The Fire & The Shadow

The desert winds whispered through the narrow streets of Damascus, carrying the scent of spice and incense through the night air. The moon, heavy and golden, cast a dim glow over the bustling marketplace, where traders and nobles gathered to barter under the cool night sky.

And there, among the murmurs of merchants and the flickering lanterns, he saw her.

Fatima Abadi.

She moved like a flame, her bronze skin shimmering under the torchlight, her dark kohl-lined eyes sharper than any dagger. She was young, radiant, untamed—a woman of rare beauty and even rarer spirit. She was not merely beautiful. She was fire incarnate, the embodiment of something that even a man like him, a being who had lived for millennia, had never encountered before.

He stood at the edge of the bazaar, cloaked in shadow, his keen, predatory gaze locked onto her. He had seen a thousand women in his lifetimes, queens and conquerors, but none had ever made his blood burn the way she did.

Tonight, she belonged to no one.

But she would belong to him.

He pursued her relentlessly. At first, Fatima rejected him, her sharp tongue cutting through his arrogance like a dagger. She saw him for what he was—a conqueror, a warlord, a man accustomed to taking whatever he desired.

But He was patient. He did not take Fatima like a prize, nor did he force his way into her life as he had done with empires. Instead, he wooed her, speaking to her in ways no man had before. He admired not just her beauty but her strength, her intelligence, her fire. And when he spoke, his voice was like honey laced with poison, intoxicating and dangerous all at once.

She resisted—at first.

But he never lost a battle.

One night, under the star-filled heavens of Persia, he kissed her for the first time, his hands framing her face with uncharacteristic gentleness. That night, she did not push him away. That night, she gave herself to him, and in that moment, the eternal warlord, felt something he had not felt in centuries.

Obsession.

Possession.

Love.

And so, he vowed that she would be his forever.

He sought to make Fatima his wife, but her father, a respected noble and scholar, refused the union. He saw the darkness in hiss eyes, the hunger for blood that could not be tamed.

But He would not be denied.

One night, with the fury of a god scorned, he descended upon Fatima’s village with fire and steel. He slaughtered them all—her father, her brothers, her kin—erasing her past in a storm of blood and screams.

By the time the sun rose, Fatima had no family left. She had no choice but to stay with him.

Or so he believed.

For years, she played the role of his consort. She stood by his side, watching him carve his name into history with the blood of thousands. But deep inside, her heart was turning to stone.

Then, one night, in the candlelit shadows of their palace, she confronted him.

“You are not a man,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You are a monster.”

He only smirked, stepping closer. “And yet, you love me.”

Fatima’s heart twisted, but she stood her ground. She had learned to mask her fear, to harden her soul. She had been waiting for this moment.

He raised a hand to touch her face—but this time, she struck first.

The dagger buried itself deep into his chest.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Fatima’s breath caught in her throat as she watched him stagger backward, his fingers curling around the blade. She had done it. She had killed him.

But then, he laughed.

His laughter was deep, rich, and cruel—an unholy sound that made the blood drain from her face. He pulled the dagger from his chest, and before her very eyes, the wound began to heal.

This was no man.

This was a demon.

Fatima’s entire world shattered in an instant. The man she had once loved, the father of the unborn child she had never told him about, was something beyond her worst nightmares.

His expression darkened. “You wound me, my love. But you cannot kill me.”

Fatima did not hesitate. She turned and ran, disappearing into the night, her breath ragged, her mind screaming.

She ran—not just for her life.

But for the life growing inside her.

Fatima fled across deserts, through mountains, and into the shadows of the world, always staying one step ahead of HIm.

She never spoke of him.

She never looked back.

Through hardship, through hunger, through pain—she endured. And in her darkest moments, when the weight of her past threatened to crush her, she found strength.

Because something was different now.

Because she was no longer alone.

At the fortress of Alamut, under the watchful eyes of warriors and scholars, she gave birth to a son.

A boy with his father’s fire but his mother’s heart.

Named, Azibo Anwar.