He had seen the same ritual countless times. Ava crouched beside Grainne, checking the cinch with hands that never trembled. Each movement was precise, deliberate, a language of muscle and leather. She swung herself into the saddle, heels sliding into the stirrups, reins settling in her grip.

  Thomas watched the subtle tightening of her shoulders, the way she tested the mare’s response with a nudge of her knee.

  Grainne shifted beneath her, coiled and ready, muscles tensing at the familiar command. Even from this distance, Thomas felt the focus radiating from her. She was not just mounting a horse. She was preparing for war.

  As she settled onto Grainne’s back, Thomas felt it before he could name it. Her gaze clung to the blade, drawn but still, the dull gleam catching the pale morning light. Ava let out a sharp, quick sigh. Grainne neighed softly, mane frozen mid-sway. Something was off. Very off.

  He fumbled with his gear as he mounted his own steed. With shaky hands, he checked his armor straps, secured his sword at his waist, and slung his new crossbow over his shoulder. He had practiced along the road, but today he might use it for the first time.

  Its first kill would be his countrymen.

  The pair rode slowly through Iss, under the cover of darkness, trying to mask the sound of their stamping hooves on the slick cobblestones. The architecture that had once enthralled Thomas now loomed over him like an omen of despair.

  He glanced skywards, as he always did when uncertain, when doubt clawed at him, when he wondered what Isabeau would think. The balls of Greek fire, the stars that scattered across the night, were gone.

  Only a single pale ray of moonlight cut through the darkness, casting everything beneath it in shadow.

  The pair rode slowly, so as not to awaken the town guards or any civilians. Thomas knew they could not be spotted, no matter what.

  As they approached the coast and the deathly stench of blood and decay, marking the location of the slave pens, Ava beckoned him with a gesture. She dismounted Grainne and crouched behind a civilian’s house, observing the slave pens from a distance.

  “Thomas,” She began, “We’ll park our warhorses near the pens, rescue everyone you can, then we bolt for the horses and make a beeline north to Tyre, the town guard can’t pursue us through the city gates.”

  He nodded as he listened to her outline, recognizing that she'd planned their route carefully. Their task was to enter and exit quickly, reaching Tyre by daybreak. Ideally, no one would be hurt, but Thomas noticed the hard look in her eyes—hate, pure hate.

  The pens were roughly 20 meters from them, far enough that the cover of darkness hid them.

  “You will back me up,” Her voice stern as she continued, “I hope your skills with the crossbow are sufficient. I will need backup; if you fail… if you freeze like at Ayyadieh, we both die. I don’t have the strength to rescue them myself.”

  She pointed to another set of patrols, a squad of four lightly armored knights, typical of coastal guards, with good equipment, but not the elite troops, not like Richard’s army. Among the four, one had extra armor and was wielding a spear instead of a longsword, with better-maintained equipment.

  The stationary guards followed a similar pattern, with one heavily armored spearman accompanied by a lightly armored swordsman.

  “Spearmen are especially deadly,” Ava broke her silence, “You remember the Ayyubid general at Ayyadieh? I barely won, and my expertise lies in killing Ayyubid soldiers,” her voice softened for a moment as her gaze dipped, “You take out the spearmen with your crossbow. Aim for the eyes. If you cannot, the legs or the groin. From there, I can win.”

  They watched the patrols drifting between the slave pens, shadows moving through torchlight. Ava’s fingers lifted, counting silently. Once. Then again.

  Thomas followed her gaze and counted too. Four in that group. Another four crossing behind them. The two at the gate. The ones posted at the far end of the pens.

  Too many.

  “Eighteen,” Ava said quietly. Certain.

  Thomas swallowed. He kept his eyes on the guards, not on her. He had counted twenty-four. He knew he had. But Ava was already committing the numbers to her plan, already turning them into distances and angles and openings.

  His grip tightened on the crossbow.

  She was the more experienced, and Thomas knew better than to question her, yet the small knot in his chest tightened anyway.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Thomas raised the weapon and sighted along the stock. It was time. Now or never. He could not miss.

  …

  They sat in the dead of night, stalking, waiting for the right time, when the guards' posture would droop under the lull of weariness, when another would go to relieve himself, when their guard was gone, they would strike.

  Eighteen.

