Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

Sinbad turned.

And walked back to where his sister still lay slumped, dazed on the cold marble floor.

Huda looked like a wreck—eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, hair messy from the impact earlier.

He stood over her, eyes of a similar pink glowing softly.

A coo—deep, low—echoed from him, and his left wing reached out again.

This time, it tapped her on the chest.

Right over her second heart.

FWHMP.

A pulse of soft golden light burst from the point of contact.

It was a touch of healing. One that was total… Immediate.

Dizziness left her. Her vision sharpened. And her headache disappeared like it never existed.

She blinked up at him, still sluggish but now fully awake.

“What… what was that for?!”

She groaned as she sat up, rubbing her temple.

“Your thing head-butted me into the ground!”

Sinbad didn’t answer immediately.

He tilted his head all owl-like, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same crisp, noble voice they were still not used to:

“It was penance. Not punishment. I merely rendered what was long overdue.”

Huda frowned, and he continued:

“You allowed our brother’s light to be smothered. You despised his silence. You turned your back the moment the truth became inconvenient. When it shattered your worldview. And when they came for him, what did you do?”

His words struck like arrows.

“You did not merely stand aside… you joined them. I find it utterly inconceivable that you could commit such a despicable act.”

Sure, it was somewhat expected that she wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t matter; if she had said yes, it wouldn’t all have dominoed into this atrocious ending.

Huda’s shoulders fell.

There was no snark left, no fight.

No defense. Absolutely nothing. Because he was right.

She had let them down; she had betrayed them.

And it hurt.

She stared at her lap, fists clenched, breaths trembling.

A thousand memories flashed in her eyes—how she’d questioned him, how she dismissed him, how she believed the liars who called him villain, monster, criminal, and traitor.

The worst part?

She doubted it the entire time.

Somewhere inside, she always believed he couldn’t be the villain they painted him as.

But still…

Still, she joined them in pushing death upon him.

At that point, she was too deep in it, too deep to back out.

A point where doubt turned minds insane.

A point where backing out would spell doom for her and her family, forcing all those she knew to dissociate from her, not wanting to be known as a villain sympathizer.

She had shunned all of the possibilities… and now, it all came back to haunt her.

Her body gave in.

Huda dropped forward, hands pressed to the floor, then elbows, until her entire body collapsed into a full bow—forehead against the marble.

A collective gasp shot through the crowd.

The Holy Palace… the Sultan’s Hall—this was their home.

The home of the Al-Sayfs…

And she bowed in that home.

In a home filled with nobles, elders, and world leaders.

They all watched in stunned silence as Huda, the Sword of the Fam Iblis, the Lioness of the North, groveled like a child before her older brother.

A person of her caliber groveling as such was unheard of.

They thought only Malik was capable of doing that.

But perhaps this humbleness ran in the ‘family.’

Huda didn’t seem to think about that, though.

Again, she knew very well that she had no right to call herself a sister of theirs, but still…

She was shameless.

Shameless enough that even now, even now, she wanted to be theirs.

“Brother… I’m sorry.”

Sinbad looked down at her.

His silence was heavier than any scream.

Eventually, he shook his head once, slowly.

“It is not my place to forgive you.”

She flinched.

His voice softened.

“The only one who could…”

He turned.

And his pink eyes landed on the chained body on the Golden Throne.

On Malik.

On his familiar but strange soul.

The Sultan of all that was Golden.

The brother whose heart they shattered.

“…is gone.”

Huda’s body shook as her head hit the ground again with a dull smack.

She sobbed once, loudly, then whispered—desperate, trembling.

“Then please… let me make it right. Let me fix it. Help me fix it. Let’s save our brother. Please…”

There was no faking this.

She had let go of all that she was.

Now she was just a sister begging for her family back.

“…”

Sinbad didn’t reply.

He looked to the side—at Noor, who now sat upright on the cracked floor, watching intently.

And Roya, arms behind her back, unreadable, but still obviously listening.

They, too, wanted to know.

Still, he said nothing.

He just turned away.

Left Huda where she lay, her forehead still pressed to the marble, her body trembling from guilt and cold and grief.

He walked—not back to Layla—but through her camp.

Every one of her handmaidens, servants, and protectors parted like waves as he moved.

They bowed their heads. Even cried.

But Sinbad wasn’t looking for them.

He was looking for a familiar woman.

And, not long after, he saw her.

Standing quietly among Layla’s merchants, in a simple mourning gown, face clean, black hair free down her back. Her purple eyes welled with tears.

Dunya.

The quiet maid.

The one who always waited behind the door.

The one who wrote Malik letters, cleaned up Layla’s messes, and cried in the man’s embrace when no one else was looking.

She’d always believed Malik.

Even when Layla didn’t.

She was there till the end.

Even when it got her scorn from everyone she knew.

She smiled through the tears now, like she’d been waiting her entire life to be seen.

Sinbad lowered his head.

Without a word, he gently scooped her up with his wing.

Dunya gasped softly, surprised, then curled into his feathers, burying her face in his warmth.

The whole room watched.

A noble owl cradling a forgotten servant girl like royalty.

It didn’t make sense.

But it felt right.

Sinbad carried her forward, past Layla, past the others, until he reached the very front of the Hall.

The projection above was still frozen.

Good. There was no need to worry about pain.

Sinbad passed underneath it slowly, carefully—shielding Dunya from its light—and walked right to the foot of the Golden Throne.

Once there, he curled his massive body around it.

Like a dragon coiled around its most precious treasure.

Malik couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even acknowledge him.

But Sinbad didn’t need him to.

He’d stay with him anyway.

Just like he always had.

Until death took them all.

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