Malin took a deep breath, steeling himself before he pushed open the grand double doors and stepped into the throne room. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the risk he was taking. He knew that if anything went wrong, if he even looked suspicious, he’d be as good as dead. But the memory of The Son’s words and his determination to change Nahra’s fate fueled his every step, carrying him forward.
As he entered, the room seemed to hold its breath. Before him lay the grandeur of the Sultan’s throne room, a place he had only ever heard whispers of. The Sultan himself sat upon an elaborate throne at the far end, his figure imposing and regal, his eyes sharp as they observed the scene before him. All around, guards stood at attention, their hands resting on their weapons, prepared to strike at the first sign of trouble.
To the left of the throne stood two figures. One was unmistakably Aza, dressed in dark finery, his red eyes gleaming with a mix of arrogance and curiosity as he watched Malin with a faint smirk. Beside him stood an unusual figure—a tall, lanky man with an unsettling, cunning expression. His skin was pale, his features sharp, and, most notably, he possessed six long, slender arms that hung loosely by his sides, each adorned in rings and bracelets that glinted in the throne room’s light. His eyes sparkled with a calculating look, as though he were silently assessing every detail of Malin’s entrance.
On the right side of the room stood Nahra and Maya. Nahra looked radiant yet troubled, her royal attire only accentuating her grace and beauty. Her eyes widened in shock as she recognized Malin, her expression shifting to one of deep concern. Maya, standing protectively beside her, kept her face neutral, though Malin could see a flicker of something in her eyes—perhaps surprise, perhaps amusement.
The moment Malin took another step forward, he felt the cold bite of steel at his neck as several guards drew their swords, pointing them menacingly close. Realizing the gravity of the situation, he immediately yielded, dropping to his knees and raising his hands to show he meant no harm. Every gaze in the room was now on him, from the Sultan’s stern, calculating eyes to Aza’s curious smirk, the strange six-armed man’s quiet intrigue, Maya’s alert watchfulness, and, most of all, Nahra’s worried, pleading look.
Nahra couldn’t contain herself. She rushed forward, her movements swift as she reached Malin’s side, her face filled with alarm as she addressed the guards. “Yield! Lower your swords!” she commanded, her voice firm yet laced with concern.
The guards hesitated, glancing at each other uncertainly before slowly lowering their weapons, though they remained on high alert. Nahra knelt beside Malin, her face close to his, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with worry. “Malin,” she murmured, “what are you doing here?”
He met her gaze, his heart pounding as he took in her concerned expression, and managed a faint, nervous smile. “Trust me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. He could feel the weight of everyone’s attention pressing down on him, the silent judgment, the curiosity, and the thinly veiled suspicion.
Nahra’s eyes searched his, uncertainty clear on her face, but beneath it was a glimmer of faith, a tiny spark that gave her the strength to hold back her questions. She nodded, pulling back slightly, though her hand lingered for a brief moment on his shoulder as if offering him silent support.
Malin took a deep breath, steadying himself as he prepared for whatever came next. He was in the lion’s den now, surrounded by those who held Nahra’s fate—and perhaps his own—in their hands.
The throne room fell into a hushed silence as Sultan Amir Kalkan’s powerful voice rang out, breaking the tension. “We were in the middle of a meeting regarding the marriage arrangement of my daughter, Princess Nahra, and Lord Aza.” His gaze was steady, piercing through the grand hall, making everyone feel the weight of his authority.
Aza’s lips curled into a dark, twisted smile as he focused his red-eyed stare on Malin. “If it weren’t for Nahra’s intervention, I would have had you tortured and killed for daring to intercede,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. His tone held no hesitation, each word layered with the implicit threat he’d gladly carry out if given the chance.
At that moment, the six-armed man beside him stepped forward, his movements fluid and theatrical. He placed himself in the centre of the room, raising his hands—each of his six arms moving in a different direction, gesturing in a manner that was both elegant and dramatic. His face bore a mischievous smile as he looked around, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling charm. “Let’s all remain calm, shall we?” he announced, his voice smooth, almost playful. “There’s no need for bloodshed just yet.”
He turned to Malin, his smile widening as he extended two of his hands in a mock-welcome. “Forgive my manners, young man. I am Bazzle, the youngest and perhaps most unconventional advisor to our esteemed Sultan.” His tone was laced with a mix of flattery and arrogance, a strange charm that seemed to capture the room’s attention. “And I do consider Aza here a… dear friend.”
Bazzle’s six arms moved in an almost hypnotic fashion, each one emphasising his words as he spoke, as though each gesture was an extension of his thoughts. He strutted toward Malin with a mixture of grace and flamboyance, his expression shifting between intrigue and faint amusement. His eyes gleamed with a curiosity that was both disarming and slightly unnerving.
When he reached Malin, he tilted his head, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “Tell me, young man, have you perhaps wandered into the wrong room? Perhaps made… a dear mistake?” His gaze bore into Malin, his charm veiling a subtle hint of threat.
Malin met Bazzle’s gaze without faltering, standing tall despite the intimidating presence before him. His voice was steady, resolute. “This was no mistake.”
