end of lightning
977 Words
After ravaging the villages of Naseem Oasis and the once-thriving Sakhr, Barq’s forces left behind ashes, corpses, and silence. His banner—a serpent coiled in black and crimson—was raised over rooftops like a curse. Where once there had been harvest, now only dust remained. Where children laughed, now only widows wept.
Barq believed the land was his. With his brother Saqr dead and the last resistance scattered, he mistook fear for victory.
Then came the rumor—quiet at first, like a leaf in the wind:
The village of Al-Mada lies defenseless.
Its people have fled. Its gates are open. Its soil ready to be claimed.
Barq grinned when he heard it.
> “Let this village be my next message,” he said,
“Written not in ink... but in blood.”
But Barq, for all his cruelty, was blind to one truth:
That this message—his final one—was already written.
Not in blood…
But in fate.
---
Far away, in the quiet stronghold of Al-Aws, Hazim sat cross-legged before a low-burning fire. Smoke curled around his weathered face as he studied a hand-drawn map of the Dusk Hills. Around him stood scouts, riders, and elders, all awaiting his word.
He traced a finger along the eastern ridge and said quietly,
> “He will enter from here. Always from the east—arrogant, loud, certain of his triumph.”
He looked up, voice firm:
> “Let him come. We ended his brother. Now… we end him.”
---
The Light Division, newly formed and battle-hardened, was already on the move. At its head rode Murad, no longer the hunted boy from the early days of war, but a leader forged by grief, tempered by discipline, and driven by vision.
Hazim remained in Al-Mada, not to flee but to command. His orders had turned the quiet village into a trap of cunning design.
Archers were hidden among the jagged hills.
Cavalry lay silent within the ruins of burnt fields.
Empty homes were rigged with traps—false floors, oil pots, and nail beds.
Even the village gates had been reinforced to close inward, locking invaders in instead of keeping them out.
It was not defense—it was a snare.
---
Before the first call of dawn, Barq’s army descended upon Al-Mada. Dust rose behind them, their torches burning like a line of fire slithering toward the unsuspecting town.
At the eastern gate, they found nothing.
No guards.
No villagers.
No resistance.
A soldier called out, hesitant:
> “It’s... empty? Where are they?”
Barq, mounted atop a black stallion, laughed darkly.
> “Cowards... like their brother Murad.”
They entered. Slowly. Carelessly. Their boots trampled bread left on doorsteps, baskets of grain untouched. Some began to loot.
Then—
A trumpet cry.
It echoed like a scream between the rocks.
The eastern gate slammed shut behind them.
From the hills came the hiss of arrows—hundreds, whistling down like rain.
From the dry fields, cavalry thundered forward.
Panic surged.
Barq rose in his saddle and roared:
> “It’s a trap! Stand your ground!”
But fear was faster than his voice. His men scattered.
Some ran into fires lit inside the homes.
Others were taken down by arrows before they could reach shelter.
Barq fought furiously, slashing left and right. His crimson cloak tore, his blade shimmered—but he was alone. His army had vanished into screams and smoke.
He stumbled into the narrow alleys of the village, once confident—now cornered.
Then—
Murad appeared.
---
He rode not on a warhorse, but on his old, gray steed—slow, steady, deliberate. His sword remained sheathed at his side, his blue pendant glowing faintly against his chest.
Barq shouted, spitting fury:
> “You killed my brother! I’ll cut you down like a weed!”
Murad replied, voice steady as stone:
> “Your brother chose darkness.
You followed him into the abyss.
Now… you answer for it.”
Barq unsheathed his blade and charged.
Steel met steel in the alleyway. Sparks flew.
The sound of their clash echoed off stone walls.
Murad’s stance was sure, his breath measured. He blocked, twisted, countered—not as a soldier, but as a master.
He had trained in the mountains of Al-Aws.
He had bled for this moment.
And he had waited.
Then—an opening.
Barq overreached.
Murad sidestepped.
One swift strike disarmed him.
The black blade flew from Barq’s hand and landed in the dust.
Murad stepped forward and placed the tip of his sword at his throat.
> “Choose. Light… or the end.”
Barq, breathing hard, eyes bloodshot, spat into Murad’s face.
> “I will never be like you.”
In a sudden lunge, he reached for a hidden dagger in his belt.
But Murad moved faster.
His sword plunged deep into Barq’s chest—clean, final.
Barq gasped. His mouth moved, words barely forming:
> “Saqr... I... have failed you…”
Then silence.
His body slumped to the ground, dust curling around him like a shroud.
---
That evening, the people of Al-Mada gathered at the central wall.
The Banner of Light—white and gold—was raised above the gate.
Barq’s body was burned on a pyre of thorns and black cloth.
The flames devoured him, just as he had once devoured peace.
Murad stood before the crowd, his brothers Thabit and Ba’ith behind him. He raised his sword high, then lowered it gently.
> “Today… the Black Banner is over.
Tomorrow, we build a homeland—where no child fears the night,
and no man is ruled by shadows.”
And the people, eyes full of light and tears, whispered the new name of that day:
"The Dawn of the Free."
- Writer
