Chapter 1 The Archive That Should Not Exist

The Crusades represent one of the longest and most complex periods in the history of religious conflict. For more than two centuries, these wars involved political, military, and ideological powers from across Europe and the Middle East, giving rise to grand narratives of heroism, sacrifice, and faith.

Official histories record certain figures as the principal actors, kings, commanders, and members of military orders, while thousands of ordinary soldiers appear only as statistical figures in battle reports. Within this framework of historical writing, obedience is treated as a virtue, while desertion is recorded as deviation.

One name that is rarely mentioned without stigma is Robert St. Albans, a former member of the Order of the Temple who, near the end of the Crusading period, chose to abandon his army and align himself with the Islamic world. In European Christian sources, his actions are almost always portrayed as betrayal. His personal motives, battlefield experiences, and psychological condition are rarely examined with seriousness.

Yet the excessive focus on Robert St. Albans obscures a broader historical reality. He was not the only one. Various Latin chronicles and Muslim records indicate the presence of Crusader soldiers, particularly from non-elite ranks, who defected, refused to return to their original forces, or chose to settle in Muslim territories. Some of them vanished entirely from European archives, while traces of their lives appear only in fragmented form within Eastern sources.

It is within this context that the figure of Alaric de Montrevaux becomes historically relevant, not as a great man of history, but as an ordinary young soldier shaped by the mechanisms of war. Alaric is not recorded as a leader, nor as a martyr. He is a product of the Crusading military system, recruited at a young age, trained for obedience, and sent to the battlefield with minimal doctrinal understanding. Like many others, he operated within a structure that eliminated space for moral reflection, where survival depended on absolute compliance with orders.

Historical records rarely attend to individual experiences of this kind. The violence these soldiers committed is treated as a natural consequence of holy war, while its psychological impact is excluded from both theological and military discourse.

Through a narrative reconstruction grounded in historical sources and neglected possibilities, the story of Alaric de Montrevaux offers an alternative perspective on the Crusades. It presents them not as a sequence of victories and defeats, but as a prolonged process of dehumanization and, in certain cases, awakening.

This story does not seek to justify one side or condemn the other. Instead, it begins with a question rarely asked by official history: What happened to the soldiers who stopped believing before the war ended, and why did history choose not to remember them?

***

Rain was no longer rain.

Since the afternoon, what fell beyond the apartment window had been dense grains of snow, like white sand thrown by the wind. Toronto lay sealed beneath a winter storm. Streetlights appeared dim, their glow reflecting off frozen sidewalks, while the sky hung low and heavy, a deep gray as if the city itself were being held in a single, suspended breath. The temperature on Alexander's phone read minus twenty.

On the windowpane, condensation thickened from the inside, forming a thin veil that turned the outside world into a blurred painting. Only occasionally did the silhouette of someone rushing toward a building entrance appear, head lowered against the wind. The storm made no violent noise, but its constancy mattered more. It scraped against glass and walls, producing a long, quiet hiss that made time itself feel more muted than usual.

Inside, Alexander Montreux's study was warm, but never truly calm.

One wall was filled with bookshelves stretching from floor to nearly the ceiling. European history, Middle Eastern history, studies of warfare, translated manuscripts, research notes, academic journals, and several slim limited editions that even university libraries did not always possess. There was order in the arrangement, but also something unruly. Loose papers piled together, sticky notes clinging to margins, photocopied archives, and pages layered with highlighted lines.

Alexander sat at a wooden desk whose surface bore countless pencil marks, traces of papers shifted and notes written without conscious thought. His laptop was open, but the screen did not show work emails or institutional documents. Instead, it displayed the digital catalog of a small museum in Southern Europe and an archival page usually accessible only to select researchers.

He had submitted a request weeks earlier. Filled out forms. Waited for verification. Waited again. A long and tedious formal process. Yet tonight, somehow, the access had opened on its own. Alexander had never trusted coincidences that appeared too neatly arranged.

