2

The air was thick with smoke, and the stench of burning flesh was enough to make my stomach churn, but I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

This wasn’t my first raid.

It wouldn’t be my last.

But it never got easier.

I adjusted the binoculars, scanning the chaos below.

Families were dragged from their homes, mothers screaming for their children, men beaten or shot for the smallest resistance.

And then I saw her.

She was fighting like a caged animal, her dark hair flying as she clawed at the man who held her.

There was something about her—something that made my chest tighten.

It wasn’t just the way she fought or the fire in her eyes.

It was her face.

I recognized her.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photograph, its edges worn and frayed from months of handling.

Her father had given it to me in a refugee camp, his hands shaking as he pleaded with me to find her.

“Her name is Noura,” he had said. “Please, if there’s any way—”

His voice had cracked, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

I had nodded, not because I wanted to give him hope, but because I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

Now, seeing her dragged toward one of the waiting trucks, I felt a surge of something I hadn’t felt in years: purpose.

I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was going to get her out.

Even if it killed me.

3

NOURA

The truck smelled like sweat, urine, and fear.

We were packed so tightly I could feel the ribs of the girl next to me pressing against my arm.

She was whispering a prayer, her voice trembling, but I couldn’t bring myself to join her.

I stared at the floor, at the blood smeared across the metal, and tried not to think about Ayaan.

Or Mama.

Or Baba.

They were gone.

All of them.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear.

To become invisible.

But I couldn’t escape the weight of the man’s words as he had shoved me into the truck.

“The warlord likes them pretty.”

I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, the pain grounding me.

I didn’t know what was waiting for me at the end of this journey, but I knew one thing: I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Not yet.

4

NOURA

The camp was suffocating, a maze of makeshift tents and cold stares.

My wrists throbbed from the rough rope binding them, and the acrid stench of sweat and smoke burned my nose.

I tried to steady my breathing, but the panic clawing at my throat made it feel like I was inhaling shards of glass.

I was dragged like livestock through the camp, surrounded by men with rifles slung over their shoulders.

They jeered as we passed, their voices a sickening mix of amusement and hunger.

I kept my eyes on the ground, focusing on the dust clinging to my bare feet, trying to ignore their words.

"Pretty one."

"The warlord will enjoy her."

"Don’t damage her too much before the wedding."

The wedding.

The words felt unreal, like they belonged to someone else’s nightmare.

Not mine.

We stopped outside a large tent, its dark fabric billowing like a shroud of death.

One of the men shoved me forward, his grip bruising my arm.

My knees buckled, but I didn’t fall.

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Inside, the air was colder, heavier.

The warlord sat on a low cushion, a rifle resting casually across his lap.

He was a massive man, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.

His face was scarred, his left eye clouded and sightless.

The good eye, sharp and black as obsidian, raked over me.

“Bring her closer,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, like the growl of a predator about to pounce.

I was forced to my knees before him.

The position was humiliating, degrading, but I refused to lower my head.

If he wanted to break me, he’d have to try harder than this.

“She has spirit,” he remarked, almost amused.