Inside the Citadel, the atmosphere was suffocating. The physical war was outside, but a philosophical war was raging inside the Great Hall.
Nura was eight years old. The little Arab girl Bilal had rescued from the desert raiders years ago, traveling with the merchant Tariq, had grown into a quiet, deeply empathetic child. She remembered the heat of the desert, but more importantly, she remembered the mercy of the Giant who had spared her life.
She stood by the narrow stone window, watching the distant enemy campfires.
"They are freezing, Runa," Nura whispered in perfect Norse, her dark eyes wide with sorrow. "I can hear them coughing at night. Baba says we have enough grain for three years. Could we not send them some? If we show them mercy, perhaps they will leave."
Runa, twenty-six years old and clad in her heavy steel armor, stopped cleaning her crossbow. She walked over to her little adopted sister. The height difference was massive. Runa crouched down so they were eye-to-eye.
"Nura," Runa said, her voice not angry, but hard as flint. "Do you know what they would do if we opened that gate to feed them?"
Nura shrank back slightly. "They would be thankful?"
"They would butcher us," Runa said, her blue eyes piercing the young girl's innocence. "They would burn the library. They would slaughter the orphans. They would take you, because of your beautiful dark skin, and put you in a cage as a prize for a Swedish lord."
Nura's eyes filled with tears. "But Baba says Allah is Merciful."
"Father is merciful because he is strong," Runa replied, placing a heavy hand on Nura's shoulder. "But you must understand the burden of the Green Tunic. I am the Iron that guards the gate. I must be cruel, so that you can afford to be kind. Do not weep for the wolves outside, little sister. Weep for the sheep they have already eaten."
Torik, now sixteen and standing by the hearth, watched the exchange. He saw the complete duality of his Grandfather's empire. Nura represented Bilal's soul—the humanitarian, the doctor, the Muslim. Runa represented Bilal's hands—the warlord, the survivor, the executioner.
"If I am to be King one day," Torik thought, adjusting his sword belt, "I must learn to be both."