A desk lamp cast a soft yellow light. Beside the laptop sat a cup of tea gone cold. A black pen, a highlighter, and a thin folder filled with photocopied documents from various sources lay nearby. It looked as though he were building a bridge from scattered fragments, hoping to cross a vast gap long concealed by official narratives.

At the doorway, Hanna Azzahra stood quietly, holding the small prayer garment she had folded earlier in the living room. She had just finished the evening prayer (Isha). Her home khimar was a light cream color, the fabric falling long and soft over her chest, moving gently with her body. She made no sound, yet Alexander always knew she was there. Not because of heightened instinct, but because since marriage, a new rhythm had entered his life. A rhythm that no longer made him work as someone chased by something alone.

Hanna stepped inside slowly. In her hands was a small plate of toast with a bit of honey, and a glass of warm water with thin steam rising from it. She placed them at the corner of the desk, precisely where they would not disturb the piles of paper.

"You have not eaten," Hanna said.

Alexander turned, offering a brief smile. "I forgot."

"You did not forget. You ignored it." Her voice remained gentle, but firm. She was not judging, only reminding.

Alexander did not argue. He reached for the plate, though he did not eat right away. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, as if the catalog entries might turn into answers if he stared long enough.

Hanna sat in the chair beside him and leaned slightly forward, reading the titles and inventory numbers on the monitor. She did not need to ask much. She already understood her husband's patterns. She knew when Alexander needed quiet companionship without interruption, and when he needed to be pulled back to the present.

"Is this a new archive?" Hanna asked.

Alexander nodded. "It should not be accessible yet. But it is open now. I do not know why."

Hanna looked at him, then back at the screen. A list of items appeared with inventory numbers, estimated dates, excavation locations, and curator notes. One item bore a short label that made Hanna's brow crease.

"Fragmentum," she read softly. "A letter?"

"It could be a letter. Or a travel note. Or a personal report," Alexander replied. "What matters is not only that. Look at the side note."

Hanna followed the cursor. In a narrow column appeared a rough Latin translation describing a soldier who did not return, with references to events left unexplained.

Hanna exhaled quietly. "Are you sure this is what we are looking for?"

Alexander leaned back, weighing his words. "I am not sure of anything. But I am certain something has been deliberately concealed. We have seen this pattern before. Too many narratives are too clean. Too black and white."

Hanna fell silent. She studied her husband's face. It was still the face she knew, yet another line appeared there, one that surfaced only when Alexander spoke of the past. A line that resembled an old wound, or a question that had never found its answer.

Alexander had embraced Islam long before meeting Hanna. Not for marriage. Not for romance. He entered it in solitude, through a long process he walked alone. Hanna often imagined that time as an empty room filled only with an inner voice, and Alexander moving within it without support, guided only by honesty that sometimes hurt.

When they met, Hanna did not find someone newly learning to be Muslim. She found someone who had long been Muslim, yet still carried the weight of history and identity. Alexander never displayed his past, but he never fully escaped the questions surrounding his roots, the Montreux name, the half-whispered family stories, and the artifacts that surfaced like shadows in archival records.

Tonight, Hanna felt those questions draw nearer.

"Do you want me to read it too?" she asked.

Alexander shifted the laptop so Hanna could see more clearly. "If you are ready."

Hanna nodded. She adjusted the end of her khimar sleeve so it would not catch on the chair, then leaned closer. Alexander opened the scanned file. The screen revealed aged handwriting. Faded ink. Torn sections. Yet the letterforms bore the unmistakable pattern of the medieval period. An uncertain date. Place names. A disguised author's name. And then a single word that made Alexander hold his breath.

Crux.

The cross.

Hanna stared at the word, then looked at Alexander. "This is about war."

"Yes," Alexander replied. "But not the war from textbooks. This is more personal."

