The Potion That Terilia Drank.

The night was still, yet heavy with the weight of impending doom. The caravansary stood like a lone guardian against the vast desert, its stone walls bathed in the glow of torches, its gates bolted against the darkness beyond. From the battlements, Ishaq stared at the horizon where Mongol fires flickered like distant stars. They had come, patient and relentless, their torches mere embers now but soon to be a raging inferno against the gates.

Despite the looming threat, Ishaq's mind was elsewhere. His hands rested on the cold stone, fingers tracing the rough edges of the very walls he had helped rebuild. This place had become his home, his refuge. But long before it stood as a fortress against an empire, it had simply been another project—one among many.

His past rose like the desert wind, unbidden and sharp.

***

Ishaq had not been born a warrior. He had been born among the dust of a mason's yard, his childhood spent under the towering skeletons of unfinished buildings. His father was a builder, a man with calloused hands and a back bent from years of lifting stone. He taught Ishaq how to mix mortar, how to measure the strength of a beam, how to listen to the earth before laying a foundation.

But while his father was content with mere construction, Ishaq dreamed of more. He wanted to create beauty, not just structures that held weight. The first time he had seen the great palaces of the Caliphate, their domes shining like the sun, he had sworn that one day, he would leave his mark upon the world.

Yet, dreams were often crushed under the heel of necessity.

At sixteen, he had been sent to work in the city, shaping bricks alongside men twice his age. The work was endless, the pay meager, and the recognition nonexistent. But Ishaq learned. He studied the way arches bore weight, how bridges defied gravity, how courtyards could be built to capture the breeze in even the hottest of summers. He watched, he copied, and when no one was looking, he experimented.

His first true work had been a modest house for a merchant, built with arches that allowed light without heat. The merchant was pleased, but no one praised the architect—only the structure. Ishaq swallowed his pride and moved on.

Then came the great commission—the Governor's Palace. He had been a mere assistant then, a nameless hand among many, yet it had been his design that shaped the courtyard, his sketches that determined the alignment of its halls. And when it was done, when the governor walked through his palace for the first time, Ishaq had waited for his moment.

"You have done well," the governor had said. "Give my thanks to your master."

Ishaq never corrected him.

Pride could not fill an empty belly. And so, he kept building.

A World of Ruin

Years passed. He built for nobles who did not know his name, crafted homes that bore no signature. His designs stood strong, but they were not his. Until one day, the world itself began to crumble.

The Mongols came. They swept through cities like a tide, toppling minarets, burning libraries, shattering domes that had taken lifetimes to perfect. Cities that had stood for centuries fell in weeks. Ishaq saw them—beautiful places, places he had touched—turned to ruin.

And that was when he realized.

A palace, a house, a monument—they were nothing before the storm of war. Beauty meant nothing if it could not endure.

So he left the cities behind. He wandered, seeking a place where his hands could build not for the rich, but for those who truly needed it.

And then he found the caravansary.

It had been crumbling then, an abandoned ruin on the edge of the desert. The merchants who still dared to pass through had no safe haven. Bandits preyed on travelers. The Mongols had not yet reached this place, but they would. Ishaq had seen the signs before—death always came like a whisper before the scream.

So he built.

Not for money. Not for fame. But for survival.

He strengthened the walls, reinforced the gates, rebuilt the foundations so they could withstand not just time, but war. He had done what he could.

And now, as he stood atop the very stones he had set in place, he wondered if it had been enough.

***

A voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"You're still up."

Nasir approached, his silhouette dark against the torchlight. His sword was strapped to his side, his stance weary but firm. Ishaq turned his gaze back to the Mongol fires in the distance.

"They sent an envoy," Nasir continued. "A white flag. They offer surrender."

Ishaq didn't answer. He had seen what surrender meant. A town in the north had surrendered once. The Mongols had accepted. Then they had slaughtered them anyway.

"We won't surrender," Nasir said, as if reading his thoughts.

Ishaq nodded. He had known the answer before the question had even been raised.

"They'll come at dawn," Nasir added. "Rest while you can."

He turned to leave, but Ishaq spoke.

"Do you think the walls will hold?"

Nasir paused. He had fought many battles, seen many fortresses fall. But he also knew the man who had built these walls.