  Eighteen Christian lives may perish today, and by her hand, the so-called hero of Fiana. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

  After the third lap of the patrol, Ava noticed her opportunity; they would have about 5 minutes before the patrol following them would be coming back, if they followed the pattern she’d deduced. The wind roared as their cloaks fluttered on their backs; they had worn them inside out to hide their allegiance to the Order of the Silver Sword, if they were caught killing their countrymen…

  There was no telling what horrors Louis would invite upon them.

  When the four knights passed the far edge of the pens, Ava drew in a shallow breath and raised her backhand. The leather of her gauntlet creaked softly. Thomas exhaled, a whispered prayer on his lips, then let his bolt fly. The missile soared silently, finding its mark with swift precision.

  …

  Thomas winced as the bolt lodged itself directly into the knight’s pelvic region; the man groaned in agony. Ava did not pause. All Thomas saw was a flash of blue before she closed the distance, her sword a blur as it severed the armored foe’s head.

  Even as she fought, Thomas noticed the tension in her jaw, a sharp flare of fury reserved only for these oppressors. She parried a swordsman’s strike and slammed him with the pommel of her longsword, sending him sprawling. She pressed down atop him, etching steel across his chest, painting her surroundings with a sea of red.

  Her face contorted, a silent roar of rage tearing from her throat as her free hand clawed at her own face. Then, almost imperceptibly, Thomas heard it again—a

  muttered word, cold and precise.

  “Two.”

  Thomas composed himself and jogged to meet the Deputy. She rummaged through the dead men’s belongings, and when he gave her an inquisitive look, she gestured toward the pen’s lock.

  “There’s a lock. We were na?ve. We didn’t plan for one. If these soldiers weren’t carrying a key…” Her face tightened, eyes glistening. “Then we’ll have to find an alternative. Come search with me.”

  They darted between the bodies, tossing aside swords and armor, flipping cloaks and pouches. Every shadow could hide a key, every pocket a potential trap. Heart hammering, Thomas crouched, yanking at a dead knight’s belt, rattling coins and a dagger clattering to the stones. Ava’s hands moved faster, twisting leather, slamming palms against armor, muttering curses under her breath.

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  Nothing.

  Time bled away, the frantic search consuming them, until the patrol caught up. They blew their whistles. Pandemonium erupted. Thomas hadn’t reloaded the crossbow. The pair drew steel.

  …

  Chaos broke loose.

  Ava and Thomas fought side by side.

  Thomas parried again. Each strike stole his breath. They were trained. Skilled. Experienced. But he couldn’t lose. He wouldn’t.

  He stole a fleeting glance sideways. Blood splashed near his boots. Ava was a vortex of steel and crimson. He didn’t look again.

  They’d each taken two opponents. Ava faced the spearman. Her opponents more resembled victims. limbs mangled and bloodied in countless places, pressed against her.

  He noticed her swings weren’t as sharp as usual; she hesitated just enough that she could have ended them. A split second longer. Enough for the spearman to push her back, enough for him to press the advantage.

  Thomas gritted his teeth. A guttural war cry tore from his throat. He drove his longsword forward with all his strength. The swordsman crumpled.

  An ally charged. Blade bit into Thomas’ bicep. Pain flared. Blood ran. He didn’t falter. He pushed through. One swing. One motion. The man’s head fell. Clutching his arm, he glanced to see Ava.

  She stood in the Ox guard* stance, panting slightly, yet poised. One swordsman lay face down, blood gushing. The spearman panted, straining to keep up. Ava parried his straight thrust, pivoted outward with her right foot, and landed a critical blow to his skull. He crumpled, blood and bits of brain oozing outward.

  The first patrol group lay defeated with the stationary guard. Six bodies. Six Christians.

  “Thomas…” She panted under tense breath, “Load up another bolt, and fire it directly into the keyhole.”

  …

  She felt the blood trickle down her cheeks.

  Ava watched Thomas’ hand tremble, fingers slick with red, his right arm mangled, nerves rattling the crossbow at every minor provocation.

  “Thomas,” Ava said, voice sharp.

  He didn’t reply. Legs shaking, he fumbled with the reload mechanism, over and over, hands too unsteady for the dexterous task. Ava’s jaw tightened as she observed his repeated failures.

