Marching to Liberate

The sun is a cruel, leering god overhead, pouring fire down onto your neck as you and the Lions of Zahiriya march through the dead heart of your homeland. Dust swirls around your boots with every step, kicked up by worn soles and stubborn men.

Ahead, beyond the broken horizon, waits Kharbat al-Nour—or what’s left of it. A town once full of olive trees, laughter, the smell of bread.

Your mother is long gone ahead, just the way she liked it—alone, lethal, silent in her stalking. No one scouts like she does.

You watch the dust trails left behind by your marching column, and glance back.

Yousef is carrying Um Sawsan her arms around his neck, her voice sharp as ever despite her age. The old woman doesn’t complain, but she doesn't shut up either.

“Don’t let your men get soft, Commander,” she barks, loud enough for all to hear. “They'll be rebuilding with their own hands, not resting on them.”

One of the younger Lions, a scrappy kid named Samir with too many teeth and not enough brain, calls back through his panting breath, “Any pretty girls for me, eh, Ummi? Ghosts count too.”

Laughter ripples through the ranks, tired but real. You smile despite yourself. These bastards never know when to shut up, but they keep moving, and that's what matters.

You step up beside Yousef and the elder, brushing some sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist.

“She’s right,” you say loud enough for all to hear. “There’s no rest yet. Kharbat al-Nour isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a starting line.”

Um Sawsan turns her head toward you, eyes narrowing under the shade of her scarf.

The men go quiet for a second. Just the sound of boots on sand, wind through ruin, the creak of weapons slung over shoulders. Then someone—maybe Hassan—starts to clap. A slow, mocking rhythm at first, then real. Genuine. A beat of agreement.

“We build, we fight, we drink, we rebuild,” another Lion calls out. “Zahiriya’s way!”