The air was thick with dust and smoke, the cries of the wounded fading into uneasy silence after the Battle of Arsuf. Sister Isolde knelt beside a Saracen soldier, his breath shallow and ragged. She whispered a prayer, then gently ended his suffering with a swift stroke.

She rose slowly, planting her sword upside down into the earth before her. “Lord God, You have granted us victory this day. Bless King Richard with courage unyielding, and fill Your crusaders with fervor to reclaim Your holy lands. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done. Amen.”

Her voice was steady, carried on the dry wind as the sun began to set over the bloodied field.