Three Days Later — Road to Al-Farama, Sinai Peninsula
The wind howled across the open desert, carrying with it a silence only found in the hours before death. The sun was low — a dying majesty bleeding over the dunes — and the long column of camels and horsemen moved like ants across the pale throat of the earth.
Abdullah rode near the rear, his thighs chafed from hours on a saddle too large for him, his tunic soaked through with sweat. The desert heat was a living thing — breathing on his neck, gnawing at his patience.
This was his first campaign. A supply escort to a remote garrison — simple, they'd said. Safe.
"Ride with us," Zayd had grinned. "You'll learn more in one week than a year in the training yard."
He hadn't been wrong.
Abdullah's muscles ached from long hours of mounted travel. His palms were inflamed due to the gripping of reins. His eyes stung with dust. But worse than the physical toll was the gnawing anxiety deep in his chest — a predator that had awoken since they crossed into Crusader-skirmished territory.
What if this is it? What if I die in the middle of nowhere — not as a hero, not as a fighter — just another forgotten corpse under the sand?
The sword Salahuddin had given him bounced gently against his side.
He had not drawn it. Not once.
Evening Camp — A Circle of Flame and Fatigue
The escort stopped at a shallow ravine ringed with scraggly acacia trees and worn rocks. Campfires were lit. Guards patrolled around,camel meats were cooked in dented pots. Zayd passed Abdullah a waterskin and collapsed beside him with a dramatic groan.
"I think my butt has become one with the saddle," he muttered.
Abdullah chuckled weakly. His lips were cracked. His mind floated somewhere between exhaustion and awe. All around him, real men sat — battle-worn, bearded, devout. They laughed with full hearts. They sharpened blades with care. Some even wept in quiet prayer under the stars.
He envied them.
They belonged here.
He was still pretending.
Nightfall — A Warning in the Wind
Umar ibn Tariq paced the perimeter, eyes scanning the dark ridges beyond the camp. He was more beast than man now, all sinew and grit. He paused beside Abdullah.
"Boy," he said without turning. "Can you smell that?"
Abdullah sniffed the air. "What?"
"No dung. No jackals. No sand foxes. Too quiet."
He walked on.
Zayd leaned over. "He's always like that. Never trusts the night."
Abdullah clutched his sword. The leather grip felt cold in his hand despite the heat.
Something's coming. I can feel it. It's like the air before a lightning strike.
He lay down near the fire, but didn't sleep.
Before Dawn — The Blood Price
The first scream shattered the silence like a hammer through glass.
Abdullah sat bolt upright.
Chaos exploded.
Arrows whistled from the dark. One struck a camel's throat — the beast shrieked and collapsed. Men shouted in all directions. Horses reared and bucked. Someone yelled, "Raiders! To arms!"
Bandits — no Crusaders this time, just Arabs driven by greed — burst from the shadows, blades flashing, mouths open in guttural war cries.
Zayd was already up, sword drawn. "Abdullah, with me!"
Abdullah's legs refused to move at first. His lungs wouldn't fill.
Run. Hide. You're not ready. You'll die. You'll die.
But something shifted.
He looked at Zayd — who stood like a flame in the dark — and he saw not fear, but duty.
If I run now, I'll never be able to look Salahuddin in the eye again. I'll never be a man. Never be anything.
He drew his sword.
And ran toward the fire.
The Battle
The world became fragments:
A soldier with his throat slashed, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings.
A raider lunging — Abdullah stepping aside, swinging — a glancing blow to the ribs.
Screaming. So much screaming.
Steel against steel. Sparks in the dark.
A dagger tearing across Zayd's arm. Blood. Real blood.
Abdullah roared.
He slammed into the attacker, blade-first, driving with his whole body.
The man gurgled. Fell. Twitched once. Then stilled.
Abdullah stared at him.
I killed him.
His knees buckled.
Aftermath — The Cost of Courage
Dawn painted the battlefield gold.
Nine men lay dead. Two were their own. One was a boy who had given Abdullah figs the day before.
Zayd sat on a rock, his arm bound in linen, blood still seeping. His eyes were hollow.
Abdullah stood nearby, hands stained, shaking.
Umar came to him.
"You fought," the old warrior said simply.
"I… I killed someone."
Umar looked at him. "Then remember him. And live better than he did."
Abdullah wiped his blade, then slowly fell to his knees. Not from exhaustion — but from the weight in his chest. The sword at his side no longer felt like a stranger.
It felt like judgment.
And yet… for the first time since falling into this world, Abdullah knew something:
I belong here.
Not as a visitor. Not as a dreamer.
But as a soldier. A brother. A man among lions.
End of Chapter 3