Fast. Khalid had to grow up. Fast.

  It was December 1189, and the city was being ground into ruin by the Christian siege. Catapults hurled stones the size of houses into the walls, each impact sending tremors through the streets, through stone and bone alike.

  Grandfather was rarely around. He vanished for months at a time, offering no explanation and asking none in return. No one questioned it anymore. There had never been answers to find.

  Father.

  His watch at the tower lengthened until it consumed him. On rare nights, when he returned home to sleep, he left before dawn. Soon, even that stopped. He was stationed there without pause, and Khalid and his brother were left to fend for themselves in the fallen city.

  Hunger spread faster than fire. The city guard could not keep order. Homes were torn apart for bowls of grain. Elderly men were robbed at knifepoint. People did what they had to do to survive. And those who found nothing at all turned to meat that once had names.

  Jaleel pulled his family close, keeping them—his chosen family—behind him. Samira, kind and unyielding, clung to Khalid. He stared at the collapsing buildings, at the fires crawling across rooftops. This had been their refuge. Now it was being crushed to dust.

  They moved through the desecrated streets together, huddled tight. Then Khalid saw it—an open door, unguarded.

  His stomach twisted.

  Maybe there was something inside that wasn’t crumbs.

  He began to stray away from the group, leaning to the open door—as he finally grabbed the handle, Jaleel’s arm pulled him back.

  “No. No stealing,” Jaleel’s gaze was colder; it had been colder ever since the siege started. It was not a gaze of malice, but of duty and responsibility.

  “Father taught us better than that, no stealing, come, there are still ways to make an honest living.”

  …

  Jaleel couldn’t bring himself to tell Khalid what he was doing to make ends meet.

  They met at the family home on the edge of the city, where sunlight had once spilled warmly across the stone. Now the air bit deep, sharp with winter and smoke. This was when the dead piled highest. This was when Jaleel could earn enough to feed those he loved.

  He pressed a brief, solemn kiss to his lover’s lips.

  “I’ll be back, my beloved.”

  Her face twisted—half sorrow, half revulsion. She knew.

  “Again?” she whispered. “My Lion, you don’t have to do this. Let the soldiers die in their wars—don’t do this. Please. Let me help. Anything but this.”

  Jaleel did not answer.

  He scrubbed his hands in cold water until his skin burned, then dried them on the rag by the table. Slowly, deliberately, he wrapped his hands in cloth. Once. Twice. Again, until the fabric bit into his palms.

  It was time.

  Time to gather the dead.

  …

  The scent of the dead clung to the streets.

  Jaleel pulled his tunic over his mouth, but cloth did little against it. Death had a weight to it—sweet, sour, unmistakable. The smell of war lingered long after the screams were gone.

  When he could, he studied the faces. Names mattered. Families deserved to know.

  He found a body facedown in the rubble. Male. Broad shoulders—city guard, most likely. Jaleel braced himself, then rolled him over.

  The eyes were gone. Maggots writhed where they should have been.

  Jaleel gagged and turned away, bile burning his throat. Too far gone. No face left to give back.

  One more for the count.

  He tightened the cloth around his hands and moved on. The quota wouldn’t fill itself.

  …

  Khalid hated it.

  His brother and his father left each day to earn for the family, and every time Khalid asked to go with them, he was turned away. Not gently. Not with excuses. Just no.

  He had seen eleven summers. That should have been enough. He was strong enough, old enough—ready to matter. But the words his father had spoken when Khalid once asked about war clung to him still. It was forbidden. Even to think of it.

  Samira stroked his hair as the catapults screamed overhead. The sounds carried through the streets—the panic, the shouting, the distant cries. She held him close, murmuring soft words against the thunder of war.

  Khalid didn’t pull away.

  He wasn’t a child anymore. He understood what was happening. But for a moment longer, he let her treat him like one.

  If he could hold out until the end of the week, the three of them could return to Acre’s port. It was tradition—they always did. If they survived that long, maybe it would all be okay.

  The door slammed open. Khalid and Samira flinched, hearts hammering. For a moment, they didn’t know if it was Jaleel—or a thief taking their last hidden rations. It was never Father. Never Grandfather.

  Jaleel stepped inside, pale and reeking. Khalid gagged before he could place the smell—sour, coppery, faintly rotted. Samira fussed over him as she always did after work, but this time her hands trembled, her eyes heavy with sorrow.

