📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
وَقُلْ جَاءَ ٱلْحَقُّ وَزَهَقَ ٱلْبَاطِلُ ۚ إِنَّ ٱلْبَاطِلَ كَانَ زَهُوقًا
"And say: Truth has come, and falsehood has perished. Indeed, falsehood is bound to perish."
— Surah Al-Isra (17:81)
Morning in Nurhal came with a strange silence.
No merchants opened their stalls.
No street performers filled the air with flutes or stories.
Only the pigeons fluttered across the rooftops, as if they too sensed the heaviness in the wind.
Idris and Malik stood near the masjid steps, watching the road to the palace.
"They're late," Nasira muttered.
"No," Malik said. "They're stalling. That means something is being prepared."
Idris nodded slowly. "Or someone."
Moments later, a single black carriage appeared from the far gate of the palace.
It had no guards, no entourage—only one rider, a man cloaked in crimson with the Emir's insignia stitched across his chest in gold thread.
The man dismounted as the crowd parted silently, and walked forward, clutching a scroll sealed in black wax.
The color of war.
The crowd tensed.
Scholars and city elders emerged from the masjid, standing in grim attention.
The messenger stopped before Idris.
He did not bow.
He did not offer peace.
He merely said:
"This is the Emir's answer."
Idris broke the seal and read aloud:
"To those who challenge the throne with words of softness and speeches of rebellion—know this:
Zafraan is not ruled by parchment, but by steel.
I will not kneel before councils of clerics, nor will I answer to street-bred agitators preaching sermons of sedition.
If you desire fire, then fire you shall receive.
Disperse your gatherings by nightfall—or face the lion's teeth."
The seal at the bottom was unmistakable: the Crescent Lion of Nurhal, soaked in red ink.
The people erupted into shouts.
"He refuses justice!"
"Is this his mercy?"
"Let us march!"
But Idris raised his hands.
"Silence!"
The square fell quiet again.
He looked at the messenger.
"And if we do not disperse?"
The man smiled coldly. "Then the Iron Guard rides at dawn. With orders to cleanse the masjid first."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Nasira stepped forward in fury, but Malik held her back.
Idris closed the scroll, his voice steady.
"Then carry this message back to the Emir: the masjid belongs to the people, not to kings. And we will not move."
The messenger gave no reply. He simply turned, mounted his horse, and vanished into the palace road.
That night, Nurhal held its breath.
The scholars prayed in circles within the masjid. Children were hidden in cellars. Old soldiers took down swords from their walls, long unused but still sharp.
Idris stood in the minaret, watching the palace lights flicker like cold stars in the dark.
Malik joined him, arms folded.
"You know what this means."
"Yes," Idris said. "He has chosen to wear the mask of Pharaoh."
Malik studied his brother. "You're not ready for war."
"No," Idris said. "But I am ready for truth."
Then, from the shadows of the courtyard below, a figure approached the masjid.
Not a soldier.
Not a rebel.
A young palace servant, no older than fifteen.
His hands shook as he held out a small hidden letter, eyes wide with fear.
"For… Idris ibn Harun. From inside the palace."
Idris took the parchment and read it beneath the moonlight.
Its words were brief—but terrifying.
They're not waiting until dawn.
They move tonight.
Midnight.
Masjid first.
You must flee.
—A Friend Behind the Veil
Idris turned to Malik, his voice grave.
"Tonight, the truth will bleed."
Malik's eyes burned. "Then let us be ready when it does."
End of Chapter 14