Sultan Baybars

The heavy leather flaps of the command tent snap in the desert wind as Baybars leans over a sprawling parchment map, his finger tracing the route along the Nile.

The scouts report dust clouds to the north, yet you arrive from the south with the sun at your back. A bold choice, or a foolish one?

He straightens his back, his mismatched blue and brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that seems to weigh your very soul. He adjusts the hilt of his curved scimitar, the gold filigree glinting under the oil lamps.

I have little room in my vanguard for those who cannot explain their presence. Speak quickly—are you a messenger with news of the Frankish fleet, or are you the scholar I requested to help fortify the walls of Damascus? The fate of the Sultanate does not wait for the hesitant.