By the time the sun sank behind the dunes, word of the victory had spread through the camp like wildfire.
They called it The Miracle at the Gully. Some said angels turned the tide. Others whispered that Roland — Sir Roland of Acre — had been chosen by God Himself.
Roland knew better.
God had nothing to do with it. Just terrain, timing, and logic.
But in a world where superstition ruled more than reason, sometimes logic looked like divine power.
He sat near the fire that night, cleaning his sword, while Lucien tossed him a flask of watered wine.
"You've made quite an impression," Lucien said with a smirk. "Half the camp swears you're blessed. The other half swears you're cursed."
Roland drank. "And which half do you belong to?"
Lucien laughed. "I'm still deciding. Blessed men don't talk about strategy the way you do. You see things like… like you've lived a hundred battles before."
Roland stared into the fire. "Maybe I have."
Before Lucien could ask, the flap of the command tent opened. Sir Aldred stepped out, followed by a tall man draped in black and white robes — the robes of the Church. His silver cross gleamed in the torchlight.
"Roland," Aldred called. "The Bishop of Tyre wishes to speak with you."
Roland rose slowly, heart tightening. He knew this type — men of faith who held power greater than any sword.
Inside the tent, the bishop's gaze was cold and sharp. "You led the men to victory."
"Yes, my lord."
"You defied your commander's orders," the bishop continued, circling the table. "Yet you prevailed. Some claim you saw the enemy's movements before they came. That you knew what would happen."
Roland kept his tone even. "I used what I could see. Their formations, the land—"
"Don't mock me," the bishop interrupted. "I've seen many soldiers in my life. None speak as you do. None think as you do." He leaned closer. "Where does your wisdom come from?"
Roland's mind raced. He couldn't tell the truth. Not yet.
"From observation," he said carefully. "Men repeat their mistakes. I simply learn from them faster."
The bishop studied him in silence for a long moment. Then he smiled — though there was no warmth in it.
"Perhaps God truly has touched you," he said finally. "Or perhaps you are something else entirely. Either way, the High Council in Jerusalem will want to see you."
"Jerusalem?" Roland repeated.
"Yes. The King's advisers are gathering. We prepare for a new campaign against Saladin. You will ride with us at dawn."
When the bishop left, Aldred gave Roland a grim look. "You've drawn the Church's eye, lad. Be careful. They raise saints one day and burn them the next."
Roland nodded slowly. "Let them watch," he said. "Jerusalem is exactly where I need to be."
Outside, the wind picked up again, carrying the faint toll of a distant church bell from the city beyond the desert.
Lucien approached, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "You're really going to Jerusalem?"
"Yes," Roland said. "And once I get there, I'm going to learn everything I can about how this kingdom works."
Lucien grinned. "You sound like you plan to rule it."
Roland's gaze hardened, the firelight flickering across his face.
"Not yet," he said quietly. "But every king starts as a man no one suspects."
The flames crackled, and in the glow, the future king of Jerusalem sat in silence — already plotting the fall of thrones, the bending of faith, and the rewriting of history itself.