  He reached for her cheek.

  “Samira…” His voice was soft, careful.

  She flinched and pulled back, eyes wide.

  “I…”

  He let his hand fall to his side. Shoulders stiff. He avoided her gaze.

  “I’ve returned,” he whispered.

  …

  He had done it. The week’s end had finally come.

  Khalid let himself smile. After all the chaos, all the hunger, all the nights on edge, they had survived. The year was over, and the trio would finally taste a small reprieve at the city’s port. This was his light at the end of the tunnel.

  He raced down the stairs. Long ago, mornings had smelled of hearty Tharid. Now it was stale bread and a single leather pouch of water, shared between the three of them. Still, that wouldn’t slow him down. Today would be good. Maybe 1190 would bring the siege to an end—and Father’s return.

  Samira greeted him with a smile, warm and steady. Jaleel had taken the day off work. Khalid knew he wouldn’t forget this—not even for the job that made him smell of rot.

  “Good morning, Khalid!” Samira greeted him with a weak hug. She had lost weight; her once lively, full face was now hollowed by hunger. Still, she always shared her food with him, no matter the cost.

  “Are you ready? We’re going to the port again. I hope you’ve been keeping up with your duas!”

  He nodded excitedly, his brother even taking the time to laugh, just slightly. He missed his laugh, the loud bellowing laugh; whatever his brother had been doing the past year had taken a toll, even if he tried to hide it.

  …

  He could’ve never known what awaited him.

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  The three walked in line. Jaleel led, eyes sharp on the streets of Acre. Samira stayed at the rear, both flanking Khalid, who moved in the center. They kept a few meters apart, scanning for vagabonds—or worse.

  The city was in ruins. Fires erupted at random, smoke curling into the sky. Screams tore through the void. Walls crumbled around them, stone tumbling into the streets. Khalid hugged the wall, squinting toward the rooftops. He searched for his father—but never saw him.

  The cobblestones, once polished, now jutted jagged beneath their feet. One misstep meant sharp pain. The merchants’ bristling voices were gone, replaced by silence punctuated by flames and human screams.

  Stones fell from above. Khalid accepted it. It was inevitable.

  Then it happened.

  Debris rained from above. Samira shoved him with all her strength. Her scream ripped through the air—short, sharp, filled with terror. Jaleel’s face twisted in horror. Khalid hit the ground hard, dust and grit choking his throat.

  The world spun. Smoke and blood stung his nose. He could do nothing but watch.

  …

  Debris crushed her. Sharp stones pinned her to the ground, piercing her back and torso. Blood ran in rivulets across the broken cobblestones. Her long hair clung to dust and crimson.

  “No!” Jaleel screamed, sprinting forward, straining every muscle to lift the wall. She smiled weakly, tears brimming.

  “My Lion… don’t exert yourself,” she rasped, coughing up blood. “We both know… I’m finished.”

  Jaleel gritted his teeth, lifting, pushing, grunting—but the stone did not budge.

  Khalid lay frozen on the ground, every nerve screaming. His chest tightened. His stomach lurched. Samira gestured for him to come over, hand merely twitching, she couldn’t muster the strength to beckon him fully.

  “Little Khalid, come, I’m sorry you… had to see this,” her voice cracking, taking time to breathe deeply, the fragment must have pierced her lungs, she would be dead within minutes.

  Khalid crawled over, legs shaking uncontrollably, the world spun, he could faint at any minute. This couldn’t be real, he was the one who begged them to see the sea again. Was this his fault?

  “Khalid,” she held his hand, or rather merely felt it, her strength was waning with each second, “The Nasara, they can’t live with us in peace, no matter what...” she spluttered more blood, “no matter what they say, we cannot live in harmony,”

  Her hand trembled, “Please, my sweet Khalid, save our paradise, the land our people deserve, I know that, you can do it…”

  Her hand trembled towards Jaleel, still trying to lift the stone, “My Lion, please, before I go, come closer, let me see your face once more…”

  Jaleel, with tears blinding his vision, honoured her request, he let go of the stone and grasped her hand.

  “My Lion, look after our Khalid for me, okay? I’ll be watching, make sure he grows up big and strong, like his namesake,”

  She paused, and muttered her last words, “And do not lose your pride, my Lion…”

  Her hand went limp, slamming into the cold cobblestone, Khalid’s eyes widened.

