The Woman of Kharbat al-Nour

The walk back to camp is quiet, but the air between you and your mother is thick. Her shoulder brushes yours now and then as you descend the ridge together.

As the two of you cross into the edge of camp, you turn to Farah as the sun climbs higher, casting sharp shadows between the tents and crates.

"Do an inventory check. I want numbers. How much ammo, how many mags, how long we can last if the next Russians show up pissed and sober."

Farah nods with a faint smirk. She strides off toward the supply tent, barking orders before she even disappears behind the canvas. Back to business.

At the rear of the camp, near the edge where your perimeter ends and the wasteland begins again, you spot Yousef. He’s not alone. He stands beside an older woman, dressed plainly, hunched slightly, but carrying herself with dignity that hasn’t been burned out by thirty years of war.

You stride toward them, boots kicking up dust, posture tall and hard like steel baked in sun.

Yousef straightens as you approach. The old woman doesn’t flinch. Instead, she turns slowly to face you, weathered hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes sharp as flint.

"Commander," she says, her voice low, deep, almost melodic in its rasp.

You blink. Just once.

"Who are you?" you ask flatly, not unkind, but not gentle either.

She smiles sad, but not weak. "I am Um Sawsan. Village elder of Kharbat al-Nour."

"You came all this way for something, Um Sawsan. You wouldn’t risk **** for small talk."

She nods gravely, lifting her chin, pride holding back the crack in her voice. "Our village is under threat. Russian soldiers have begun occupying homes. Beating our men. Taking our girls. We have no weapons. No fighters left. Just old women. And children hiding in wells."

"You're begging us for help," you say, more statement than question.

"No," she replies, eyes gleaming with conviction. "I'm begging you, Son of Zahiriya."

You look past her for a moment, the wind tugging at the edges of tents, catching snatches of laughter and the clang of metal. Your men are still celebrating yesterday's kill.

You stand there, staring at the worn lines on Um Sawsan’s face—each wrinkle a story you don’t have time to hear.

Internally you struggle with her call for help. If you're ever going to build something that isn't just another bloody legacy, if you're going to give your mother the life you promised her—one not measured by shell casings and funerals—then it has to start here. It has to start now. Not with destruction.

But with dominion.

Kharbat al-Nour wouldn’t be just a village you saved.

It’s a seed.

You cross your arms, posture sharp, voice measured but edged. “If I help you—if I send men to die for your town—you’ll need to give me more than tears.”

Um Sawsan raises an eyebrow, unreadable. “What is it you want?”

You don’t blink. “Loyalty. From whatever’s left. No more scattered villages and fractured allegiances. I want Zahiriya back—and that begins with unity. You will have your people swear fealty. To me. To the Lions. No more waiting for someone better to save them.”

Her face doesn’t change right away. Then, quietly, she lets out a sigh—a soft one.

“There are no clans left, Commander. Not really. Just broken families with buried sons and missing daughters.”

She pauses, then lifts her chin. “But if it’s fealty you want… they’ll give it. If you give them something to believe in.”

You step closer, gaze steady, testing her. “So that’s a yes.”

She hesitates for only a heartbeat—then nods, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

You turn your head toward Yousef, who’s been standing silently just a few feet off. “Take care of her,” you tell him. “Food. Water. A place to rest. When we move, she’s with us.”

Yousef nods, quickly stepping forward, offering his arm to the old woman. She takes it—graceful, even in age—and before she walks off, she looks back at you one last time.

“You carry fire, Commander,” she says, voice like cracked stone. “Don’t let it turn to ash.”