beauty radiant beneath a diaphanous veil of silver and blue. Her presence was as commanding as it was gentle, and the way she looked at Malin, full of love and pride, revealed her deep respect for the man she had chosen.
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As they reached the palace courtyard, musicians played melodies that drifted like a soft breeze through the air, enhancing the serene beauty of the occasion. Nahra and Malin walked side by side up the steps to the grand hall, where the Sultan, Amir, awaited them. He looked upon his daughter and her chosen groom with warmth, the slight sheen of pride in his eyes reflecting his happiness for both his daughter and the young man who had become like a son to him.
Amir stepped forward, extending his arms toward Malin as he addressed the people of Bulsi-Jan, his voice carrying through the courtyard and down into the bustling streets below.
“Today, Bulsi-Jan gains not just a Sultan,” Amir proclaimed, his tone solemn yet joyful, “but a symbol of unity between the noble and the common, between those born to high rank and those who earn it by merit, courage, and honour.”
The people erupted in applause, their voices mingling with the melodies of the musicians. Malin turned to look first at his mother in the crowd who smiled with joy at him before looking at Nahra, his heart pounding with both love and reverence. His journey, from a baker’s son to this moment on the steps of the palace, had been one filled with trials, loss, and growth. And here he was, about to pledge his life to Nahra and to the people who had witnessed his rise.
As Amir continued, he spoke the words that would make Malin an official part of the Kalkan lineage. “Though he takes our name, Malin will also keep his own—a sign of the path he travelled and the family he comes from. From this day forth, he shall be known as Malin Osuninya-Kalkan, Sultan of the Kalkan Federation, guardian of our people and protector of our lands.”
The crowd murmured in awe at this break in tradition, a recognition of Malin’s unique journey. Nahra squeezed his hand, her eyes filled with love and pride as she lifted her veil to look into his eyes. She mouthed the words, “My Sultan,” a whisper just for him, her voice filled with both devotion and joy.
In a voice filled with emotion, Amir looked at Malin and Nahra and asked, “Malin Osuninya-Kalkan, do you swear to protect this Federation, to lead with humility, strength, and compassion, and to honor the people and the family you now join?”
“I swear,” Malin replied, his voice steady, each word carrying the weight of his promise.
The ceremony moved toward its final moment, and Amir stepped back, allowing Malin and Nahra to turn toward one another fully. As they did, the people leaned in, anticipation buzzing through the air. This kiss would seal the vows, a symbol of their union and the dawn of a new era for Bulsi-Jan.
Malin and Nahra met each other’s gaze, a soft smile passing between them. They moved closer, their hands still entwined, and then, surrounded by the people of Bulsi-Jan and beneath the shining skies of their beloved city, they kissed. It was a kiss that spoke of love, commitment, and the overcoming of obstacles that would one day be remembered as legend. In that moment, Malin was no longer just the baker’s son—he was a Sultan, a groom with a sword, united with his princess.
The crowd erupted in cheers, bells rang out across the city, and flower petals drifted through the air, carried by a gentle breeze that seemed to bless the occasion. People cried tears of joy, holding their loved ones close as they watched the couple embrace, sharing in the happiness that radiated from the palace steps.
As they drew back, Malin lifted Nahra’s hand, looking down upon the people he now called his own. His heart was filled with gratitude, for he knew that his journey was not his alone—it belonged to everyone in Bulsi-Jan, to his mother, who had instilled in him strength and resilience, and to those who had fought and sacrificed for the kingdom’s safety.
The couple descended the palace steps together, as equals, both humbled by the enormity of the moment. They entered the streets to celebrate with the people, their laughter and smiles joining those of the citizens as they moved through the heart of the city. From every corner of Bulsi-Jan, people gathered, their joy mingling with the music that filled the air.
Together, Sultan Malin Osuninya-Kalkan and Princess Nahra greeted the people, their presence a beacon of hope and unity. They were no longer just a baker and a princess; they were a symbol of a kingdom reborn, of the power of love, honour, and faith in one another.
As the lively sounds of celebration echoed through the city of Bulsi-Jan, Malin and Nahra finally found a moment of quiet in their shared room. Standing side by side on the balcony, they looked out over the twinkling lights, the music and laughter drifting up from the streets below. The night was alive with joy, but here, in this intimate moment, it felt as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
Malin leaned against the balcony rail, gazing fondly at Nahra. “You know,” he began with a smirk, “I still think it was the bread that made you fall for me. The magic bread. Admit it.”
Nahra laughed, nudging him playfully. “Magic bread? Oh, please! It might have been the best in the city, but don’t give yourself too much credit, Sultan.”
“Oh, so you admit it was the best?” he teased, arching an eyebrow. “I mean, that’s practically a royal decree coming from you.”
She rolled her eyes, matching his banter. “Fine, maybe it was the best. But magic? I don’t know about that. I think it was your charms—or your stubbornness—that finally won me over.”
Malin laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. It was the bread. That was Maya’s theory, at least,” he added softly.
The laughter between them faded, and a gentle silence settled in. Nahra’s gaze drifted to the night sky, her expression turning wistful as memories of her dear friend filled her heart. She felt a soft pang, a bittersweet mix of joy and loss. “She’d be proud, you know,” she murmured, looking at Malin. “Proud that we made it here. That all of this came to pass.”
Malin’s eyes softened, and he reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “She would be.”
Together, they looked out into the endless expanse above them, comforted by the warmth of each other’s presence. The stars seemed to shine a little brighter, as if honoring those who had fought, loved, and sacrificed along the way.
After a moment, Malin broke the silence with a thoughtful smile. “Nahra,” he said, “if this were a tale… what would you call it?”
Nahra tilted her head, a soft smile playing on her lips as she considered his question. “The Baker and the Princess,” she answered, a hint of mischief in her tone. “It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Malin chuckled, shaking his head. “There’s got to be one like that already. It sounds too classic.”
She laughed, nudging him again. “Alright then, what would you call it, oh great Sultan?”
Instead of answering, Malin looked out over the city, raising his free hand toward the sky. With a calm focus, he summoned the Sword of Righteousness. In an instant, the blade appeared, materialising in his grasp and casting a radiant light that filled the night. The entire city below paused, looking up as the sword’s glow illuminated the sky, a symbol of the strength and peace now gracing the kingdom.
Nahra smirked, her voice soft with affection. “Show-off,” she teased lightly.
Malin turned to her, his gaze tender as he reached up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. She felt her cheeks warm, her focus captured entirely by his steady, loving gaze. Holding her face in his hand, he smiled and finally answered, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“The Groom and the Sword.”