"They will hold," he said.

Ishaq wished he could believe it.

Nasir left him, disappearing into the night, but Ishaq remained. He reached out, pressing his palm against the cold stone, as if by touch alone he could will it to endure.

He had spent his life building. But come morning, he would learn if all he had built would be enough.

The night stretched long, refusing to grant sleep to those who needed it most. Nasir sat near a small fire in one of the inner courtyards, watching the flames dance against the dark. The sound of restless horses and murmured prayers filled the air. Most of the men had gone to rest, knowing dawn would bring blood. But he couldn't. Not yet.

Footsteps echoed lightly against the stone. A boy—no older than fifteen—stepped into the fire's glow. His clothes were simple, worn from travel, but his eyes held something ancient, something that had seen too much. He was quiet, always quiet, but Nasir had long since learned to hear the words behind his silence.

"Couldn't sleep?" Nasir asked, his voice low.

The boy shook his head. He sat across from him, his hands resting on his knees.

Nasir studied him for a moment. This boy, who had no blood ties to him, yet whom he called son. He had found him years ago, amidst the smoldering ruins of a village the Mongols had erased from existence. Among the corpses and burning homes, the boy had been the only thing left alive.

He had been younger then—just a child, covered in soot and blood, his small hands gripping a knife he was too weak to lift. He hadn't cried. Not once. Nasir had seen many orphans, had watched many children break, but this boy had been different. He had simply stood there, waiting for whatever came next.

Nasir had knelt before him, placing a hand on his head.

"Come with me."

The boy had said nothing, but he had followed. And from that day on, he had never left Nasir's side.

Tonight, though, the boy finally spoke. His voice was quiet, but steady.

"Do you think we can win?"

Nasir exhaled slowly, glancing toward the walls. "No."

The boy didn't flinch at the answer. He had never been one for false hopes.

"But we can buy time," Nasir continued. "For the merchants who escaped. For the villages beyond this place. Maybe even kill a few Mongols before we go."

The boy lowered his gaze. "Then… you'll die tomorrow."

Nasir didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached to his side, pulling a small glass bottle from his belt. The fire's light illuminated the deep red liquid inside. The boy's eyes flickered toward it, his brows furrowing.

"What is that?"

Nasir turned the bottle in his hand, watching the thick liquid shift inside.

"The Potion of Terilia," he murmured. "Named after a muslim king who died on the battlefield seven years ago."

He rolled the bottle between his fingers, as if testing its weight. "Terilia drank this potion the night before his final battle. They say he slaughtered hundreds of Mongol warriors before the sun set."

The boy's expression darkened. "And then he died."

Nasir nodded. "You only drink it once. The strength it gives is unnatural. After four hours… your body gives out."

The boy tensed. "You're going to take it."

Nasir met his gaze. "Before the fight."

Silence fell between them. The fire crackled softly, its warmth unable to reach the growing cold in the air. The boy clenched his fists.

"That's foolish," he said finally. "You'll die faster."

Nasir chuckled, though there was little humor in it. "I'll die either way." He leaned forward slightly, holding the bottle up to the light. "At least this way, I'll take some of them with me."

The boy's jaw tightened. For the first time, his voice shook. "Don't do it."

Nasir sighed, setting the bottle back down beside him. He reached out, ruffling the boy's hair.

"You don't have to stay," he said softly. "You're still young. You could leave before the battle—find another life somewhere."

The boy smacked his hand away. His eyes burned. "You think I'm a coward?"

Nasir's expression softened. "No."

The boy clenched his teeth, his hands gripping the fabric of his pants. "Then don't talk like that. You said it yourself—we can buy time. You don't have to throw yourself away."

Nasir sighed again, but he didn't argue. He had no intention of watching the boy die tomorrow. If there was one thing he could still do in this life, it was make sure the boy lived past morning.

They sat in silence for a long time, the fire between them slowly burning down to embers.

Finally, the boy spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You were the first person who ever told me to come with them." He swallowed. "I don't want to lose you too."

Nasir closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Then, he reached for the bottle again, gripping it tightly.

"Get some sleep," he murmured.

The boy didn't move.

Nasir didn't repeat himself. Instead, he watched the flames flicker lower, the weight of dawn pressing ever closer.