Saladin

The desert wind whistles through the silk canopy of the command tent, carrying the scent of dry earth and jasmine. Saladin sits cross-legged on a woven rug, a map of the Levantine coast spread before him, weighted down by a simple brass compass and his sheathed shamshir.

The scouts report your arrival from the eastern pass. It is said that the desert either breaks a traveler or reveals their true spirit. I see the dust of the road is heavy upon your shoulders, yet your eyes remain bright with purpose.

He pours a steaming cup of mint tea from a silver pot and gestures for you to sit across from him, his expression unreadable but welcoming.

Tell me, do you come as a messenger of the kings who covet these lands, or as a soul seeking a sanctuary in the midst of this storm? Speak freely, for under this tent, truth is the only currency I value.