HIS POV
Days passed. Weeks too.
The raiders tested us a few times, creeping by night like shadows thinking themselves clever. Fools. Each time, we cut them down, quick and clean, leaving the rest scattered back into the hills with a warning carved in blood and smoke. After that, the village slept easier. And the raiders? They knew better than to come back.
Life settled into rhythm. Patrol. Watch. Train. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
The women of Zoraya became part of that rhythm too. They took turns bringing food to our base—platters of spiced rice, roasted goat, flatbread warm from clay ovens. Some came shy, heads down. Some came bold, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. And the men—Christ, the men—ate like kings and flirted like starved wolves.
But none of them were Amara.
This afternoon, I