  “Samira, NOOOO”

  …

  July 1191 AD, the fall of Acre.

  The city had stood its ground against the Crusaders for nearly two gruelling years. All manner of depravity occurred within the walls. Khalid had seen firsthand. Ever since that day, the brothers had not been the same.

  Khalid awoke; he never overslept, not anymore, and stared at his reflection in his room, using a polished bronze plate. He had long, shaggy, unkept hair, dark and brooding. This would be his thirteenth summer.

  The city was done for, their Grandfather had turned traitor and ran, he fled and became an informant for the Crusader army in order to save his own skin, in retrospect, Khalid knew he’d been planning that for years.

  Their father was in an even worse state, with negotiations brewing for years, he knew the Muslims would give up Acre. There was no escape. Khalid had considered convincing Jaleel to try and flee, but he knew that was useless, the Crusaders had barricaded the countryside around Acre, there was no escape to be made, no one came in and out of Acre without that King’s knowledge. Richard.

  Khalid kissed his teeth, cursing that man and his descendants. Samira had been right—there was no room for him in their paradise.

  Samira…

  He pressed on, descending the stairs. Jaleel awaited him, face serious, bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders—and that burning, lion-like pride he always carried.

  “Khalid, did you hear? The city council has decided to surrender Acre. The Nasara won.”

  Jaleel’s voice was quiet, steady. His hair was tied back in a knot now, strands of brown falling to his eyebrows—a small, rigid marker of the man he had become since Samira’s death.

  Khalid shrugged. None of it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.

  Before he could ask about Father, Jaleel spoke again.

  “There’s a chance they’ll let us go peacefully. The Nasara are divided; we shall see. Our priority is to reunite with Father. For now, we’ve been instructed to meet at the gate.”

  …

  The walk to Acre’s gates was longer than usual.

  The city garrison was no longer stationed upon the walls; they really did surrender. The soldiers looked tense, not a single one amongst them took their hand off their sword’s hilt, ready for anything. When they arrived, they were not greeted by city officials, but martial law, and the flag that flew above.

  It was the cross, it was the Crusaders.

  Jaleel clutched his brother. Surrender usually meant innocents would be spared, but what would their conditions be afterwards? None could say, but they would live, and crucially, they would see Father again. Khalid clutched his brother back; they would not be separated.

  As the population of Acre started to exit through the gates, it happened. Rope and steel, vicious efficiency. Screams of children, moans of the elderly, rope hung round flesh, agency taken, initiative destroyed. Rope and steel descended before they could react. Hands were bound, elbows pressed painfully behind their backs. The hiss of leather straps, the clank of chains, and the sharp bark of commands drowned out everything else. Khalid struggled, muscles burning, but the soldiers were too many, too fast…

  Multiple flags flew over, black and white, the iconic red, and blue and white, with dominating men looming over. One knight in particular seemed to enjoy the meaningless struggle they put up.

  Ahead of them, a line of prisoners shuffled forward. One figure stood straighter than the others, shoulders squared despite the ropes, hands calm where others trembled. Something about the stance… Khalid’s stomach twisted. It couldn’t be.

  Jaleel squirmed violently, refusing to submit, multiple crusaders had to bind him, his eyes burning, “Khalid! I will see you again, stay exactly where you are! I will find you!”

  …

  They were brought up to a hill the Christians called Ayyadieh.

  The wait was brutal. They were placed in camps, waiting, anticipating something. Messengers went back and forth for weeks. From their position, Khalid could see Saladin’s camp. That made sense. Whatever the Christian King was planning, he would want Saladin to see.

  Saladin could still save them.

  Jaleel was a violent prisoner. The Christians constantly made an example of him, beating him black and blue, yet his will never gave in. With every blow, he spat on the men who struck him. No amount of pain stopped him, and the guards were under strict orders not to kill.

  …

  Morning came, and Khalid wished it never had.

  The last messenger arrived, panicked and tired. Not good. They were never meant to look like that. Khalid had studied how the Christian men presented themselves in front of their leaders; it was never frantic—not like now.

  Jaleel was not lined up, he was busy still receiving his 20 lashes that had overran until morning for spitting in a guard’s face. The cries of Jaleel were merely background noise to the camp at this point.

  They exchanged words that meant nothing to the young boy; he did not speak English, nor French, certainly not Latin. They mumbled indecipherable phrases to each other. A Crusader on patrol gave them all a look of pity. Not. Good.