Hanna swallowed. She was not afraid of history. She simply understood that history was not merely data. History was people. History was blood, decisions, fear, and lies passed down.

Alexander scrolled slowly. A partial translation from the curator appeared, but the sentences felt truncated. Many terms were left unresolved. Hanna touched the screen with the tip of her finger without actually making contact, as if afraid of damaging something.

"Why did they not complete the translation?" she asked.

"Because parts of it do not fit the narrative," Alexander answered.

"Whose narrative?" Hanna asked.

Alexander paused. "The comfortable one."

Hanna closed her eyes briefly. She remembered how this had begun. At first, it was only a desire to understand the roots of terminology and conflict. Why the modern world still carried traces of wars centuries old. It had not begun as obsession. It had begun as curiosity. Yet curiosity, when directed toward the wrong place, could become a doorway. And some doors could never be closed again.

Hanna opened her eyes. "Read it slowly. We note the odd parts."

Alexander nodded. He began reading his own translation, because he did not fully trust the curator's version. His voice was low and steady, yet the tension was unmistakable. The text spoke of troops moving through cold and dust. Of cities burned. Of orders to hesitate no longer. Of young men pulled into the ranks of holy war. One sentence described soldiers no longer as men, but as instruments. Another depicted hands stained with blood and the silence after screaming ended.

Hanna held her breath. She did not want to imagine the details, but precisely for that reason, she had to read. She had to know. She had to understand. Then the text shifted.

It became something else.

Like a personal note.

There was a name.

Alaric.

Hanna straightened instinctively. "Alaric?"

Alexander stopped, checking carefully. "It is written Alaricus, but it could be rendered as Alaric."

The name was not unfamiliar to Hanna. In recent weeks, Alexander had mentioned it several times as a possible fictional figure to represent non-elite soldiers, a young man absent from lists of heroes. But now the name appeared in an archive.

Hanna looked at Alexander. "This is not just our concept."

Alexander shook his head slowly. "It is here."

He continued reading. The name appeared in a brief report. A young soldier described as brutal, obedient without question, swift in carrying out orders, and devoid of mercy. A phrase suggested he had been held up as an example to others, a symbol of perfect obedience.

Hanna felt her stomach tighten. She disliked that phrase. A symbol of perfect obedience on a battlefield meant something terrible. Then the text stopped mid-sentence, as if the next page were missing.

Alexander scrolled.

The next file would not open. Access had suddenly been locked again, like a door realizing it was being forced. The screen displayed an access denied message. Alexander exhaled sharply, restraining frustration. He tried again. Still denied.

Hanna glanced at the wall clock. The seconds moved normally. Yet the atmosphere in the room shifted. As if something unseen had altered direction, though the windows remained tightly closed.

"It was open just now," Hanna said softly.

"Yes. And now it is closed again," Alexander replied.

"Did you save anything?"

"I downloaded this one," Alexander said, pointing to the first file. "Nothing else."

Hanna exhaled. "Then this was not an accident."

Alexander said nothing. He stared at the remaining file on the screen, as if it might transform into an answer if he watched long enough.

Hanna drew her khimar closer and said, "If they can close access, there must be another route."

Alexander looked at her. "Another route means risk."

Hanna met his gaze without hesitation. "That risk did not begin tonight."

Alexander remained silent for several seconds, then nodded. Hanna never pushed without consideration. But she also never retreated out of fear.

"We start with what we have," Alexander said.

"Name, location, approximate date. We look for parallel references."

Hanna nodded. "And we organize the notes. So this is not just curiosity."

Alexander leaned back. "Are you sure?"

Hanna looked at the screen. "I am sure we cannot trust only the loudest version of history. People vanish from records. If they vanished because they did something that did not fit the narrative, then the narrative is incomplete."

Alexander looked at her, gratitude softening his blue eyes. He was no longer walking alone.

