The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Damascus street as Samir walked home. He was twenty-five, and the city, even in its modern form, still felt like an extension of himself.
He'd seen more than most men his age, the harsh realities of a world in constant flux, but he'd always found solace in the enduring spirit of his home.
Today, however, an unusual stillness hung in the air, a quiet that felt less like peace and more like the breath held before a scream.
He noticed it first in the market square, usually vibrant with sellers and shoppers. Today, stalls were unmanned, carts overturned, and the colorful chaos replaced by an unnerving emptiness.
A discarded cell phone lay shattered on the cobblestones, its screen displaying only static. He called out, his voice echoing strangely in the sudden void. No answer came.
Turning a corner, he saw them. Standing in the middle of the street were figures that seemed ripped from the pages of history.
Men in full plate armor, their steel gleaming dully in the fading light, their faces grim and resolute. They held swords and axes, weapons that looked brutally real, not museum pieces. Around them, the world seemed to hold its breath.
One of the armored figures, taller than the rest, with a helmet adorned with a snarling wolf's head, stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and resonant, carrying on the still air. "People of this… strange land. We are warriors of the true Kingdom.
You have trespassed into our epoch. By divine right, we claim this territory. Submit, or face the King's wrath."
Samir stared, his mind struggling to grasp what he was seeing. This had to be some elaborate prank, some kind of film shoot gone terribly wrong.
But the weight of the steel, the intensity in their eyes, the archaic language – it all felt profoundly wrong, unsettlingly real. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Around him, other figures emerged from the side streets, also in armor, also armed. They moved with a strange confidence, as if utterly unperturbed by the cars, the buildings, the sheer alienness of their surroundings.
It was like watching ghosts step out of a forgotten age, solidifying into flesh and steel before his very eyes.
A woman, her face hidden behind a visor, pointed a gauntleted finger at a parked car. "What manner of beast is this metal contraption? Does it serve as transport? Or is it some infernal cage?" Her tone was disdainful, laced with suspicion.
She swung her sword, not with a practice swing, but with a focused, brutal intent, and the car's side mirror shattered, glass spraying onto the street.
Panic started to bubble in Samir's chest. This wasn't a prank. This was something else entirely. The air crackled with tension, the silence broken only by the heavy clanking of armor and the strangers' harsh voices.
He saw a young woman across the street, her face white with fear, slowly backing away, clutching her bag to her chest.
"We bring righteous fire to this land of infidels!" roared the wolf-helmeted leader, raising his sword high. "Show us your leaders, your strongholds. Or we shall take them by force, and make this land ours by conquest!" His words were met with a chorus of guttural shouts from his armored followers, the sound chillingly united in its aggression.
Samir found his voice, though it trembled slightly. "Who… who are you? Where did you come from?" He knew it sounded weak, insufficient, but he had to try to understand. He had to find some way to make sense of the impossible scene unfolding before him.
The wolf-helmeted figure turned his head, his visor glinting. "We are the King's guard. We are from a time when men were men, and faith was steel. We have been sent to… cleanse this world, which has strayed from the true path." He paused, his tone hardening. "And you, civilian, will tell us where to find those who rule this place."
Samir looked around, seeing the fear reflected in the faces of the few people who dared to watch from doorways and windows. He thought of the police, the army, the modern world's defenses.
But something in the way these medieval warriors stood, their unwavering conviction, their brutal weaponry, sent a shiver of doubt through him. Were modern defenses enough against something so utterly, terrifyingly different?
"There… there is no king here," Samir managed to say, trying to keep his voice steady. "We have… governments. Leaders elected by the people." He knew, even as he spoke, how alien these concepts must sound to these men from another age.
The wolf-helmeted leader scoffed, a harsh, grating sound. "Elected? By simpletons? Leadership is earned through strength, through divine favor, not by the whim of the masses. Show us these… governments. Take us to your rulers." He took another step forward, his sword point resting on the cobblestones, a silent threat.
Samir hesitated. He didn't know what to do. Lead them to the government buildings? Would that even help? Would modern weapons even deter these men who seemed so utterly convinced of their own righteousness and strength?
He looked at the faces around him, the mixture of terror and bewilderment. This was madness. Utter, unbelievable madness.
"This is not your time," Samir tried to reason, his voice gaining a little strength. "You don't belong here. Go back. Please. You don't understand what this world is like." It was a desperate plea, born of fear and a dawning sense of dread.
