Azeem's first marriage.
A day that Malik paused his forever schedule to attend.
This day was nearly two hundred years coming. TWO HUNDRED.
It was so very late, but hey, better late than never, right?
In that time, he'd at least matured into a great man, becoming the best right hand anyone could have asked for.
One with a simple request that was finally going to be fulfilled.
Because, yes, Malik would finally meet the one his subordinate bragged so much to him about.
But, before that, the wedding.
It was a thin, bright thing amid the smog of years.
Music played, and wives, husbands, children, and nobles bowed.
There were protests far outside the Holy Palace, screaming for a man's death, and there were loud whoops inside, screaming for the same man's life, the Twelve Moons hanging over the city, judging both.
One true, the other fake, but still so very beautiful.
After the last bow, under that same sky, Azeem and Badroulbadour knelt before Malik.
