📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
فَصْبِرْ صَبْرًا جَمِيلًا
"So be patient with gracious patience."
— Surah Al-Ma'arij (70:5)
The courtyard of the Grand Masjid brimmed with anticipation.
People filled every stone and step, their faces tilted toward the palace road. Merchants closed their shops. Children sat wide-eyed beneath the archways. Old warriors leaned on spears long unused. Everyone waited for the Emir's answer to the summons of justice.
The minaret banners fluttered. Scholars stood shoulder to shoulder. Idris stood alone.
His scroll of reform rested against his chest—sealed, complete, prepared for the moment when the Emir would come.
But he hadn't yet.
And the sun was rising.
Nasira whispered from behind him, "If he refuses to come today, the city will decide without him."
Idris nodded. "And that might be worse."
Then suddenly, the crowds parted.
Not from the palace gates, but from the western road—the old desert trail that led into Nurhal from the edge of the Saffron Wastes.
A solitary rider appeared.
White robes, dusty with travel.
A tall figure, face shadowed by a turban, riding a dark desert horse. A curved staff was strapped to his back, and a strange pendant glowed faintly on his chest.
The crowd went silent.
The rider stopped at the masjid gate and dismounted.
With quiet purpose, he stepped forward. Idris watched him closely, a faint frown forming.
The man bowed respectfully to the scholars, then turned toward Idris.
And smiled.
That smile… was a memory.
A buried echo.
A voice returned from the past.
"You always looked more comfortable in the dirt than in gold robes, brother."
Idris froze.
His hands trembled.
"…Malik?"
The rider removed his turban veil.
There he was.
Malik ibn Harun.
Idris's older brother.
The one lost in the Siege of Aklim.
The one assumed dead.
The one who had once trained Idris in archery, then vanished into war, never to return.
"You're supposed to be—"
"Gone?" Malik smirked. "Not quite. Just... misplaced."
They embraced, but it was a tight, uncertain embrace—full of questions.
Nasira stepped forward, stunned.
"But how... where have you been all these years?"
Malik's face darkened. "The deserts beyond Nurhal are not as dead as they seem. I joined the resistance of the People of the Dunes. I served in secret, under the banner of justice… in my own way."
He looked around.
"This movement of yours, Idris—it's impressive. But dangerous."
Idris raised an eyebrow. "You always told me to fight for the truth."
"Yes," Malik said, "but not like this."
The two brothers were led inside by the scholars. Tea was poured. The people waited outside.
And the debate began.
"You're stirring the city into civil strife," Malik said, voice low. "I've seen towns burn for less."
"I've seen cities rot because no one dared to speak," Idris answered.
"You want the Emir to answer to scholars?"
"I want him to answer to Allah first, then to the people he betrayed."
Malik shook his head. "Do you know what he'll do to you?"
"I know what will happen if I do nothing."
Malik placed a folded scroll on the table.
It bore the seal of the People of the Dunes—a hidden alliance of exiled warriors, mystics, and old nobility.
"He's planning something," Malik said. "I heard whispers on the trade winds. The Emir has called for mercenaries from the north. If your reforms move forward... he'll crush the city with force."
Idris narrowed his eyes. "Then he is proving our point."
"No," Malik said softly. "He's preparing for war."
Outside, the people still waited.
Some chanted Idris's name. Others prayed. Some simply stood in silence, hopeful and afraid.
Inside, two brothers faced a storm.
"I didn't come to stop you," Malik finally said. "I came to stand beside you."
Idris looked up.
"I don't want to fight him," he said. "I want to remind him of his duty."
"Then we'll remind him," Malik replied. "Together. But be ready."
He glanced out the masjid window at the distant palace.
"Because if he refuses to remember... we'll have to make him."
End of Chapter 13