Aunt Norah

You walk through the hollowed-out remains of your camp, boots pressing soft prints into the dirt. It’s quieter now. The pulse of it slower. Most of your Lions are out in the field, enacting the first step of your plan.

What’s left behind are the skeletal remains, supply runners, sentries, a medic cleaning dried blood off a bandage from a wound that’s already turned to scar.

You nod to a few as you pass.

In the distance you see two figures cresting the ridge.

One is unmistakable.

Even in the wind, even in the heat haze, you’d know the cut of her shoulders, the way she moves. Farah. Your mother.

But beside her is something strange. Jarring.

The second figure walks like a soldier, but with posture trained in NATO, not Zahiriya. The uniform—German. The stance—relaxed, but ready. And the face...

The resemblance punches you in the chest before your brain catches up.

Same cheekbones. Same scowl when the sun hits the eyes. Same fire in the walk, even if it’s tempered with foreign steel.

Your mother slows as they near the camp’s edge, raising a hand in casual greeting.

The other woman’s gaze locks on yours.

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

Your mom stops a few paces from you, eyes flicking between you and the stranger beside her.

“This,” she finally says, motioning to the woman in the Bundeswehr uniform, “is Norah. Your father's sister.”

Your mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.

“She’s your aunt,” your mother adds, almost too casually.

You stare.

Norah steps forward, removing her cap, letting windswept, dark hair fall loose around her neck.

You blink again. “Dad never mentioned you.”

Norah’s expression doesn’t crack—but something shifts behind her eyes. Something faint. Hurt.

“Not surprised,” she says, voice clipped but not cold. “I left Zahiriya when I was sixteen. Your father hated that. Thought I was abandoning the struggle.”

“And were you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Your mom shoots you a small warning look, but Norah doesn’t flinch.

“I was trying to survive,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “Which I’ve done. And now I’m back.”

You shift your stance, folding your arms. “Why now?”

You glance at your mom. “And why’d you bring her here?”

Your mother shakes her head. “I didn’t. She found me while I was scouting the village. Said she wanted to speak to your father.”

Norah looks down for a moment. When she lifts her gaze again, it’s softened. “I didn’t know he was gone.”

A long pause.

“Farah told me,” she says, more gently now, “that you’re in charge.”

You nod slowly. Still processing.

The three of you walk away from camp—past the watchful eyes of your remaining Lions.

You make your way toward the edge of the ridge, where the land drops off just enough to silence a conversation from any eavesdropper.

Norah walks with a soldier’s gait—boots hitting the earth with precision, not swagger. Her hands stay loosely at her sides, never too close to the pistol holstered at her hip, but never too far.

“I’m an operative,” she says plainly. “Sent under Bundesnachrichtendienst orders. But make no mistake—I’m here to stabilize Zahiriya.”

You snort, eyes narrowing. “Stabilize, huh? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. You keep going.

“Why would a bunch of European colonisers suddenly care about our little broken island unless they want a piece of it?”

Norah’s jaw flexes, but her voice stays calm. “We don’t want your land. We don’t want your oil. We don’t want to set up a McDonald’s in every crater. We want an ally. In the region. One we can rely on.”

You stop walking, arms crossing, eyes fixed on her like crosshairs. “No. You want a puppet. One that salutes when the EU whistles and keeps Russian boots off your shoreline.”

Your mom steps forward, voice firm but not raised. “Watch your tone.”

You glance at her briefly. “You’re defending them now?”

“She’s your aunt,” she replies, eyes hard. “And she’s not the enemy.”

Norah raises a hand. “It’s fine. His tone’s not wrong.” She steps closer, looking you in the eye, level and unwavering. “But I’ll be honest with you, John. Germany is going to partner with someone on this island. It can be you. Or it can be someone less interested in liberation.”

You glance at her again, still unsure how much of her to believe.

“I’ll think on it,” you say finally. “I’m not in the habit of dancing for foreign flags. But I’m not an idiot either.”

Norah offers a small nod, expression unreadable. “That’s all I ask.”

You gesture back toward camp. “You’ll have a place to stay. Whatever amenities we can spare—water, food, shelter. We don’t have much, but you’re family.”

Your mother steps forward, resting a hand gently on Norah’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of her.”

You give a nod, watching as they turn and walk back together, their shadows stretching out long behind them.