They worked late into the night. Hanna wrote key points and marked unusual terms. Alexander opened physical books, comparing Latin terms and searching chronicles he had read before. Outside, the snowstorm did not ease. The wind pressed against the windows like hands seeking entry.

Around eleven, Hanna rose to fetch more warm water. She passed through the dim living room and paused before a small framed piece of simple calligraphy, a gift from a friend. She did not know why, but she felt the need to remember that whatever they uncovered had to remain within the framework of faith, not ego. When she returned, Alexander was staring at an old book. Its cover was worn. Its pages yellowed. He rarely opened it because it was too fragile.

"Where did that come from?" Hanna asked.

Alexander touched the cover gently, as if calming something. "A family inheritance. From a distant uncle. I once thought it was a prayer book. It is not."

Hanna sat down again. "You never told me."

"I was only certain in recent months," Alexander said. "There are symbols on some pages. And strange marginal notes."

Hanna leaned forward. "May I see?"

Alexander opened a specific page. A small cross was drawn there, but beside it was another handwriting, different in style, as if added later. Hanna did not understand all of it, but she felt the struggle within it. As though someone had written not for publication, but to endure.

She looked up. "This feels like a journal."

Alexander nodded. "But whose journal, I do not know."

Hanna thought of the family name Montreux, and of how they had separated two layers of time for the novel. The past, Alaric de Montrevaux and Zahra bint al-Qasim. The present, Alexander Montreux and Hanna Azzahra. Two worlds, yet a thread seemed to bind them.

"Do you feel a connection?" Hanna asked.

Alexander remained silent for a long moment. "I do not want to invent a link that does not exist. But I cannot ignore that this book is in my family, and the archive names Alaric."

Hanna folded her hands on the table. "If there is a connection, it may not be blood. It may be narrative. It may be that someone wanted to hide something and placed it somewhere safe."

"Safe means home," Alexander said.

Hanna nodded. "Or descendants. Or a name."

Alexander closed the book slowly. "I do not want us to be dragged too far."

Hanna looked at him. "We are not dragged. We choose. But we must know our limits."

"What are those limits?" Alexander asked.

"Our faith. Our ethics. We seek truth not to justify violence and not to revive hatred. We seek it because something was hidden, and what was hidden may hold a lesson," Hanna replied.

Alexander studied her, then smiled faintly. "I like how you frame this."

Hanna lowered her gaze, returning to her notes. "We organize the structure. So the research has form. And if this becomes a novel, we do not fall into dramatization."

Alexander chuckled quietly. "You still remember this is a novel."

"Precisely because it is a novel," Hanna raised an eyebrow, "we must be more responsible. People believe stories faster than they believe data."

Alexander nodded. He created a new folder on the laptop and named it simply:

TURNED BACK.

Hanna added subfolders:

PROLOGUE, CHAPTERS, HISTORICAL NOTES, ARCHIVES.

They were nearly finished when the lights flickered once. Brief, but enough to dim the screen before returning to normal. Outside, the wind pressed against the building. Hanna looked at the lamp. Alexander looked at the screen.

"Why?" Hanna asked.

Alexander did not answer. A system notification appeared in the corner of the screen as if an update were occurring. Then, without any input, another window opened. In the downloads folder appeared a new file. Its name was only a string of numbers and letters.

Hanna straightened. "Did you download that?"

Alexander shook his head, tension tightening his face. "No."

"Do not open it," Hanna said quickly, still controlled.

Alexander held his hand over the mouse. He looked at Hanna, seeking a shared decision. Outside, the snowstorm made the building sound older, heavier, as if the night itself were knocking.

"If it is a trap, we do not enter," Hanna said.

"But if it is the missing piece?" Alexander swallowed.

Hanna stared at the file. Her chest felt tight, not from panic, but from instinct. This was not coincidence.

"We open it safely," Hanna said.

"Offline. Backup. And not tonight." Alexander nodded.

