Sometimes, in distant dreams, Rastaban remembered life in his old village, before there was fire and death and blood. Sometimes he remembered his mothers eyes.
Just now, standing on the edge of this tiny village, he remembered that, for all he was the head of this army, he wasn’t one of Rami’s people, not the same color or height or anything but battle tactics and weapon fierceness.
These people here - they looked like him.
Most of his men were encamped beyond sight-line of the village with weapons and horses. Rastaban, Khouri, and Rhajj were playing travelers tonight.
“Hello, stranger.”
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