  The King—it must have been Richard. Samira had warned him, said Richard would be the end of them. For once, Khalid hoped she was wrong. She never was.

  Richard barked commands, and the men lined up in rows and columns, moving fast. Each prisoner was made to bow his head. Richard called them up one by one.

  “Hear me! Saladin the Great! I have entertained your peace negotiations, and you have spat in the face of them! This is your punishment! These men’s blood lies on your hands!”

  He spoke in English, but Khalid heard only more mumbling, nonsense.

  The Acre garrison was called up first, lined single file, heads hanging over the hill of Ayyadieh. They whispered their final duas to Allah, voices quivering, eyes flickering, sweat dripping, teeth chattering. All in an instant, until—

  Silence.

  …

  The next four hours were hell on earth.

  The sound of steel cutting through flesh rang for eternity. So much blood. So much chaos. Even the most sadistic person would have been sickened.

  One Crusader felt it, Khalid knew. When he went to cut down another soldier, he looked away. He missed. The mercy he had tried to give turned into cruelty. His sword, slick and slippery with the blood of the Muslims, slid off. He made a halfway cut, then had to hack and slash until the decapitation was complete.

  Khalid did not see him behead anyone else that day.

  The soldier Khalid had seen earlier in Acre came to the front. No. Not him. Anyone but him.

  His father kneeled, head bent, overlooking the drop—the resting place where he would meet Allah. He sneaked a glance behind him and saw Khalid. His eyes watered.

  “Khalid! My son, forgive me! I should have taught you more! Where is your brother!”

  Khalid opened his mouth to reply, but his father’s head was quickly turned toward the hill. No talking. The Christians didn’t understand Arabic—they could mistake even a word for rebellion.

  “Allah, may you watch over my sons for me. Do not let me send them on the wrong path, as I did. I have failed as both a father… and a son…”

  Those were his last words. Khalid closed his eyes as his father breathed his last.

  …

  Forty-four, no, forty-five, that’s how many lashes he had received.

  Jaleel knew what was happening, he didn’t directly see, but the screams and the roar of steel cutting flesh made it obvious. He was tied to a post in a officer’s tent, but close enough so he could still hear everything, when he heard his brother’s voice, he knew what had seen.

  Father had perished.

  Each lash after that felt numb, Jaleel refused to even cry out in pain, the officer hastened his lashings, yet Jaleel did not cry, not outwardly anyway.

  After the massacre of Ayyadieh, the remaining survivors were grouped into camps. Slavery. Jaleel was wrong, he told Khalid they would survive, that they would live, he didn’t imagine this when he said that.

  They were marched down Ayyadieh, the survivors soulless, as if they’d stared into the abyss. They had actually. He scanned for his brother, he was close, but still far too distant to make a break for it, they’d catch him instantly. Jaleel’s teeth gritted as he realized. Slavery was inevitable.

  …

  Sleep would not come easily to Khalid, not tonight, or the next, maybe every night, he would replay the same scene, the same massacre.

  Separated by columns and Crusader sentinels, the huddled bunch of Acre civilians trembled, they were no more than say a thousand, the rest must have died during the two year long siege, famine or thirst, it didn’t matter.

  Khalid scanned the camp for his brother, he could recognize his face from the front, and the grizzly sight of his lashings from behind. Finally, he saw him, eyes hot like the devil. The sight he saw next…

  Jaleel let out a guttural scream, hair seeming to flare, eyes bloodshot as he dug his fingernails into his own shoulders, drawing blood, it erupted, and continued, the self-mutilation continued and he laughed and screamed simultaneously.

  “How dare you… how dare you ruin our paradise,” he started, quiet as a mouse, “How dare you, how dare you kill those brave men…”

  Khalid trembled, in all the years he had known Jaleel, anger was the last emotion he let rise, it was always either concealed, or not present at all.

  “I WILL KILL EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU DEVILS”

  He continued to draw blood, scraping through his shoulders into his arms, breath hastening.

  “EVERY LAST ONE ON THE PLANET, I WILL LEAVE NONE OF YOU NASARA ALIVE!”

  A small patch of dark liquid emerged in Khalid’s trousers, the Crusader patrol all watched, too stunned to interrupt, he was chained, he couldn’t hurt them, the Crusaders didn’t even understand him, they didn’t understand.

  They had created the Curse of Vengeance.