Winner of the 'Readers Choice Award' in Historical Fiction.
Winner of the 'Readers Choice Award' in Spiritual Category.
Winner of Best Muslim Readers' Choice Awards: Prince of Knights
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Arabs are well known for their culture, Po...
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A fan of mine made this, but I lost her account. Thank you so much!
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"Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror." Khalil Gibran
After a few hours of journey, the palm trees of the Borkan tribe came in sight, and Faris sighed. His wounds had started to bleed again, and by now, Tufan's mane had turned crimson. The knight wished to end his misery. It took every courage in his body to keep his eyes open. He had to keep his eyes open. How can he close his eyes when he had left his brother on the battleground with men to tend to his wounds? Right before withdrawing from the battlefield, Faris had ordered his emissaries to seek help for Nasser. He had to keep his sibling alive.
When the first mud house came in view, Marwan's words chimed in his brain. Khaleefa. His uncle. The same blood that he shared with Sheikh Mubarak. Faris could still not comprehend the ground behind such heinous acts. Did he want the title? Or did he desire Mubarak's death? Faris's jaw clenched at his train of thoughts. He blinked his eyes as a horse galloped beside Tufan. Badr.
He clenched Tufan's rein tighter as if understanding the command of his master, the horse trotted faster. The wind took his dried, filthy hair with it, drying the blood on Faris's forehead, and blowing his robe. The sun almost touched the peak of the mountains, and clouds had long departed. Puddles of rainwater decorated the land making livestock leave a trail behind them. Faris and his men crossed the boundaries of the tribe, and tribesmen gaped at them in shock.
When it came to killing Marwan, Faris was ready. However, facing the man who trained him, made him the knight that he was today shriveled his heart. Was he afraid of confronting the reality, he did not know. However, Faris did know that nothing will stop from avenging the death of the innocent.
Thundering hooves trembled the ground beneath them. Faris cast a glance towards the sun and knew it was time for sheik Mubarak and other leaders of the Borkan tribe to gather in the tent for their usual gathering. He led his men towards the tent with newfound wrath seething in his blood. Before Tufan could come to a complete halt in front of the large tent, Faris leaped down and marched towards the tent. His sandals crunch pebble stones, and blood left a path on the soil.
The world around him dissolved as Faris took quick steps towards the tent. The tent did not have a flap; it was open for guests to enter freely. At his disheveled, bloody sight, a dozen men in the large tent rose to their feet.
"Ya Faris," Sheikh Mubarak took a step forward. Apprehension marred his face and halted at relief. However, soon his brows knit when the knight of knights passed his father and made his way to Khaleefa.
