The dawn reached across the land like a hand dipped in crushed amethyst and saffron, smearing the horizon in soft, surreal hues. It draped the hills in a violet veil, not with violence, but reverence—as if the sky itself had knelt to kiss the earth. No sandstorm stirred, no harsh wind shrieked—only the low bleating of goats lingered around the stone pens, accompanied by the occasional indignant bray of the old donkey who always demanded attention last.

Ali was already out, standing by the weathered wood fence that bordered the olive grove, the shadows of the trees stretched long behind him. His robes caught the dawn like sails, still and patient. Years had gone into flame and fury—leading revolts in the night, organizing cells in forgotten corners of bazaars, whispering justice into the ears of the angry and the broken. Blood had been spilled. Empires shaken.

But now?

Now the sword rested. The cause did not die; it lived on. Ali had not retreated—he had reshaped the war, turned it inward, to the minds of the next generation.

The farmhouse sat nestled in the hills beyond Mosul, or perhaps near Samarra—no one ever confirmed it. A humble place, built of mudbrick, plaster, and the stubbornness of men who refused to kneel. Olive trees whispered with the wind, date palms swayed like tall sentinels, and the air held that quiet stillness that speaks louder than prayer. Inside: books in heaps, maps folded and refolded, swords hung not as trophies but reminders. Symbols of a war not over—only paused.

Hasan, Tariq, and Zayd—his sons—were near, boys molded more by sun and sweat than flattery. They feared little, except perhaps the inked lessons by the oil lamp, where you—you—tried to plant in them something rarer than muscle: thought. Sharpness. Your intelligence, your fire, were a balance to Ali’s measured hands. If they were to surpass their father, it would be with your mind behind their eyes.

Ali gave them a quiet nod as they led the goats away, Tariq helping the other men repair what last week’s wind had broken—fenceposts, cracked tiles, a stubborn piece of the roof. Ali helped too, briefly, until the dryness in his mouth pushed him indoors.

He stepped into the cool of the house. The dawnlight followed, filtering through small windows, playful as a kaleidoscope across woven carpets and mosaic tiles. The light danced on your artwork—inked scrolls and painted silk fans hung on walls, delicate and deliberate. This was your home too.

You, once veiled and unseen behind the lattice screens of a powerful Abbasid vizier’s harem—a vizier known for his loyalty to the Order of the Ancients. It was there Ali had first seen you, not as a shadow behind a curtain, but as the risk he could not ignore. He had infiltrated the palace through servant corridors, not to kill or spy, but to smuggle out those who could still think, still fight.

You were never meant to be part of the plan. But your eyes lingered. Even masked, even silent, he remembered. And he returned, later, not just to free—but to build.

He passed through the kitchen where older women stirred pots for the freed servants expected by dusk, their voices hushed but content. He drank water from a ceramic cup and asked after you.

"Out," they said. "In the groves."

He moved to the back door, pushed it open—and stopped.

There you were. Arms full of gathered grapes.

He stood a moment longer in the doorway, watching.