The

The sun has bled out beyond the horizon, leaving behind a sky bruised purple and orange.

Your camp is no longer just your camp.

It’s alive—full. Buzzing. Tents and tarps have multiplied, fires lit, food shared, weapons passed hand to hand. And faces—so many faces. Some are hard, some soft, all lined with the same exhaustion. The people of Kharbat al-Nour have arrived.

You walk through them now, weaving between former farmers cradling rifles like they're newborns, old women sharpening knives meant for bread, not bone. Boys pretending not to shake. Girls too young to be carrying sidearms—but carrying them all the same.

Your Lions move among them, no longer soldiers or war dogs, but teachers. Brothers. Builders. The camp feels different tonight. Less like a hideout and more like a birthplace.

You find your mother briefly, just long enough to give her a look, a nod. She’s already in place, moving through the shadows toward the village perimeter. Her orders were simple: eyes on the Russian general. If he moves, she’ll know.

Norah stays off to the side, hands folded behind her back, watching everything with that cool, practiced gaze. Observing. Measuring.

You climb the same rusted truck bed you stood on earlier, boots thudding against the metal. The sound echoes. Heads turn. Conversations hush. Within moments, a crowd forms.

You raise your hand. Wait.

“You see this?” you call out, sweeping your arm over the fire-lit crowd. “This is what they were afraid of.”

Eyes turn toward you. Faces locked in attention.

“They said Zahiriya would never stand again. That our spirit died in trenches and rubble and betrayal. That we’d rather fight each other than fight them.”

You let the silence build, burning into their chests.

“But look around you. Look at this camp. Look at what we are—not warlords. Not factions. One people. One voice. And tonight, that voice says: No more.”

A murmur. Then a growl. Then something louder—a rising fire in their throats.

You lean into it.

“They came into our homes, took our land, pissed on our gods, and expected us to beg for crumbs. But tonight we don’t beg. We take back what was stolen. Not for pride. Not for politics. But because it’s ours.”

Fists go up. Shouts start to echo.

“Tonight, we remind the Russians that Zahiriya isn’t for sale. That its people are not slaves. That its soil remembers the blood of those who tried before—and this time, we finish the fucking story.”

The crowd erupts—shouting, roaring, clapping, banging rifle stocks against the earth. The kind of sound that shakes the bones of tyrants in their sleep.

You raise your fist, yelling with them, voice raw, face lit by firelight.

“TO ZAHIRIYA! TO FREEDOM!”

The battle doesn’t begin with a horn or a rally cry. It begins with a scream.

A Zahiri boy, maybe sixteen, barely grown into his bones, opens fire too early—panic or eagerness, you’ll never know. His bullets stitch into the dirt near a Russian checkpoint on the eastern road, and just like that—

All hell breaks loose.

You're in the square within moments, boots slamming over broken cobblestone, bullets whizzing past like furious insects. The ruined church-turned-command post is spewing muzzle flashes from shattered windows. The fountain in the square explodes as a rocket slams into its dry basin, turning ancient stone into shrapnel.

You duck behind an overturned cart, dragging a wounded fighter—a villager—with you. His leg’s gone below the knee. Blood spurts rhythmically. You stuff a rag into the stump and leave him screaming.

The Lions are everywhere, and nowhere. No comms. No radios. Just shouts in the dark, hand signals half-seen, bullets flying too fast for strategy. You shout over the chaos.

“FLANK WEST! GET AROUND THE BACK OF THE MOSQUE!”

No answer. You can only hope someone heard you.

A woman with a hijab and an old bolt-action rifle fires at a Russian soldier trying to flee through an alley. She misses. He doesn’t. She drops to her knees, her hands still on the trigger. Her son—eight, maybe nine—runs to her and is gunned down before he can even scream her name.

You throw a grenade through a window of the church. It cooks off with a muffled boom, and you’re already sprinting through the smoke when something knocks the wind out of you. A blast. Or a body. You don’t know. You hit the ground, ears ringing, taste of iron in your mouth. You’re up again before you’ve even registered the pain.

Your mom's voice crackles over the open air—she must’ve hijacked a Russian comm.

“General’s on the move! He’s heading for the armoured vehicle in the square!”

Your pulse spikes.

BOOM.

An explosion throws up a cloud of dust and screams. When it clears, the mosque’s façade is gone. So are three of your men.

You find yourself dragging bodies again—some of them your own, some Russians, all of them mangled into unrecognizable meat.

You catch Yousef shouting at a group of villagers to hold a flank, his face slick with blood—not his.

You take one step. Then another. You’re not leading with tactics. You’re leading with rage. With purpose. With hate.

A Russian soldier tries to run. You catch him. Your knife is quicker than your trigger finger. He drops without a sound. You don’t even stop moving.

You see your mother on the rooftop across the square, sniper rifle held low now—she’s moved to her sidearm, descending fast. She’s hunting the general. You just need to keep him boxed in.

But you’re bleeding. You notice it now. Somewhere near your ribs. Not deep. Just annoying. You tear a piece of shirt off and press it in, your jaw clenched tight.

Another explosion. Another scream.

The tank looms in the square like a mechanical god—its barrel still smoking, its tracks churning slowly over Zahiri stone as if the blood it spilled moments ago wasn’t enough. Your men are scattered, ducking fire, wounded, dead. The mosque burns behind it, sacred and shattered.

Your vision narrows. Everything else becomes background noise—the screams, the shots, the crumbling architecture.

You move with the anger of a thousand dead Zahiri sons and daughters.

You sprint across the square, ducking under gunfire, vaulting over rubble. A Russian gunner turns too slow, and your bullet finds his throat mid-shout. He drops from the turret, limp. You reach the side of the tank and slam your boot against the track, climbing like a man possessed.

Steel burns your palms as you grab the edge of the hatch. A second soldier rises from the top, sidearm drawn, eyes wide. You don’t give him a chance. You drive your combat knife straight into his neck, wrenching it sideways. Arterial spray mists across your face.

You shove the corpse back into the hatch and drop in behind it.

The crew below shouts—too late.

You’re inside.

It’s dark, tight, loud. You drive your boot into the driver’s head, feel bone crack under impact. Another Russian lunges with a sidearm. You’re faster. You slam your elbow into his temple, then put two rounds through his chest at point-blank.

Silence.

Just the hum of the engine. Just your own breath, ragged and wild.

You pull yourself back up, through the hatch, covered in blood. You swing the turret toward the remaining Russian holdout across the square, fire a single round.

The building collapses.

Cheers erupt from nearby fighters. Your men—what’s left of them—see you standing in the tank like a war-god reborn.

You lift your rifle overhead and roar.