Malik felt a sharp prick of annoyance at the phrase "If you were the real Nebras," but he chose to ignore the Vizier completely, treating him as if he were invisible. He turned his gaze solely to the Princess.
"My memory is fragmented," Malik lied smoothly. "I barely remember anything. But it does not matter. It will return to me gradually."
The Princess stepped closer and took his hand, her eyes shimmering with unshakeable hope.
"Do not worry yourself, Grandfather. You are a great man who has endured what would destroy the strongest of souls. It is enough for us that you have returned."
Malik studied her closely.
She had a fair face, pale as the moon, with soft features that suggested she was no older than fifteen. Her frame was slender—too slender. The veins traced blue against the skin of her hands, a sign that she, like everyone else in this hole, likely survived on meager rations.
She wore a light blue cloth wrapped around her head, concealing her hair in the custom of desert dwellers, and a loose white gown that, upon closer inspection, was marred by several visible patches.
She was not a princess by the standards Malik knew—not the plump, pampered royalty draped in jewels, gold, and silks that cost a kingdom's ransom. She looked like a poor ascetic, a beggar girl. Or perhaps, in this ruined world, this was the height of luxury.
Malik smiled at her, a calculated warmth in his expression.
"You are right. I must rest now."
Suddenly, a violent tremor shook the fortress. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Moments later, a soldier burst into the room. He wore armor made of white leather and a conical white helmet topped with a long, needle-like spike that extended upward.
"We are under attack, my Lady!" the soldier shouted breathlessly.
He stopped dead when he saw Malik, his jaw dropping. "Who... who is this, my Lady?"
The Princess smiled, a fierce pride in her voice.
"It is Nebras. He has been reborn. Spread the news among the men! Instill the spirit of hope in them, and tell them to prepare for battle!"
The Vizier tightened his grip on his sword hilt, eyeing Malik from head to toe with a look of cold calculation.
"They arrived faster than I anticipated," the Vizier muttered. He turned his sharp gaze to Malik. "Let us test the returned Hero now. Let us see the weight of his truth. This is your battle now, 'Hero.' Lead us to victory, or lead us to ruin."
Malik frowned, his expression hardening into defiance.
"Bring me my sword," Malik commanded. "And tell me exactly what we are facing."