The second cohort became legends by morning.
Jibril.
Nashir.
Faraz.
Ghassan.
They tore through the night like wolves set loose, blades flashing, eyes wild, calling out the names of their loved ones as if those names were swords themselves.
"For my daughter, Saliha!"
"For my brother who never came home!"
"For Leena! For Jamal! For my mother!"
"For you, my Lord—may you rise!"
They didn't fight like men.
They fought like fire.
Like fanatics.
Where the first five had danced through death, more methodical about their charge, the second four didn't care about strategy. They wanted impact. They wanted the bandits to know their names. They wanted them carved into the bones of this battlefield. They needed to succeed their predecessors, make them proud, make him proud.
