Dawn — Edge of the Camp, Near Fustat (Old Cairo)
The sun rose with a whisper, not a roar.
Its first light shimmered over the dunes, painting the sand in hues of bronze and rose. From the east, the thin wail of the adhan spiraled through the morning air like a ghost, calling men to rise not for breakfast, but for prayer and purpose.
Abdullah knelt near the horse pens, bleary-eyed and trembling with cold. The desert chill clung to his bones despite the coarse wool tunic one of the stable hands had tossed at him last night. He had not spoken much, not slept at all. The enormity of what had happened, where he was — when he was — settled like dust in his lungs.
Somewhere in the camp, a warrior recited the opening lines of Surah Al-Fatiha, and the men stood in rows.
He did not know the words fully, but the rhythm was familiar. Like the voice of a grandfather long gone.
So he mimicked their bowing. Their stillness. Their surrender.
Mid-Morning — The Yards of Sweat and Sand
The training square was not a place of ceremony. It was a crucible.
Rows of squires and fresh recruits moved in ragged synchrony, thrusting wooden spears into straw dummies. Their tunics were soaked. Their feet bled into their sandals. Overseeing them was Umar ibn Tariq, a veteran whose face was as weathered as the stones of Jerusalem.
He barked at them like a jackal made of leather and salt.
"You there!" he growled at Abdullah. "You grip that spear like you're shaking hands with it. Are you here to make love to the Franks or kill them?!"
The others laughed, and Abdullah flushed crimson. He adjusted his stance.
The spear felt unnatural — top-heavy, long, alive. The wooden haft rubbed raw against his palm.
This isn't a video game.This isn't practice.
When he jabbed again, he nearly toppled forward. Umar shook his head.
"Again."
By the thirtieth strike, Abdullah's arms trembled. The world swam. By the fiftieth, he could no longer feel his fingers.
"Good," Umar finally said. "Now you might last five seconds in battle before you die."
Later — Water and Reflection
Abdullah collapsed by a cracked stone trough and dipped his face into the water. He drank like a starving beast, not caring who watched. His thoughts swirled:
You asked for heroes. For real war. For honor.You got it.
A shadow fell over him.
He looked up to see a boy about his age — perhaps seventeen — with deep brown skin, a sharp jaw, and the noble arrogance of a born cavalryman. He wore a lighter tunic, dyed in red, with a thin dagger at his waist.
"I saw you fall during drills," the boy said in polished Arabic. "Like a sack of figs."
Abdullah glared. "I'm not from around here."
"Obviously." The boy sat beside him. "I'm Zayd ibn Qasim. Son of the quartermaster of Alexandria. Who are you?"
Abdullah hesitated. "...Abdullah."
Zayd squinted. "From where?"
Abdullah shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me."
The boy snorted. "Good. I don't like liars, but I admire mysteries. And we are both far from glory."
Twilight — Salahuddin's Court
A tent not of cloth but of order and purpose.
Salahuddin sat amid his advisors, the flickering lamps casting golden halos upon the maps sprawled before them. Black ink marked enemy garrisons. Red circles — Crusader watchtowers near Gaza. Yellow — suspected spies.
"These Franks prepare to strike at Damietta," Salahuddin said, his finger tracing the Nile's delta. "And the Fatimid viziers in Cairo hesitate. They still court alliances with the Franks."
A scribe scribbled furiously.
"Will you ride there?" asked Sharif Abdul Malik, a hawk-nosed diplomat.
"I must," Salahuddin answered. "Before Cairo sells its soul."
Then his eyes flicked to the edge of the tent, where a small figure waited silently.
"Bring the boy in."
Within the Tent
Abdullah stepped into the tent, still dusty, bruised, and unsure how to bow. He merely stood there, awkward and wide-eyed.
Salahuddin rose from the map table. "You did not run," he said, folding his arms. "Even when you knew nothing of this world."
"No," Abdullah replied.
"Why?"
Abdullah looked at the oil lamp beside him. Its flame danced like a memory.
"Because I saw you fight. And I believed."
The room was silent. Salahuddin studied him.
"You were not born here," he said softly. "I do not ask how. But I do ask what you seek."
Abdullah hesitated. His voice, when it came, was a whisper.
"Meaning."
Salahuddin's eyes softened.
"Then serve. Learn. Bleed. One who seeks meaning must carry the weight of steel — and the pain that comes with it."
He reached behind him and took a short Arabian sword, sheathed in worn leather.
"Carry this. Not to fight. But to understand."
Abdullah took it in both hands, surprised at how light it felt… and how heavy.
Nightfall — Under the Stars
Zayd sat beside Abdullah at the fire, sharpening his own blade.
"That sword?" he asked. "It's not just a gift. It's a promise."
Abdullah looked at the stars overhead. So different from the city. So eternal.
"Of what?"
Zayd smiled faintly. "That someday you will have to choose. To strike or to spare. To lead or to follow."
In the distance, a muezzin's voice rose from a hilltop guard tower, carried by the desert winds.
Abdullah looked down at the sword in his lap.
It was not polished. It was not ceremonial. It was a sword that had killed.
This is no game.This is the weight of a sword.