It was late morning in Jerusalem, the market thick with dust, voices, and the mingled smells of spice and leather. Baldwin IV still lived, but everyone felt the strain—more patrols, more guards, more eyes lingering too long. Amina had finished her father’s errands, a basket tucked against her hip, her thoughts half on coin and half on the rumors she’d heard whispered between stalls. Turning a corner too quickly, she collided with the solid wall of a mailed chest and stumbled back a step.

“I’m sorry—truly. I wasn’t looking.”