  “Thomas,” Ava repeated again.

  There was no reply other than the chattering of his teeth, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

  “Thomas! Compose yourself!”

  He froze and slowly turned to face her, his eyes full of fear.

  “Deputy… I can’t do it, I can’t reload the crossbow…”

  She closed the distance between them, placing her hands firmly on his shoulders. Her voice was low, steady, yet edged with command.

  “Thomas… I need you to focus. I can’t reload the crossbow; only you can. If you fail, we both die.”

  Ava paused and then added, “Unless you want to abandon these people and run.”

  With that, Thomas swallowed and forced his shaking hands to obey.

  The crossbow was not a simple bow. He hooked his boot into the iron stirrup at its nose and planted it against the stone, then reached down and seized the winding lever.

  Each pull of the handle dragged the thick bowstring back with a grinding click, the teeth of the ratchet biting deeper as the cord crept toward the catch. His wounded arm screamed as he cranked, but he did not stop. If the string slipped, it would tear his fingers open.

  At last, it locked with a harsh snap. He fumbled a bolt from his belt, laid the shaft into the groove, and nudged the iron head into line with the sights. One breath. One steadying moment. The weapon was ready. The bolt lodged its way into the lock.

  …

  Khalid thought he had died a long time ago.

  The world came to him in fragments now. Salt in the air. The slow crash of waves against stone. In his half-dreams, he saw his brother, Jaleel, and Samira running along the shoreline, laughing, chasing the tide. Free. Those days of freedom, of his family , of their dreams of freedom.

  The pens were rotten. The ground beneath him was damp and cold. Iron had gnawed his wrists raw, dried blood flaking from his skin and streaking his face. His eyes, once bright, had gone dark in the long confinement. Cramped in confined spaces like livestock, there were at least twenty Muslims with him.

  As sleep pulled at him again, a sound reached his ears.

  Steel. A distant clash. Grunts. Shouts. It was like Ayyadieh.

  Khalid barely stirred. Perhaps some slaves had tried to run. Perhaps they were being punished. It was none of his concern. Hope was a thing he had buried long ago.

  The noise grew closer.

  He turned to Arifa, he had recently learned that was the name of the scraping voice underground dungeon, Ari for short. She was a shell of a human, malnourished beyond belief, skeletal frame showing, cheeks hollowed, and her heart was visibly beating. She looked about his age.

  Through the bars of his pen, he saw movement. Two figures, half-lost in the fading light. Armor glinted. Blue cloth shifted as they moved, slow and deliberate.

  Guards. Or executioners.

  Khalid’s chest tightened, then went numb. It was too late in the day for ships to leave. Too late for mercy. If they were here, it was because someone had decided he was no longer worth keeping.

  He lowered his gaze, already surrendering.

  He had resigned himself to being an animal a long time ago.

  When the door finally creaked open, Khalid was stunned by what stood before him. He did not let himself hope. Hope was a thing made only to be crushed.

  Two crusaders stood in the opening. Now he could see their armor clearly, marked with the symbols of the Nasara army. One was a man, the other a woman. The man had brown hair and held a crossbow in both hands, his right arm bloodied and swollen.

  The woman held a shamshir, or something close enough to one that Khalid had no other name for it. The blade was wrong, too straight, too long, its tip cruelly narrow. Her ash blond hair was streaked dark with blood.

  They spoke that same language his oppressors spoke, the language of the Nasara.

  He understood only fragments.

  “Thomas…”

  “Entrance…”

  “Guard…”

  The woman extended a hand toward the pen, speaking again in the Nasara tongue. Most of the captives were too weak to understand, or too far gone to care. The words slid past them like dust.

  Then her hand stopped in front of Khalid. More words followed, but only one cut through.

  “Up.”

  His body reacted before his mind could. Khalid jerked back with a strangled cry, chains rattling as he thrashed against the bars, kicking blindly. His heart slammed against his ribs.

  Up.

  That word had never meant mercy.

  He braced for it. The lash. The fire of pain that always followed.

  It never came.

  Instead, her hand reached through the bars and settled gently against his head.

  Slow. Careful. A soft, steady rhythm.

  The same way Samira used to.

  …

  True enslavement was in the mind.

  The blonde woman cut through rope and chain with frightening speed. Shackles fell. Iron clattered against stone. Freedom lay open in front of them.

