All Chapters of The Blood Oath : Chapter 131
- Chapter 140
240 chapters
Chapter 133
The Portuguese sky had never looked so violent.Winds screamed across the cliffside monastery like wolves in pain, hurling sheets of rain against centuries-old stone. Lightning forked through the dark like claws tearing apart the heavens. Inside the small chapel-turned-infirmary, candles guttered, and Sister Carina tightened her rosary around her wrist.Evelyn was screaming.The Storm WithinSweat drenched her curls, clinging to her face in wet ropes. Her nails dug into the sheets of the small birthing cot as her entire body convulsed again—her breath short, shallow, then stolen altogether."Push, querida! Now!" cried Sister Ana, the midwife, her voice urgent but calm.Evelyn obeyed, teeth clenched, tears sliding sideways down her cheeks.The thunder answered.The wind lashed the shutters so hard it seemed the very world outside objected to this child’s birth. But Evelyn no longer heard the storm. She was trapped inside another one—her own body turning inside out, tearing, and remakin
Chapter 134
The buzz of fluorescent lights hummed over Kabri’s head as he sat motionless in the sterile interview room. It had been 712 days since he first stepped foot into Scheveningen Prison—The Hague’s high-security compound for the worst the world had to offer. War criminals. Mercenaries. Ghosts of forgotten wars.And him.Kabri.Once a ghost himself.Now something between a confession and a contradiction.The Woman in BlackShe arrived without announcement.Long coat. Dark sunglasses. A black silk scarf knotted precisely at her throat. She looked more like someone stepping off a Milan runway than into the belly of an international court.When the door opened, Kabri didn’t look up. He had stopped reacting to footsteps long ago.But she didn’t sit.She placed a folded file on the metal table and said, with perfect neutrality, “Your sentence has been nullified.”He looked up.She removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were unblinking.“I’m from the Department of Global Affairs. I’m not here to argue
Chapter 135
The grass had overgrown.Moss clung to the stone with a gentle hunger, as if time itself tried to erase what was never truly there.Jamil El-Zahiri. Son. Brother. Martyr. Died in silence.A lie.A beautifully sculpted lie.One Evelyn had visited every year since the supposed death.One Kabri had avoided—until today.The Letter That Brought ThemKabri received it three days after his return to Lisbon. Folded into the grooves of an old Quran left on the monastery’s altar, the letter was brief. No name. Only a meeting point:“Come alone to the grave. August 4. Dusk. Bring no past with you.”No threats.No emotion.But the paper smelled faintly of sandalwood—Evelyn’s oil.He almost didn’t go.Then he did.The HillThe graveyard sat on a crumbling slope northeast of Beja, surrounded by olive groves and silence. The kind of place reserved for rebels no country would claim, and martyrs whose stories were too fractured for truth.Kabri walked the final half-mile.He wore black.Always black
Chapter 136
Kabri awoke to the sound of silence.Not the comforting kind, but the sort that blanketed every movement in suspicion.Evelyn lay beside him, her arm draped protectively over the baby girl they’d named Noura—light. A name Evelyn had chosen after an old dream of her mother’s village. A name Kabri had never dared imagine for a child of his.But she was real.And she was breathing.That made it all the more terrifying.The Letter That Changed EverythingTwo days after their visit to Jamil’s fake grave, Kabri returned to the Lisbon monastery only to find a letter tucked into Malik’s diary—his memoirs for Amir and Noura. The page was untouched, the paper foreign.No envelope. No greeting.Just a folded sheet, coarse, like desert parchment, with hand-inked lines:“You gave up 22 names. That wasn’t forgiveness. That was fear. One of them didn’t die. He’s coming for your daughter first. –S.”There was more.A pressed olive branch inside. Dried. Curled.But what chilled Kabri was the signat
Chapter 137
In the frost-bitten silence of Val d’Emeraude, Kabri traced the ridge above his left collarbone.The scar was lighter now—almost translucent—its edges no longer jagged or red. The doctors in The Hague had said it would fade within a year, and they were right. Skin regenerated. Nerves dulled.But pain?Pain had its own language.Its own endurance.And Kabri understood it fluently.Waking to GhostsHe sat on the cabin floor with Malik’s diary open beside him. Noura slept bundled in two wool shawls. Evelyn lay asleep on the cot, curled like a question mark. Snow thumped the roof gently, like footsteps pacing overhead.Kabri couldn’t sleep.Not after the dream.Not after the voice."You left me there, Kabri. You turned away while the fire climbed up my legs."Jamil.Again.Only this time, the face wasn’t crying—it was laughing.That laugh.Soaked in betrayal. Hollow with rage.A Scar Beneath the SkinThe physical scar came from a bullet that never should’ve been fired.The real scar?It b