He disconnected the internet. He copied the file to a flash drive reserved for sensitive documents. He closed the laptop and tidied the desk more carefully than usual, like someone preparing a space for what was to come.

Hanna stood beside him, looking at the old book, then at the flash drive in Alexander's hand.

"We are touching someone else's story," Hanna said softly. "And that story may be full of sin."

Alexander nodded. "I know."

Hanna continued, her voice steady. "If Alaric truly was a brutal young soldier, we must not cleanse him. We must be brave enough to write his darkness first."

Alexander looked at her. "Without spoilers."

Hanna nodded. "I want readers to enter with unease."

Alexander drew a long breath. "All right."

They left the study for the bedroom. The radiator hissed softly. Outside, the storm still rolled over the city, piling snow along the streets and muting traffic sounds. The world felt forced to slow.

Yet in Hanna's mind, there was a sense that this night was more than research. In the bedroom, Hanna arranged the blankets. Alexander stood by the window, watching white swallow the city.

"What are you thinking?" Hanna asked.

"That if archives can lock themselves, if files can appear on their own, then someone is watching," Alexander said.

Hanna held her breath. "Then we must be more careful."

Alexander turned at last. In his blue eyes were fatigue and resolve intertwined. "I do not want you involved if this becomes dangerous."

Hanna met his gaze, unoffended. "I am your wife. I will not watch from afar."

Alexander sat beside her. There was no dramatic embrace. Only sitting close, close enough to remember they were a team.

Hanna lowered her gaze briefly, then said, "Tomorrow we open the file. Then we decide the narrative path. We start from the present, from the entry point. Slowly, we pull the reader into the past."

Alexander nodded. "And Alaric appears as a frightening figure."

"Not frightening like a fictional monster," Hanna said. "Frightening because he is real. Because he is a product of a system."

Alexander paused. "And Zahra?"

"Not yet," Hanna replied. "Let the war speak first. Let Alaric stand alone in the darkness. Let the reader feel the cold of history."

That night, Hanna prayed longer than usual. Not out of fear of documents or watchers, but because she knew that digging into the past did not only uncover facts. It could uncover the darker sides of humanity.

Alexander turned off the light. The room fell dark. Yet deep within, it felt as though embers still glowed. The next morning, the storm had not ended. Snow piled at the window edges. The cold still bit. Alexander made coffee. Hanna prepared a simple breakfast. Then they returned to the study, like people returning to a scene.

Alexander inserted the flash drive.

They closed all connections. They prepared backups. They opened the file. The screen displayed another page of the manuscript that had been cut off the night before. The same handwriting. The same ink. The same breath of history. And this time, more was visible.

Not only about battles.

Not only about obedience.

There was a short paragraph about soldiers who did not return to the ranks. About those who vanished after sieges, about small names crossed off lists, about "traitors" given no space to explain. Among the fragments, one sentence made Hanna and Alexander fall silent.

The name appeared again.

Alaric de Montrevaux.

And immediately after it came a cold description, like a note written by a witness without mercy: a young soldier who was the most obedient, the quickest to spill blood, and the least hesitant when ordered.

Hanna felt cold creep along her neck. Alexander stared at the screen without blinking.

Then something strange happened, not on the screen, but within perception. As if the room slowly dissolved. As if the radiator's hiss receded. As if they were no longer sitting in a Toronto apartment. As if behind those letters, a place was opening its doors.

Not to pull them in as characters, but to make them see. To witness. And when Alexander scrolled to the next page, it was no longer Toronto's snow that touched their skin. It was dry wind, the smell of iron, and dust clinging to the tongue. As though someone had drawn back a curtain. Revealing a battlefield long reduced to numbers. And in the midst of haze and distant cries, a young man in dull armor stood like a shadow.

Tall.

Still.

His hand gripped a sword with a skill far too trained for someone so young. His name echoed in Hanna's mind, not as letters, but as presence.

Alaric.

And the history they had approached as research suddenly felt like a door fully open.

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