A collective gasp echoed through the room, servants and advisors exchanging shocked glances at Malin’s audacity. Even Nahra felt a pang of fear for him, her heart pounding in her chest. Maya reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her arm, a silent reminder to stay calm.
Bazzle’s eyebrows rose, his expression twisting into one of amusement and mild surprise. “Oh, is that so?” He chuckled, his tone teasing yet laced with a hint of menace. “You should know, young man, only the Sultan has the authority to choose his audience. This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
Malin took a deep breath, his gaze unwavering as he answered. “I don’t come as a simple servant.” Without waiting for further permission, he moved past Bazzle, stepping forward until he was directly in front of the Sultan himself. The guards’ hands tightened on their swords, their attention sharpening as they prepared for any sign of threat. The tension in the room reached a fever pitch, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone stared, unable to believe the sheer boldness of this young intruder.
Nahra held her breath, her nerves pounding in her chest as she watched Malin’s every move. Beside her, Maya placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, her eyes focused, ready for anything. Aza’s face twisted in irritation, his hand twitching as if barely resisting the urge to speak. He opened his mouth to reprimand Malin, but before he could utter a word, the Sultan raised his hand, commanding silence.
“Enough,” Sultan Amir said, his voice calm but carrying a note of steel. “Let the boy speak.”
Malin swallowed, feeling the weight of the Sultan’s gaze, yet he knelt before him, his resolve as strong as ever. With a steady voice, he proclaimed, “I am a messenger from the Most High God himself… The Origin.”
The Sultan’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his otherwise stoic face. Around the room, murmurs broke out among the gathered advisors, nobles, and servants, their confusion evident as they struggled to understand the boy’s audacious claim.
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Nahra’s eyes filled with a mix of wonder and trepidation, her hands clasped tightly together as she tried to process what Malin was saying. Even Bazzle’s smile faltered for a moment, intrigue replacing his usual easy confidence as he leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowed with interest. Aza’s face, meanwhile, shifted from irritation to suspicion, his gaze sharpening as he studied Malin.
Sultan Amir Kalkan regarded Malin with a new intensity, the weight of the words “The Origin” hanging heavily in the air.
One of the Sultan’s older advisors, a man with a grizzled beard and a deep-set scowl, rose from his seat, his voice booming with indignation. “Blasphemy!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the throne room. “There is no god named ‘The Origin,’ let alone a ‘Most High.’ This boy speaks madness! Sultan, I implore you, execute him immediately for such insolence!”
The room fell silent, the weight of the advisor’s words pressing down on everyone present. The guards tightened their grips on their weapons, and a few others nodded in agreement, murmuring their approval of the advisor’s demands. But before anyone could move, something strange began to happen.
The advisor’s expression twisted, his hand going to his chest as a look of confusion crossed his face. He took a staggering step backward, his eyes widening in horror as he felt his skin begin to soften, his form losing its solidity. He raised his trembling hands, watching in terror as his fingers started to melt, his skin and flesh transforming into a thick, golden liquid.
“Wh-what’s happening to me?” he gasped, his voice high with fear as his body continued to morph, his once-solid form shifting and dripping, the unmistakable smell of olive oil filling the air. His body slowly liquefied, the oil pooling around his feet as he let out a panicked scream, his face contorting in agony and disbelief.
Every eye in the room watched, horrified and entranced, as the advisor’s body continued to transform until he was nothing but a puddle of olive oil on the polished floor. Whispers and gasps echoed around the throne room, the courtiers and advisors frozen in a mix of fear and awe.
Only Sultan Amir noticed the faint movement in the shadows, his gaze drawn to a dark figure perched on a ledge just beyond the gathered crowd. There, partially obscured in darkness, sat the black cat with glowing yellow eyes, watching him intently. Its gaze was steady, piercing, and as it stared into the Sultan’s eyes, he felt a shiver run down his spine, as though something beyond human comprehension was peering into his very soul.
Then, as if by some silent command, the puddle of olive oil began to ripple and coalesce. The thick liquid started reforming, slowly rising and taking shape until, before everyone’s stunned eyes, the advisor’s body reformed, whole once more. His eyes opened in shock, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he looked down at himself—completely naked. To his added horror, the fine robes he had been wearing were now nothing but baked bread, crusted and steaming, scattered across the floor.
A nearby maid, her face pale but composed, quickly stepped forward and wrapped a cloth around him, covering his shame as he stumbled back, his face red with embarrassment. With lowered eyes, he slunk out of the room, the murmur of horrified whispers trailing behind him, an air of both horror and wonder lingering in the wake of the miracle—or curse—that had just occurred.
The Sultan turned his gaze back to Malin, his expression unreadable but his eyes filled with a newfound intensity. The hall remained silent, every soul present waiting in anxious anticipation. With a voice that carried both curiosity and trepidation, Sultan Amir finally spoke.
“What is the message from The Origin?” he asked, his tone both respectful and guarded, acknowledging the power that had just revealed itself in his throne room.
