The Last Great Dynasty

Rise of the black eagle

Ali coughed—a wet, crackling sound that scraped almost all the blood from his chest.

The room smelled of cedar and incense.

Just as he liked it.

Eighty-seven years.

Eighty-seven years of blood, rule, reign, and war.

His sons were dead.

His brothers were dead.

Almost his entire family was gone.

And half the men who had the balls to stand against him were gone as well.

But he didn't feel guilty.

Not one bit.

Not one dot.

Vultures.

Bastards.

All of them.

Greedy, speck-eyed little vultures trying to tear apart the empire he had built with his own hands.

Greedy, squeaking creatures clawing at the flesh of what he had created.

His money.

His name.

His empire.

Yet none of them had watched their parents bleed out on a dirt floor.

None of them had felt their stomachs burn with fury and starvation.

None of them had clawed their way out of hell with nothing but fire and rage to fuel them.

No.

They only came after.

The door opened.

His eyes softened.

Instantly, the fearsome criminal was gone.

Ah.

There she was.

The one pure thing left in the family.

Malathi stepped inside.

His granddaughter.

Good girl.

Her head was bowed.

Eyes lowered.

No loud opinions.

No shouting.

No viper's tongue.

No foolish ambition.

Just the grace every woman was supposed to have.

Soft dark curls escaped the braid framing her face.

She moved quietly, never taking up more space than necessary.

Unlike women nowadays.

Stomping.

Shouting.

Smirking.

Acting like men.

Ali never understood that.

A woman's greatest strength was her gentleness and piety.

Being the pillar of her family.

His wife had been that.

She patiently endured while he conducted his operations, using the construction company, T Enterprises, as a cover.

She endured raising the children.

Taking care of him.

Supporting him.

And so was Malathi.

Unlike her bastard father—his son—who had plotted to kill him with his wife, that bitch of a daughter-in-law.

He killed them.

But Malathi wasn't like that.

She never interrupted him.

Never challenged him.

The old man smiled.

His little dove.

Proof that the world hadn't completely lost its mind.

She gave him his medicines, asked about his day, listened while he talked, and accepted his blessing before leaving.

"May you live long, child."

As she walked back to her room, Malathi rolled her eyes.

She removed the jasmine flowers from her hair.

Flowers.

Then changed from her sari blouse into a shirt.

Her general, Rahi, helped her.

The Black Scorpion—the woman who slipped through buildings and assassinated men who thought themselves untouchable.

And Malathi's closest confidant.

"Mam..." she murmured.

"Didn't you ever think of—"

She hesitated.

"I..."

She removed the last flowers from Malathi's braid.

"He killed your parents. You planned, poisoned him, and took over his throne brick by brick. Then poisoned him slowly, all at the mere age of eighteen."

"They call you the Black Eagle. Then why this deception?"

Malathi's eyes softened.

"I..."

A beat.

She swallowed.

"Despite what he did... deep in my heart, I remember him as the man who put me on his lap and read me books."

A pause.

She exhaled.

"And another wicked part of me..."

Another breath.

"I thought of telling him multiple times. To his face. To tell him that the epitome of womanhood he so adored took over his country."

A beat.

Then she smiled.

"Death is too merciful a fate."

A pause.

"Why would an eagle bother with what slithers below while it flies above?"

Rahi laughed.

"Quite right, Madam."

She gave a playful bow.

"And your throne awaits."

The room was quiet.

Still.

The only sound was the scratch of pen against paper.

The warrant she signed against another syndicate.

Malathi sat before her vanity.

She had just returned from a gala.

Hair pinned up.

A gown fit for a princess.

All for business.

"My beautiful princess."

Her mother's voice seemed to echo.

Malathi exhaled.

Without realizing it, a tune slipped from her lips.

Soft.

Sweet.

Barely a whisper.

The one her mother used to sing before bed while braiding her hair.

By the fifth note, her voice cracked.

A tear rolled down her cheek.

Then another.

For a moment, she simply sat there.

Eighteen years old.

On a throne built from blood.

Missing the people who should have been there to see it.

The love.

The song.

The kisses.

Those were the gifts her mother gave her.

The empire was the gift she gave herself.

Then she wiped her eyes.

Straightened her shoulders.

And looked into the mirror.

A smile touched her lips.

When she sang that song, she remembered why she was the Eagle.

She remembered the dirt covering her parents' graves.

She remembered the poison.

The lies.

The patience.

The empire.

And when she looked in the mirror—

the Black Eagle remained.

Malathi rose and stepped out.

Calm.

Soft.

Sweet.

Yet with knuckles sharp and tight.

As an eagle's.

The End.

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