MISTAKE

The sky above the mountain was dark with clouds, as if nature itself mourned the blood that had already been spilled.

Yousif stood still, eyes blazing, fists clenched around his sword. He had seen enough. He could no longer stay silent.

"Qasim!" Yousif roared, stepping forward. Qasim was still on his knees, face pale, drenched in guilt and pain.

Yousif's voice broke through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Get up. Fight me."

Qasim didn't respond. His hands were trembling. His mind repeated one line — I killed him… I killed Hashim…

"I said GET UP!" Yousif's shout echoed off the mountain walls. "Don't sit there like a coward. You want to die? Then die fighting!"

Slowly, Qasim pushed himself to his feet. His grip on the sword was loose. His eyes were vacant, haunted. There was no strength in his stance.

Yousif raised his sword and charged. The steel sliced the air, coming down hard. Qasim barely moved in time, deflecting it weakly.

Clang! The sound of metal clashing rang out.

Yousif attacked again. And again. Powerful, sharp strikes meant to provoke — to awaken something inside Qasim.

But Qasim didn't fight back. He just blocked. Parried. Dodged.

His feet stumbled over loose rocks. His thoughts were drowning in grief.

Hashim is dead because of me. I did it. My blade. My hands. My anger…

"You're not even trying!" Yousif growled, slashing horizontally. "You owe it to Hashim to fight!"

Clang! Clang!

Qasim barely managed to deflect another strike. He was panting now, wounded on his shoulder, and a cut ran across his right arm, bleeding slowly.

"Why won't you fight me?!" Yousif shouted again, lunging forward.

Qasim backed away, his guard loose. "I deserve this," he whispered. "I killed him."

Yousif's sword came crashing down again, but Qasim tilted his blade, blocking it just in time. The impact pushed him back.

"You think dying will fix this?" Yousif hissed. "You think lying down in guilt is redemption?"

Qasim's sword wavered in his hand. He wasn't trying to win. Only to survive a little longer.

"Fine!" Yousif shouted. "Then I'll beat the fight back into you!"

He attacked again, faster now — spinning, striking from the left, then right, then leaping forward with a downward slash.

Qasim blocked most, but some strikes hit. Blood sprayed from a cut on his side. He gritted his teeth.

"Come on, Qasim!" Yousif yelled, almost desperate now. "Where is the warrior who survived battles? Where's the man Fatima trusted?"

That name.

Fatima.

It cut deeper than Yousif's blade.

Fatima saw me kill her he stopped. Her eyes… her voice. I lost everything.

Another cut — across his chest. His tunic was soaked with blood now.

"ENOUGH!" Yousif yelled and slammed his blade toward Qasim's shoulder.

CLANG!

But this time — Qasim caught it.

His hand trembled, but he stopped the blow mid-air.

Yousif's eyes widened slightly. Qasim was breathing heavily, sweat and blood mixed on his face.

"I don't want to fight you," Qasim said, voice hoarse. "But I will not die here."

Yousif's face shifted — the rage faded, replaced by a glint of approval.

"You finally woke up," he muttered.

And so it began again.

This time, Qasim fought back.

Still slow. Still burdened. But his strikes had strength now. Determination.

They clashed — sword against sword. Sparks flew. Blades danced.

Yousif smiled faintly, even as he pressed harder. "This is the Qasim I know."

"Don't say my name like you respect me," Qasim growled. "Not after what I did."

"Then prove me wrong!" Yousif shouted and leapt forward.

Their swords locked. Qasim twisted, forcing Yousif to stumble, then swung upward.

Yousif blocked. They exchanged blow after blow.

Dust rose. Rocks scattered. Their movements echoed across the mountain.

Strike.

Block.

Slash.

Dodge.

Qasim winced. His wounds slowed him. But his eyes — they had changed. They were no longer hollow.

They were burning with something. Maybe not redemption — but resolve.

"Why did you push me into this?" Qasim asked between breaths.

"Because grief will destroy you if you let it," Yousif said. "And I won't let it happen to you."

A final series of strikes followed — both warriors moving with fierce speed.

Qasim's blade sliced Yousif's side. Yousif's sword struck Qasim's shoulder.

Both men staggered.

Bleeding. Exhausted.

But standing.

Their swords dropped to the ground together.

Heavy silence.

Qasim fell to his knees again — but this time, it wasn't from guilt. It was the weight of survival.

Yousif walked over slowly, offered his hand.

Qasim looked up.

And for the first time since Hashim's death — he took it.

Yousif stepped forward and held his hand out — for a moment, it looked like he was offering help.

But then he pulled his hand back, eyes full of rage.

"What do you expect from me, Qasim?" he shouted. "That I'll show you mercy? Sympathy? After what you did?"

And without waiting for a reply, Yousif charged again.

This time, it wasn't swords or any weapon. It was pure fists — hand-to-hand.

He slammed into Qasim, fists flying with every ounce of fury he had kept buried. Qasim, still half in shock, barely lifted his arms to defend himself. He took the hits. His body was exhausted, mind still echoing "I killed Hashim… I killed him…"

The fight grew brutal. Blood dripped from Qasim's mouth. He didn't strike back.

"Fight me!" Yousif screamed, grabbing him by the collar. "Get up! Fight me like a man!"

Qasim stumbled, barely holding himself on his feet, but didn't strike.

From the side, Princess Nayab saw everything. Her heart pounded. She wanted to scream, to run between them.

"Enough!" she cried, stepping forward. "Stop it! Please, this is too much!"

She looked at Qasim's bruised, bleeding face… his eyes still full of regret and guilt. And she saw Yousif, blinded by rage.

Maybe… maybe Hashim was the one who wrote those letters. Maybe Qasim really wasn't behind any of this.

But before her voice could reach them, Yousif turned and — without thinking — pushed her away.

She stumbled back, shocked.

Then he turned quickly to land the final blow on Qasim.

That's when Qasim's eyes lit up.

Everything flashed before him.

Fatima crying.

Hashim's blood.

His own shaking hands.

And Nayab's voice.

He roared, "Enough!" and, with all the strength left in him, lifted his leg and kicked Yousif hard in the chest.

The force of the kick sent Yousif crashing back to the ground.

The crowd went silent.

Even the wind stopped.

Yousif lay still for a second, breathing heavy, while Qasim stood tall, trembling, bloodied, chest rising and falling.

He turned around, his back facing Yousif.

He didn't want to fight anymore.

He whispered, almost to himself, "I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't mean any of this…"

Then, his voice grew firmer.

"I never wanted revenge," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I just wanted peace… I wanted to protect the people I love. But this path… this path is only filled with pain."

His words hung in the air.

Yousif, still on the ground, stared at him.

Princess Nayab, with tears in her eyes, looked between both of them.

And for a moment… the battle paused.

Not because someone won — but because everyone realized…

No one was winning anymore.

Not Yousif.

Not Qasim.

Not even justice.

Only pain.

Question for readers:

Do you want a separate Novel of hashim and fatima?