A tale of smoke, sand, and the winds of fate.
Dhaka, Present Day
The monsoon sky over Dhaka hung like a canvas of bruised clouds, veined with the last light of a weary sun. Dust floated lazily in the humid air, catching golden rays that spilled through the cracked glass of Abdullah Rahman's rooftop room. From within, came only the dull hum of a ceiling fan struggling against the heat and the faint echoes of a medieval war video game paused mid-battle.
Abdullah sat cross-legged, eyes dim. He wasn't looking at the screen anymore.
He stared through the open window, watching a pair of crows squabble over trash near a power pole. Somewhere in the background, the adhan began to rise — faint and melodic. A call to turn toward the unseen and the eternal. He didn't rise.
Not because he disbelieved. But because he didn't know what he believed anymore.
His walls bore witness to his inner world: a poster of Salahuddin al-Ayyubi, one of Umar ibn al-Khattab, and another of a fictional warlord from an anime where honor came from the blade. The books on his shelf were half-read: The Crusades Through Arab Eyes, Art of War, and a dog-eared Riyadh al-Saliheen.
"When did heroes stop walking the earth?" he had asked himself more than once.
Another explosion of thunder cracked the sky — unnatural, sharp, like the tearing of silk across stone.
Abdullah looked up. The clouds outside twisted violently.
A vast ring of crimson fire spiraled outward from the horizon like a divine eye opening across the heavens. Time seemed to stumble.
He staggered to his feet. His phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the concrete floor.
And then—
Light.
It devoured the sky. It tore through sound, space, and sense. He screamed, but the sound was lost in the roar of wind and flame. The walls buckled. The books lifted into the air. His body was weightless, floating upward into a burning womb of ancient stars.
And then—
Nothing.
Somewhere in the Levant, Year 559 A.H. (1164 CE)
He awoke to sand and the sting of sun on skin unprepared for it.
Each breath scraped against his throat like gravel. The light was blinding. The air—dry, ancient, alive with whispers he didn't understand.
His ears filled slowly with the sounds of hooves pounding across earth, the clangor of steel, and voices crying in Arabic.
He opened his eyes fully.
Chaos.
Dozens of men on horseback surged across the rocky plain. The sun reflected off their curved blades, catching fire with every movement. Banners flapped in the dry wind — black, green, and crimson — marked with calligraphy he only vaguely recognized from mosque murals and history books.
Abdullah stumbled upright, shielding his eyes. The clothes he wore — jeans and a sweat-darkened hoodie — made him an absurd sight among the armored warriors thundering past.
And then he saw them.
Crusaders.
Cross-bearing knights with heavy chainmail, white surcoats, and bloodied swords were locked in brutal combat with Arab horsemen. The Franks were tall, brutal, their eyes mad with rage, their armor caked in filth and gore.
One of them noticed him — a boy alone, unarmed.
The knight charged.
Abdullah stood frozen.
The world slowed.
This is where I die…
Steel met steel.
A curved sword intercepted the knight's blow, throwing sparks into the sunlit air. A rider in green and gold armor dismounted with the grace of a lion.
He moved like a man trained not in sport but in war. Every motion was efficient, elegant, and absolute.
He held up a gauntleted hand. "Stay your blade!" he barked in Arabic, his voice low but commanding.
The Crusader backed off, snarling.
Abdullah looked into the face of the man who had saved him.
His eyes were dark, sharp, and strangely kind. A beard framed his solemn face. His sword hand never trembled.
"Who are you, child?" the man asked.
"I… I'm…" Abdullah hesitated. His lips trembled.
"…Abdullah."
The man's brow furrowed slightly. "A strong name. One who serves Allah."
Then he turned to his men. "This one is not Frank. He is ours. Take him. Give him water. Bind his wounds."
A younger warrior stepped forward. "But Sayf ad-Din—"
"I said he is ours."
And just like that, Abdullah was pulled into a different century.
That Night — Campfires Beneath the Desert Moon
The camp was alive with the smells of roasted lamb and sweat, incense and ash. The soldiers, many wounded, recited prayers between bites of hard bread. Their swords lay beside them — never out of reach.
Abdullah sat alone, his mind whirling.
A servant approached with a bowl of stew. Abdullah thanked him, but the man only nodded — silent, perhaps wary of the stranger in strange garb.
In the distance, under a larger tent of green and gold, Salahuddin sat in deep conversation with his lieutenants. A lamp flickered beside him. He looked younger than Abdullah expected — perhaps in his late twenties — but his bearing was ancient. As if carved from the same stone as the hills.
Later, when the camp quieted, a soldier fetched him.
"Sayf ad-Din calls for you."
Abdullah was brought into the tent, where Salahuddin sat cross-legged, his sword laid gently across his lap.
He gestured for the boy to sit.
"I've seen strange men in war, but none dressed like you," Salahuddin said softly. "You carry no weapon, no name of tribe, no scent of camel or caravan."
Abdullah looked down. His voice caught. "I… I don't know where I am."
Salahuddin studied him for a moment. "You are in the land of the Nile and the Crescent. And this is a time of war."
He paused.
"Do you believe in Allah?"
"Yes," Abdullah said quietly.
"That is enough… for now."
He stood.
"Tomorrow, you will clean horses and carry water. You will work beside the others. And when you are ready, you will learn the sword."
Abdullah looked up. "Why help me?"
Salahuddin's voice was low.
"Because sometimes Allah sends warriors from where we least expect. Even from the sky."
END OF CHAPTER 1