Chapter 138
The Alpine air hung still, heavy with frost and memory.The cabin, once alive with cries and letters, was now a shrine. Evelyn had taken Noura to the clinic down in Montreux for a check-up. Alone, Amir stood before the carved cedar shelf—his father’s writing nook.Dust floated in the light slanting through the cracked shutters. There, nestled among faded maps and old correspondence, sat the thick leather-bound volume he had never dared to open.Malik’s Diaries.But today was different.Today was his twentieth birthday.And with it came a strange compulsion—as if a quiet voice had whispered: “Now.”The Silence Between PagesHe hesitated, fingertips brushing the cover, recalling the last thing Kabri had told him:“Not everything I’ve done was for good. But everything I wrote was for you.”Now the man who once darkened continents sat peacefully in Swiss anonymity, repairing boots in exchange for bread and ink. Kabri had vanished from the world stage, but not from Amir’s life.Amir opened
Chapter 123
They didn’t see it coming.Not the security detail at Schiphol International.Not the quiet analysts watching from rooftops through heat-scanners.Not the British intelligence agents who’d trailed him from Lisbon to Rotterdam, then lost him at a train station in Delft.No one expected Kabri—terrorist, assassin, ghost—to surrender.But on a frigid January morning, wearing a black wool coat and no disguise, he stepped onto the marble floor of the International Criminal Court and said to the receptionist:“My name is Kabri el-Fakhouri. I’m here to confess.” Seven Minutes LaterTwelve red alerts were triggered.Interpol called it a bluff. The Dutch special police assumed it was a trap.The U.S. State Department went silent.The head judge of the ICC, Hon. Manuela Strauss, received a call mid-lunch, dropped her fork, and demanded immediate tra
Chapter 139
The old monastery echoed with wind and birdsong.Winter had softened into something uncertain—gray snow melting over fir needles, fog rolling down from the slopes like a tired soldier surrendering to silence. Kabri sat alone in the cloistered room, a cracked GoPro camera blinking red atop a makeshift tripod fashioned from iron candlesticks.He had checked the door three times.Bolted the shutters.Wiped his hands with an old scarf Evelyn once used to cradle Noura.Then he pressed the record button.And spoke into the abyss.“If You’re Watching This…”His voice came out steady, even warm.“If you’re watching this, it means I’m either gone… or no longer the man you knew.”He paused, staring into the lens.His face had changed—thinner, carved by time and guilt, yet no less commanding. The scar under his right eye, once thick as rope, had faded to a whisper. But the eyes were sharp. Still haunted.“I made peace with a lot of things. But I never made peace with you, Amir.”He leaned forward
Chapter 140
The village of Cezari was not on any modern map. Tucked high in the crags of Albania’s forgotten ridges, it existed in a whisper—off the grid, beyond cell towers, above the noise of war and peace alike. No signs, no roads. Just a name passed between tongues and borders like a ghost legend.Here, among ruins draped in ivy and olive trees twisted by centuries, Amir Sulaiman began the work his father never could.But he did it his way.No bullets.No oaths of blood.Just fire—of the soul, not the rifle.A New Kabri, A Different MissionAmir arrived with a canvas bag and an idea. Inside the bag: three books, a rusted USB drive with Kabri’s footage, a Bible, and a folded scarf that once belonged to Evelyn.The village’s children—most of them war orphans from Northern Syria, Bosnia, Libya, and the southern steppes—had no reason to trust him.But trust came slowly.It came when he picked up a stone and began carving letters into the ancient wall—“PEACE IS STRONGER”—instead of scrawling graff
Chapter 141
The wind howled across the Alps like a hymn no choir dared to sing. Ice clung to the monastery eaves, and in the cloister’s stillness, Kabri slept.He had not dreamed in months. Not since the trial. Not since Amir’s birth. The nights were too cold, the silence too heavy—his body worn by years of war, guilt, and running.But this night… this night was different.The DreamHe was back in Casablanca.Not the real one—the one in his mind. Before blood. Before betrayal. Evelyn stood barefoot in the courtyard, spinning in a white dress, laughing like the world never touched her.“Come on,” she called. “It’s not over.”Her hair danced around her face like flame in sunlight. She looked younger. Untouched by pain. A version of Evelyn that perhaps never existed outside of his memory.Kabri stepped forward, and the tiles beneath his feet warmed.She reached out her hand.“I’m not a ghost,” she whispered.He took her hand. It felt real.It felt like home.Then—like a tear dropped on fire—she vani