  She kept speaking in the Nasara tongue, her hand held out, palm up, waiting.

  No one moved.

  They had learned what hope cost. They had learned that reaching out only meant being dragged back down. Better to stay still. Better to survive.

  All of them stayed where they were.

  All except Ari.

  She staggered forward, one bare foot scraping against the floor, body swaying as if the world itself might knock her over. She turned to Khalid, her voice ruined, words breaking apart before they could form.

  “We… after Ayyadieh…”

  Blood and spit slipped from her lips as she tried again.

  “Live.”

  She mirrored the blonde knight and extended her hand.

  Khalid seized it with both hands.

  …

  “Thomas! We’re leaving now! We’ve spent too much time! Run and ready the horses!”

  Ava heard the screams of approaching knights; they were beginning to swarm to their location. The time it had taken to convince the slaves to come was worse than she expected, much worse.

  She had failed; only two of them trusted her. What horrors could they have endured to deny their own liberation?

  Ava held the hand of a young boy, no more than thirteen, and a little girl, malnourished beyond recognition, both of them wore rags that stank of death and decay, and their eyes seemed to be as soulless as Hell.

  Ava, Thomas, and the two children bolted away from the coast towards their warhorses, Grainne and Thomas’ horse, with the guards in hot pursuit. Thomas placed the young girl on his horse, whilst the young boy rode with Ava. As she mounted the boy up, she could feel his fear. The trembling his back muscles made at every touch, the lingering blood on his spine…

  “Kyah!” they shouted in unison.

  …

  Khalid thought it was another one of his dreams.

  He clung to the back of the blonde woman as they raced across the coast he had once longed to cross. Arrows and javelins whistled overhead. Beside him, Ari shivered, her tiny body trembling in the cold night air.

  Khalid risked a glance back. The remaining guards were gaining. Of course they were. Any taste of freedom had always been fleeting. From the pens in Iss to the walls of Acre, Khalid had never known true freedom. And even now, with the Nasara pressing close, he could not believe he ever would.

  His eyes flicked down—and froze. The symbol of the Shaytan hung from her belt, wrapped in brown leather. Instinct screamed at him. Without thinking, without malice, he swatted at it. It tumbled to the sand, disappearing into the dunes.

  …

  Ava’s bible hit the sand with a dull, final thud.

  “No!” she cried, already hauling on Grainne’s reins.

  “Deputy!” Thomas shouted, twisting in his saddle. “We have no time! Leave it! If you turn back, you’ll be killed!”

  Hooves thundered behind them, a rolling drumbeat of pursuit. The book lay in the open, half-buried in the sand, its leather dark with sweat and salt. She had carried it from Bayeux, through blood and fire, through every mile that had tried to break her. It was more than paper and ink. It was all that was left of who she had been.

  So close. So small. So impossibly far.

  Ava’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked from the book to Thomas, then to the children clinging to the saddles.

  “Go,” she snapped. “Ride. I’m right behind you.”

  Grainne surged forward, but that single heartbeat of hesitation was enough. Their pursuers closed the gap, armor flashing in the first light of dawn, lances dipping like the beaks of hunting birds.

  Ava twisted in the saddle and drew her longsword.

  …

  Thomas finally saw the pale gates of Tyre on the horizon, washed in the gray gold of morning.

  The little girl slumped against him, asleep from sheer exhaustion. He looked back once.

  Then again.

  Ava was missing.

  Cold dread crept into his chest. He was already turning his horse when a lone rider burst from the dunes.

  Grainne.

  Foam-flecked and heaving, but still running.

  Ava rode low in the saddle, her sword arm dark with blood, her face smeared with sweat and grit. The boy clung to her, wide-eyed, alive.

  Thomas’s breath caught. Heat stung behind his eyes.

  She had made it.

  “Deputy!” He rode to meet her. “You’re back. Did you retrieve your Bible?”

  Ava didn’t answer at first. Her shoulders sagged, just a fraction.

  “Thomas…” She shook her head.

  The wordless gesture said everything.

  The day was lost.

  After a moment, she straightened. “Come. Let’s go to the Cathedral. Maybe they’ll help us there.”

  She nudged Grainne forward again, already riding, already carrying the weight of what she had left behind.