1188 AD, just before the Siege of Acre commenced.

  It was like any morning. Khalid woke to the fresh scent of Samira’s Tharid*, rich and vibrant, tickling his nose. He couldn’t wait to try it—he’d tried it so many times, and he would again. Grandfather was too busy in his room; no one knew what he was up to, but he never bothered to check on the trio.

  “Good morning, Khalid! Finally decided to wake up? Your brother’s already come back from the fields near Al-Damun and tended to the animals! You’ll never be as skilled at tending as he is at this rate!”

  The young boy rubbed his eyes, still tired. His short, dark brown hair brushed near his ears, framing a slender, regal face and piercing dark eyes. His olive skin shone in the morning light.

  “Samira, where’s Jaleel? He promised we’d go to the city square together. I wanted a Shahada* necklace like Father’s!”

  Samira—Samira Ibn Zuhir—was the oldest of the three. Jaleel, Khalid’s older brother, was strong, kind, and possessed a passionate sense of right and wrong. She had grown close to the Al-Tazeem family, treated as one of them. Perhaps it was she who shaped Jaleel’s moral compass; perhaps it had always been his.

  Downstairs, the door fluttered open. Khalid knew who it was. Father had been absent for months, ever at the watchtower and city gates. It must be Jaleel. Hastily, Khalid got dressed and ran to meet him. Samira struggled to keep up with his enthusiasm.

  “Brother! How was work!” Khalid beamed, barely reaching Jaleel’s torso. Jaleel, four years his senior, crouched slightly to meet him.

  “Khalid, did you sleep in again? Samira works so hard for us, and you just sleep! How many summers have you seen, ten?”

  Despite his scolding, Jaleel returned his brother’s hug. He set him aside and faced Samira.

  “I’ve returned, my beloved.”

  Samira blushed and flicked his forehead. “Drop the serious tone! We aren’t engaged yet! Your father exercises caution rightly. With the world as it is, who knows what could happen in a year!”

  Jaleel smiled and locked Khalid and Samira in an embrace. “It’ll be fine. As long as we stick together, I’ll protect you—and Father will have our backs.”

  Khalid, breathless, said, “Brother—you promised we’d go to the markets today!” He dashed around the room, tracing the crescent moon and star with his fingers. “I want to show my faith to the world proudly! Like my namesake!”

  His namesake—the legendary Khalid Ibn Al-Walid, the Sword of Allah*, undefeated in a hundred battles. Khalid Ibn Al-Tazeem dreamed of following in those footsteps, showing the world the beauty of Islam. But Father forbade it; whenever Khalid picked up a sword, his father’s anger fell upon him. Khalid didn’t understand fully, but one thing was clear: no son of his would walk the path of war.

  Jaleel sighed. “You’re still in your nightwear. Get dressed, and we’ll look around town, okay?”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Khalid’s hair danced as he spun with a beaming smile. “Thank you, Brother!”

  …

  Acre’s city markets were packed. Without Jaleel, Khalid would have been lost in the crowd.

  Muslims trickled through the streets, windows flung open, filling the place with lively sights and sounds. Khalid clutched his brother for dear life, while Samira led the way. She knew this area best; her parents ran a bakery here.

  They almost missed it. Khalid’s eyes caught a jewelry bazaar displaying Shahada necklaces.

  “Brother, look! The Shahada necklace! Can I please have it? I’ll do anything!”

  Jaleel shook his head. “I don’t have the money right now—last winter was tough, and Father isn’t here to help.” He looked at the sky, then at Khalid. “Allah knows your heart. Let’s go, Khalid.”

  Samira stayed in the background, watching. She always loved seeing the brothers interact—Khalid’s persistence, Jaleel’s patience. As they walked off, she whispered to the shopkeeper, “Prepare it for me. Wrap it too.”

  It had been years since she met the Al-Tazeem family in Al-Damun, living under the constant threat of Nasara* attacks. Jaleel’s father had been respected, managing livestock and village supplies even amid turmoil. Then Saladin returned to Acre after Hattin. Samira was fourteen, and while her mother wept in joy, she felt something else—victory was never without cost.

  She bought the Shahada, cloaked it in her clothes. Thirteen dirhams—a fair price. The brothers, long gone, likely forgot she followed. She chuckled. They were predictable, hearts sweet and pure. Sweet Khalid, without a care in the world.

  And Jaleel—his pride, spirit, and unrelenting hunger for justice—was the pride of her life; he was her lion. She looked skyward and shook herself from her thoughts. “Time to surprise little Khalid.”

  …

  Khalid was in a foul mood. He had waited weeks to go to the city square, prayed earnestly, never missing Salah* or dua*. All for naught.

  His brother stood at the edge of the port bridge, gazing at the sea. Khalid’s glare could pierce stone.

  Before Jaleel could speak, Samira appeared behind them, arms folded, leaning forward with a grin.

  “Khalidddd!” she called. “Close your eyes—you won’t believe what the Malak* dropped in my hands!”

  Khalid obeyed, peeking slightly to see her face. When he opened fully, a beautiful silver Shahada necklace shone under the sunset’s glow.

  “Samira, I…” He struggled to hold back tears. “Thank you!” He lunged into a hug. Jaleel raised an eyebrow but joined anyway. Khalid wanted this moment all to himself.

  …

  Jaleel spent hours trying to cheer Khalid near the sea. He patted his head, told stories of Father, and recited Khalid Ibn Al-Walid’s legends. None worked.

  But Samira—she fixed him instantly. Her presence soothed them both; Jaleel could relax, as if the weight of impending war lifted. He truly loved her. Not just for her beauty—she was intelligent, commanding. Sometimes, foolishly, he thought she carried the spirit of Mother Aisha* herself.

  She broke the moment, raising her hand to the sky, basking in the Levantine sun.

  “The Nasara*,” she whispered, soft as a shuffle, “this land is beautiful. Trees grow, we bathe in the sun daily, by the shore, watching Allah’s creations.”

  Lowering her hand, palm still open: “This is the paradise our people deserve, but it isn’t big enough for both of us.” She turned to the boys. “Nasara and Muslims cannot live peacefully amongst ourselves…”

  Khalid interrupted, bright-eyed. “But that’s okay! If we try hard and share the Qur’an, they’ll understand Allah’s glory! I just know it!”

  Samira patted his head, now firm. It hurt, but Khalid didn’t pull away. “I hope that happens. No one deserves to be forsaken—they must turn to Allah before they are judged…”

  Her stare sharpened. “Alas, the system is broken. This land isn’t big enough for both of us. The Nasara only understand two things, the sword... or the knee.”

  Jaleel’s thoughts churned. A world without a place at Acre for them was impossible. He would protect Samira, Khalid. The Nasara would not have their way.

  Samira let go of Khalid and flicked his head, smiling faintly. “Innocence is a rarity in the Holy Land.”

  She added quietly, “I hope it does not come to war. But… I fear that true peace may only come when those who worship the cross no longer stand in our way.”

  Jaleel wrapped his arms around her. It wouldn’t come to that. Couldn’t. Allah would protect them. He embraced her tighter; he wished she would call him that name again; he loved it every time she said it.

  "Her Lion"