Qasim's Point of View
He had never been one to fear the silence. Not in the battlefield. Not in prison cells. Not even when blood poured from his wounds and the air smelled of death.
But this silence was different.
It was the silence of being still. Of staying in one place for too long. Of not fighting, not moving forward—not because he was weak, but because now... he had something to protect.
He wasn't trapped behind walls, or by swords, or even by time. He was trapped in a strange peace.
The warrior in him hated it.
The human in him… needed it.
Qasim sat in the corner of the house his sword resting on his knees. Umm-e-Farwah was across from him, her eyes focused, her hands gripping the wooden practice sword he had given her.
She had asked to learn. Not with pride, but with purpose. Not for glory, but survival.
And he had agreed.
He didn't expect what followed.
Every move he demonstrated—every feint, every strike, every breath—she absorbed it like water on dry soil. She didn't just learn… she understood. Her body responded with instinct, her eyes with determination. The same hands that once clutched books now gripped a sword with terrifying resolve.
He remembered thinking as a child, "I learn fast. I was born for this." But now, watching her move, copying his stance, dodging the way he showed her just once—he smiled.
"She's faster than me," he muttered under his breath, pride swelling in his chest. "And maybe even braver."
Even when her footwork faltered, she didn't flinch. She reset herself, nodded, and tried again.
She was born of fire. Not the kind that burns—but the kind that survives.
"Very good!" he called out, walking toward her with a small grin. "Now again. This time, pivot faster. Don't wait for the attack to come. Feel it before it does."
She nodded, sweat lining her brow, but her spirit unshaken.
Hammad sat on the side, watching with wide eyes, half in awe and half in jealousy. "I want to learn too," he blurted.
Qasim chuckled. "You waited long enough to ask."
Umm-e-Farwah and Qasim shared a knowing smile. A real one. For a brief moment, he forgot all the war and pain outside these walls. For once, he wasn't a fugitive, a soldier, or a lost soul.
He was a teacher. And they were his reason to stay.
"Alright," Qasim said, tossing Hammad a small wooden dagger. "But fair warning—you'll need patience. This isn't a game."
Hammad grinned, gripping the dagger with both hands. "I'll be better than you one day!"
Qasim laughed. "That's exactly what Abdul Rehman used to say."
He felt a pang in his chest saying the name, but he masked it quickly. Memories of his brother, of the wars, of their promises—they were distant now, like a book he hadn't opened in a while. He wasn't running from those memories. He was just… not ready to face them again.
But Umm-e-Farwah—she kept him grounded.
He moved beside her, guiding her arm as she raised the sword again. "Hold your wrist like this. A little firm. If the enemy blocks you, let the impact absorb here, not in your shoulder."
She nodded, adjusting.
"Again," he whispered.
She moved.
Slash. Block. Step. Turn. Parry.
He smiled. "That's it."
They trained for hours. The sun crawled across the sky as sweat turned to strength, and hesitation became instinct. Umm-e-Farwah began to anticipate his attacks, not just defend. She attacked back—cleverly, sharply—like she had something to prove to the world.
And maybe she did.
Later that evening, they sat under a tree at the edge of the yard. Hammad had fallen asleep, sword still in hand. Umm-e-Farwah wiped her brow and looked at Qasim.
"Why do you teach me?" she asked softly.
He looked at her, thoughtful. "Because you asked."
"But I could've asked anyone," she said. "Why did you say yes?"
He paused.
"Because you didn't ask like a student," he replied. "You asked like someone who was already fighting. You just didn't have the weapons yet."
She looked away, quiet.
"I was scared before," she admitted. "When we lost our brother.. I didn't trust you. But now... I don't feel that fear anymore."
He looked up at the sky, clouds slowly drifting past.
"I don't feel much either these days," he said. "But when I see you fight—when I see you learn—it reminds me of something I thought I lost."
"What?"
"Hope."
Silence.
Then she smiled. The same smile she gave him earlier during training. A smile that said, I'm here. I'm not giving up.
The next morning, training began earlier. Qasim wasn't holding back anymore. He pushed her, tested her, forced her to react under pressure. And she didn't disappoint.
"Faster!"
"Duck!"
"Good! Now counter—yes!"
Each strike echoed through the training yard. Dust flew. Movements blurred. She wasn't just keeping up—she was starting to push him.
He raised his sword to parry. She twisted last-second, dodging his blade, and tapped his shoulder with the wooden edge.
"Point for me?" she asked, teasing.
He blinked. Then laughed.
"Well played," he said, catching his breath.
She was becoming someone the world wouldn't expect. A girl with a sword, yes—but more than that. A survivor. A warrior. A leader.
He stood back, heart thumping—not from exertion, but from realization.
I found her…
No, she found herself.
He called Hammad to join, and began showing both of them the fundamentals of strategy.
"How to win a battle isn't just in your hands," he explained. "It's in your mind."
He drew lines in the dirt. "If you're outnumbered, don't meet them head-on. Break their focus. Use the land. Use fear."
They listened with rapt attention.
"Know when to fight. But more importantly… know when not to."
As the days passed, Umm-e-Farwah grew stronger. Not just in body—but in soul. She no longer hesitated. No longer feared. She fought with fire in her eyes and steel in her hands.
And Qasim—once trapped by his past—felt something changing within him.
He wasn't just teaching them how to survive.
He was giving them the power to choose their fate.
He stood on the rooftop that night, watching them rest by the fire. The wind carried laughter—genuine, warm. It felt alien after everything they'd all lost.
But maybe that's what made it beautiful.
He looked at the stars. Then at Umm-e-Farwah.
"She's more than I ever was," he whispered. "And she's just getting started."
He closed his eyes, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
For the first time in weeks…
He wasn't running anymore.
As Qasim watched Umm-e-Farwah and Hammad training with growing strength and determination, a memory resurfaced—one that pierced through him like a blade. He remembered the promise he once made to Abdul Rehman: "One day, I'll meet those children." Back then, he hadn't realized who those children were. But now… he knew.
These were the very souls he had vowed to protect—the same children who had once suffered at the hands of Abdullah. He had seen the fear in their eyes, the scars of helplessness. But not anymore.
"I'm not just teaching them to fight," he whispered to himself. "I'm teaching them to stand—for themselves, for their dignity."
Every move they learned, every strategy he passed on—it was all for their freedom. He wasn't training warriors for him. He was raising them to never be victims again.
This wasn't just redemption. It was a revolution, starting with them
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❓ Question for Readers:
Do you think Umm-e-Farwah will become even stronger than Qasim one day? And if faced with a real battle, would she choose mercy or revenge?
Note from the Author:
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Want to talk or share your thoughts? Message me on Instagram: @_xia.xaylune I'd love to connect with you. ❤️