Fibs and Fables

Chapter 1

The second floor of the Malik Manor was dedicated to portraying the legacy of their clan. The walls throbbed with their legends and legacy. Malik Mukhtar's preferred way of destressing was to take a walk through the corridors, taking in the pictures and photographs, a testament to the ages and adversities they had faced and how they came out victorious. He always felt empowered as he gazed at the proud faces of his ancestors; they had been to war and sacrificed their blood and youth to build everything that he now owned and protected. But it was also a humbling experience to realize that he too would one day be nothing but a tale of the past and a memory that a loved one would occasionally brush upon. And that realization pushed him forward every day to base his actions on justice, equality, and compassion. To uphold honor and integrity, to stay true to the blood that surged in his veins, the blood of a clan that has always been the voice of the suppressed and the guardian of their rights.

He skimmed through the portraits, his gaze landing on the one that had always been an object of his intense scrutiny. It was a portrait of one of his ancestors—the most celebrated and admired of the lot. He was the one who had declared war against the Khans, the clan that was still the only one that could stand at par with the power and wealth of the Maliks. The reason for the conflict had been lost in the sands of time, but the bitter memories of bloodshed and violence still lingered.

That was the quirk of history: people readily seemed to forget why something occurred, easily glossing over the warning signs as if it would not repeat again, focusing on the consequences and aftershocks that would later turn into brutal lore and war stories, something that would eventually become a political weapon or a binding tradition to chain people to year-long rivalries and bad blood.

That was exactly what had happened. For as long as he could remember, Mukhtar had heard horror stories about the tricks and treachery of the Khans, and he was sure that in the lands beyond his border, the same was thought about him. But by the time of his reign, the anger and bloodlust had simmered down to rivalry. He would even dare to say that he had a healthy rivalry with Shahnawaz Khan.

He was a worthy adversary and would have been an even worthier ally, and on some nights when the burden on his shoulders became too much to carry, he wished for a brotherhood that could transcend borders and ancestral rage.

They had been like-minded when it came to the well-being of their people, encouraging active collaboration among them. It was the first time in many years that the villages under both clans came together to address common issues. Theirs was the age of famines and floods, a time when their economy was in peril. They had been allies who put on a show of rivalry for the sake of the elders and as a tribute to the history between them.

And then the time had flown—an abrupt change in the power dynamics when Shahnawaz left the world, years of mutual respect and hidden camaraderie, all ending with a formal letter of condolences from Mukhtar addressed to Shahnawaz's wife. Something that Shahnawaz Khan had done for him when his beloved Sabeena had died in childbirth. But then, along with his letter, the Khan enclosed a small golden flower charm as the first gift to their daughter.

If anyone asked Mukhtar whether it was the charm that inspired him to name his only daughter Meerab "the flower of paradise," then he would be incinerated within seconds.

The wheels of time would then take them to a new era, the rise of Murtasim Khan, a man who was worthy of his rights. A smile graced his face as he remembered the countless times he had seen the boy playing in the fields, when he and Shahnawaz convened in the Panchayat to mull over pressing matters or just to discreetly bond over a cup of chai. And then he saw him in the Panchayat, no longer a boy who had stars in his eyes but a man with the eyes of a predator. He had felt chills running down his spine the first time he met Murtasim as the Khan. There was something in him—something that effectively shut down all the senseless talks about how he was too young and unworthy of the position he had inherited.