The armored woman laughed, a cold, sharp sound. "Understand? We understand conquest. We understand dominion. This world is ripe for the taking. Weak, decadent, and ripe." She spat on the ground, her disdain palpable. "We will not 'go back'. We are here to claim what is rightfully ours."
And then, without warning, one of the armored figures drew a bow and let loose an arrow. It wasn't aimed at Samir, but at a stray cat that had dared to cross the street.
The arrow flew with deadly accuracy, and the cat yelped, collapsing instantly, its life snuffed out in a heartbeat. The casual cruelty of it sent a fresh wave of horror through Samir.
This wasn't just about conquest, he realized. This was about something far more fundamental, a clash of worlds, of values, of everything he understood about civilization. These weren't just warriors; they were conquerors, utterly convinced of their superiority, their right to rule. And they were here, in his city, declaring war.
The wolf-helmeted leader turned to his followers, his voice ringing out again. "Forward! Let us find these rulers, these 'governments'. And let them learn what it means to face the might of the true Kingdom!" With a roar, the armored figures began to advance, their swords and axes held high, their footsteps heavy and ominous on the deserted street.
Samir backed away slowly, his mind racing. He pulled out his own cell phone, miraculously still functional, and fumbled to dial the emergency services number.
His fingers trembled as he spoke, trying to explain the impossible, his voice strained and desperate. "There are… medieval knights… in the city… they're attacking… they're armed… you need to send help… now!"
The voice on the other end sounded disbelieving, skeptical. "Sir, are you sure you're alright? Knights? Are you saying people in costumes?" Samir could hear the doubt, the dismissal in the operator's tone, and a cold despair settled in his stomach. How could he explain this? How could anyone believe him?
"No, they're not costumes! They're real! They have swords, armor… they killed a cat… they're talking about conquest… please, you have to believe me! This is real! People are going to get hurt!" His voice rose in pitch, edging towards hysteria. He could see the armored figures moving closer, their advance deliberate, unstoppable.
"Sir, please calm down," the operator said, her voice still laced with skepticism, but with a hint of something else now, something like unease. "We'll send someone to check it out. What's your location?" Samir rattled off his address, his heart pounding against his ribs. He knew 'someone' checking it out wouldn't be enough. This was beyond anything they could imagine.
He ended the call, his hands shaking. He looked back at the advancing figures, their numbers growing as more emerged from the surrounding alleys. They moved with a chilling sense of purpose, their faces hidden behind visors, their intent brutally clear. This was no isolated incident, no small skirmish. This was an invasion. A war declared against the modern world by figures from a forgotten past.
He watched as they reached the end of the street, turning towards the main avenue, their heavy boots echoing on the pavement. He could hear them shouting, their archaic pronouncements of war and conquest.
The eerie stillness of the city was shattered, replaced by the clanging of steel, the shouts of warriors, and the rising tide of fear.
Samir knew he should run, should hide, should try to escape. But something held him rooted to the spot. A morbid fascination? A sense of disbelief? Or perhaps, a chilling premonition that escape was no longer possible. This was his city, his home. And it was under attack by something utterly incomprehensible.
He saw the armored figures reach the avenue, their forms silhouetted against the dying sunlight. They spread out, their numbers larger than he had initially thought. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, all clad in steel, all armed, all utterly determined. This was not going to be contained. This was going to spread.
A scream pierced the air, followed by another, and then another. From the avenue, sounds of struggle, of panic, began to rise. The first clash had begun. The medieval war machine had rolled into the streets of modern Damascus.
And Samir, paralyzed by fear and disbelief, could only watch as his world began to unravel.
He thought of his family, his friends, the life he had known. All of it felt fragile now, threatened by these figures from the past. He wanted to run, to warn them, to do something, anything. But he was frozen, trapped in the face of the impossible.
The sounds from the avenue grew louder, more frantic. He could hear shouts, screams, the clash of metal on metal, but also something else, something deeper, more disturbing. The sound of terror, pure and unadulterated, rising from the heart of his city.
And then, a figure broke away from the group on the avenue, running back down the street towards Samir. It was one of the armored figures, but this one moved differently, erratically, stumbling as it ran.
As it got closer, Samir could see why. An arrow protruded from its back, and its heavy armor was stained dark with blood.
The armored figure collapsed in front of Samir, falling to the cobblestones with a heavy thud. It lay still for a moment, then twitched, a final, shuddering spasm. Samir stared down at it, his fear slowly giving way to a cold, dawning understanding.
