Aws felt as though he and Shams had been struck across the face, a violent jolt tearing through the fragile hope they once believed this harsh world might still offer. When Asad finished speaking, the two walked back toward Master Hilal's home, their steps slow, wandering, as if drifting between wakefulness and a dream they wished they could refuse.
Aws sat on the couch, and Shams settled in his lap, resting her head against his chest like a child searching for the shape of safety. Silence spread around them—thick, unmoving, like invisible dust hanging in the air. Then Shams began to cry. Not a quiet weeping, but a raw, collapsing sob, her tears flowing like a sudden waterfall released after too long a drought. Aws felt his chest tighten as he watched her; the sorrow on his face was a clear echo of everything they had lost.
He held her tightly, as though trying to rebuild a shelter around her with his arms alone. They leaned together onto the couch until sleep pulled them under. Their minds had been worn thin, exhausted by days that had overturned their entire world.
Aws woke the next morning to find Shams still asleep, breathing softly against him, peaceful as a leaf drifting on calm water. He brushed her cheek, played absently with the strands of her dark hair. A small, gentle impulse rose in him, and he pressed a kiss to her rosy cheek.
Only then did he notice they had slept uncovered and the blanket lay over them—proof enough that Master Hilal had likely seen them as they were. A blush of embarrassment stirred in his chest, and with it a heavier sense of responsibility.
Outside, the city was gathering the last of its survivors in the least-damaged district. Guards were forming defensive lines, and new camps sprawled near the shore—the sea had become the only reliable source of food. Supplies were distributed sparingly. Aws received his share and returned home to give it to Shams.
When he opened the door, he heard a soft thud. He rushed inside to find Shams on the floor, having tumbled from the couch, her eyes half-closed with lingering sleep. He approached with exaggerated urgency, as though sweeping in to rescue her, and lifted her into his arms. She wrapped her hands around his neck instinctively. He sat down with her on his lap and brought out the food.
The meal was simple: a loaf of bread and two apples. They shared the bread, and he handed her an apple, watching her eat with a tenderness that blended recovery with innocence.
When they finished, they dressed for training. At the gathering grounds, they found the army had collected every capable person—men and women alike. The first phase of the camp had already begun: tests of endurance and physical capability.
Asad oversaw the physical training, while Master Hilal joined him from noon until late afternoon to teach the "Divine Path": the rules of war, battlefield tactics, methods of protecting the wounded, and everything that guarded body and spirit in an age where certainty was no longer a luxury.
Aws recalls those days:
"A full week passed with constant training. I started growing accustomed to the new routine. Meeting Shams at the end of each day became something like opening a window in a suffocating room. Everyone returned to their families each night, each clinging to whatever remained of comfort."
Master Hilal seemed lighter, less crushed than before. He drowned himself in tasks and training, as though hoping to forget his wife's death, even temporarily. But the depth of sorrow in his eyes was impossible to hide.
After a week, Aws and Shams were summoned to a tent at the edge of the camp. Asad and Hilal were waiting, along with a man dressed in fine garments, his face stiff as stone. A handful of others stood nearby—chosen individuals like them.
The man spoke with a voice sharpened by command:
"I am the Supreme Commander of the army. My name is Salam. My lineage was raised for the protection of this world. For generations, our family prepared to face these apes and swine from the moment they were banished. Their return was inevitable. And you—are the chosen elite, the blades meant to sever the heads of our invaders and end this war. Beginning tomorrow, your training will be separate from the rest."
When he finished, Hilal and Asad explained the new regimen: intensive spiritual disciplines, methods for awakening inner forces, and the abilities of what they called "Divine Support." Alongside that came harsh training in agility, combat, and weaponry—meant to reveal each person's inclination and perfect their skill.
Shams unveiled a remarkable talent—she excelled in support abilities: swift running, light leaps, conjuring protective shields, healing wounds, and wielding daggers with unexpected precision.
Aws, in turn, had absorbed something of Asad's "silent cut" and composure, though their natures remained utterly different. Asad struck like a wolf, quiet and deadly. Aws, though—he was a lion; his attacks were thunderous, explosive, powerful, even if he had not yet reached his mentor's mastery.
There was Zahra, gentle yet formidable in healing and medical arts.
Firas, from the Control branch, who manipulated sand with eerie finesse.
And "Zilāl," the man whose name meant Shadow, because he moved exactly like one—an expert in stealth, assassination, and gathering intelligence.
While the chosen group trained in the open square, their movements slicing through the air in steady rhythm…
the alarm shattered the camp.
The attack had begun.