All eyes turned to Malin, the weight of the room's attention bearing down on him as he prepared to deliver the message entrusted to him by the divine.
Malin took a steadying breath, his voice wavering only slightly as he looked the Sultan in the eye and declared, “I have been sent to recover the Sword of Righteousness… in exchange for Princess Nahra’s hand in marriage.” He paused, his gaze shifting to meet Nahra’s, where he saw a flicker of surprise, perhaps even hope, in her eyes before he turned his attention back to the Sultan.
The room erupted into murmurs, the shock rippling through the gathered courtiers, guards, and advisors. Sultan Amir’s face remained impassive, though his brow creased with confusion as he studied the young baker before him. Malin didn’t exactly look like a warrior, much less someone capable of recovering a legendary weapon, and yet he spoke with a conviction that couldn’t be ignored.
The Sultan’s voice was steady, yet laced with doubt. “The Sword of Righteousness is a sacred relic. You, a commoner… how can you claim to be worthy of such a task?”
Malin straightened, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. “These were the exact words of The Origin,” he said, hoping to sound both respectful and confident. “Unless, of course, you wish to go against The Origin’s will.” Inwardly, he fought a surge of panic, not entirely sure who or what The Origin truly was, but hoping that invoking this title—the Most High—would strengthen his case.
Aza’s eyes narrowed, a sneer curling his lips. “This is absurd! He’s nothing but a peasant with no royal blood, no noble lineage. For him to even suggest this is an insult to the system itself!” He looked to the Sultan, anger simmering beneath his carefully controlled expression. “It would go against every tradition, every law we hold dear.”
Yet, beside Aza, Nahra’s eyes flickered with a spark of hope, the possibility that maybe—just maybe—fate was shifting in her favor. Her heart thumped in her chest as she looked between her father and Malin, daring to believe in a future she’d once thought impossible.
The Sultan listened in silence, his gaze shifting back to Malin, his mind clearly working through the implications. Finally, he spoke, his tone grave yet intrigued. “Your request… it is indeed unprecedented. The Sword of Righteousness is a royal secret, known only to those within the royal family and the dukes. For you to speak of it—this knowledge must have been granted to you by a higher power.”
Malin kept his face composed, nodding slightly as if he had always known this information, though inwardly he marveled at what he was hearing. The Sword is a secret? And it’s lost? He struggled to keep his surprise hidden, nodding along with a feigned air of understanding.
The Sultan continued, his voice low and contemplative. “The Sword of Righteousness was lost in the battle against the Nephilim. Only a true king can wield it. According to our law, anyone who can recover and use it proves himself worthy of the throne… it is the foundation of the Kalkan Federation itself.”
Malin’s eyes widened, barely able to process the magnitude of what the Sultan had just revealed. He felt his pulse quicken, the enormity of the task before him settling like a weight on his shoulders. But he held his composure, nodding respectfully as if he had known this all along.
Aza’s face darkened, his frustration evident, but for once, he seemed lost for words. Even he could not argue against the ancient laws that underpinned their entire kingdom.
Bazzle, who had watched the entire exchange with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, stepped forward, his six arms splaying out dramatically as he addressed the Sultan and the crowd. “Well, well, Your Majesty, it seems we are caught in quite the delightful conundrum!” he exclaimed, his voice playful yet filled with a strange gravity. “The Sultan makes a fair point, of course. But why not give this… daring young man a chance to prove himself?”
He turned to the Sultan, his smile widening as he proposed his idea. “Let’s grant him a month. A single month to recover the Sword of Righteousness. If he succeeds, he shall win not only the hand of the fair Princess Nahra but the crown itself. But if he fails…” He cast a quick glance at Aza, his eyes glinting with mischief. “… then the marriage arrangement with Lord Aza shall proceed as planned.”
The room fell into a charged silence, each person waiting with bated breath for the Sultan’s response. Malin felt his heart racing, his mind spinning with both excitement and dread. A month. He would have a single month to find and retrieve an artifact that was thought lost, a weapon tied to the very foundation of the kingdom.
Sultan Amir studied Malin with a solemn expression, his gaze intense as he considered Bazzle’s proposal. After a moment, he nodded, a decision made. “Very well,” he declared. “You have one month, Malin. One month to bring me the Sword of Righteousness. If you succeed, you shall earn the right to the throne and my daughter’s hand. But know this,” he added, his tone hardening, “if you fail, you will not only lose the chance to wed Nahra. You will be executed—by the hand of Lord Aza himself—for the chaos and dishonor you have brought into this court.”
Malin bowed his head, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice strong despite the uncertainty that swirled within him.
Nahra’s face lit up with a mixture of relief and excitement, hope blooming within her as she looked at Malin with a newfound admiration. Aza’s expression, meanwhile, darkened, his jaw clenched, but he held his silence, clearly recognizing the futility of arguing further. A faint, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth at the Sultan's decree of execution should Malin fail, as if savoring the idea.
As Malin rose to his feet, he met the Sultan’s gaze, determination flickering in his eyes. He didn’t know how he would accomplish this, but he knew one thing: he would not let this opportunity slip away.