Someone had fought back. Someone had dared to stand against these medieval warriors. But it was just one arrow, one fallen figure. Against an army of them. It was a spark of defiance, but it was also futile. Hopeless.
He looked back towards the avenue. The sounds of fighting continued, but now there was something else mixed in, a new sound, sharp and metallic, that he didn't recognize. But it was growing louder, closer.
And then he saw them. Police cars, sirens wailing, speeding down the avenue, lights flashing in the twilight. They screeched to a halt at the intersection, and figures in uniform piled out, weapons raised. Modern weapons. Guns. Against swords and armor.
For a moment, Samir felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the end. Maybe modern technology could prevail.
But even as the thought formed, another sound reached him, a deep, rhythmic thumping that vibrated through the ground beneath his feet.
The thumping grew louder, closer, resonating in his chest. And then, around the corner from the avenue, they appeared. Not more armored figures on foot, but something else entirely. Horses. Huge, warhorses, armored like their riders, their eyes wild and bloodshot, their hooves pounding the pavement.
Mounted knights. Charging into the intersection where the police had just arrived. The clash that followed was brutal, swift, and utterly devastating. The screams reached a new pitch of agony, mixed with the thunder of hooves, the clang of steel, and the sharp, terrifying cracks of… guns, firing uselessly against the armored onslaught.
Samir watched, his heart turning to ice, as the police were overwhelmed, cut down, trampled. Modern weapons were ineffective against medieval armor, against medieval brutality. It was a massacre. A slaughter. And it was just beginning.
The mounted knights swept through the intersection, scattering what was left of the police force, their warhorses trampling over bodies, their riders wielding swords and axes with brutal efficiency. And behind them, the foot soldiers followed, their advance now unstoppable.
The sounds of fighting spread through the city, echoing from street to street, building to building.
It was no longer a skirmish, no longer a localized incident. It was a full-scale invasion. The medieval army was taking Damascus. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that anyone could do to stop them.
Samir stood alone in the deserted street, the screams of his city ringing in his ears, the stench of blood filling his nostrils. He was just one man, helpless, insignificant, caught in the middle of an impossible war. His world, his life, everything he knew and loved, was being torn apart.
And then, he saw it. Amidst the chaos and carnage on the avenue, something glinted in the dying light. A reflection, a spark of silver. He strained his eyes, trying to see through the smoke and dust, the swirling confusion of battle.
And he recognized it. It was the wolf-helmeted leader, standing amidst the fallen bodies, his sword raised high, silhouetted against the burning buildings in the distance. He was surveying his conquest, his face hidden, but his posture radiating triumph.
But it wasn't the leader himself that caught Samir's attention. It was what the leader was holding in his other hand. A cell phone. Samir's cell phone. The one he had used to call for help. The one he had dropped in his terror.
The wolf-helmeted leader was looking at it, turning it over in his gauntleted hand, his head tilted in puzzlement. Then, he pressed a button. The screen flickered to life, displaying Samir's last dialed number – the emergency services.
And then, the leader looked directly at Samir, his visor glinting in the firelight. He raised the cell phone, as if in a mocking salute. And Samir understood. They hadn't just arrived by chance. They hadn't just stumbled into this time.
They had been brought here. Summoned. And Samir, in his desperate attempt to call for help, had inadvertently given them the key to his own destruction. His call, his plea for rescue, had been the signal, the trigger, that unleashed them upon his world.
The realization crashed over him with the force of a physical blow. It was his fault. He had done this. He had brought this horror upon his city, upon his people. His hope had become his doom. His fear, realized in the most brutal, devastating way imaginable.
The wolf-helmeted leader smiled, a slow, chilling curl of his lips visible even behind the visor. He raised Samir's cell phone again, then tossed it aside, letting it shatter on the cobblestones. He turned back to the battle, to the conquest, leaving Samir standing alone in the ruins of his world, the weight of his accidental betrayal crushing him.
The screams continued, the fires burned brighter, and the medieval army marched onward, deeper into the heart of modern Damascus.
And Samir, the unwitting catalyst of its doom, could only stand and watch, his heart broken, his soul shattered, in the face of a horror he had unknowingly unleashed upon himself and everyone he held dear.
His life, in its cruelly ironic twist, had become the final, brutal casualty of the war he never meant to start.