Faqir felt much the same.
With the past playing out like some cruel joke, all he could do was watch it happen.
Watch as these bastards—these war-hungry bastards—sat in that tent, throwing words around like they weren't deciding the fate of thousands. Like they weren't pulling the trigger on an entire fucking generation.
His nails dug into his palms, but he didn't feel it. Couldn't feel it over the slow, burning rage creeping up his spine.
This was it.
This.
This was the moment.
The moment the call for soldiers rang out.
This was the moment that sent his father marching into war, desperate for protection, desperate for something that could keep the family safe.
This was the moment that led to his father's death.
Malik helped make it happen.
The hall blurred at the edges.
Faqir didn't even realize he was breathing harder, that his shoulders were rising and falling too fast. Someone said something beside him, but it barely registered. It was just noise. Useless noise.
