📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
إِنَّ اللَّهَ يُدَافِعُ عَنِ الَّذِينَ آمَنُوا
"Indeed, Allah defends those who believe."
— Surah Al-Hajj (22:38)
The stars glimmered cold and distant as midnight crept over Nurhal.
Inside the masjid, torches were dimmed. Voices were hushed. But hearts burned.
Idris stood in the courtyard with Malik, Nasira, Bahir, and several elders. The masjid gates were bolted. The doors reinforced.
But most importantly: the people were ready.
"The Emir's mercenaries are led by three captains," Idris said, holding up Ranya's scroll.
He pointed to a rough map on the ground, drawn in chalk over the stone tiles.
"Captain Ghurab takes the eastern wall. He was once loyal to the old regime—he may still listen to reason."
"Captain Dajan leads the elite spearmen," Bahir added. "Unshakeable and ruthless. He'll strike first and fast."
"And the last?" Nasira asked.
Idris's eyes darkened. "Captain Raqqan. A foreigner from the desert tribes. He's not here for coin. He's here to make a statement. That makes him the most dangerous."
The strategy was simple—but bold.
Split the defenders into three teams—one per gate.
Ambush Raqqan's men at the south alley, using the city's winding paths against them.
Use a decoy minbar sermon—a powerful speech by Idris broadcast from the masjid tower to give the illusion of calm and disarm the attackers mentally.
And the final move?
Expose the Emir's scroll—the evidence of unlawful war and paid assassinations—right as the battle reached its peak.
It wasn't just about surviving the attack. It was about waking the city up.
The minutes passed.
Whispers of prayer echoed through the masjid halls.
"Ya Allah… grant us victory for the sake of justice."
Children were hidden in the upper rooms, guarded by elderly volunteers who refused to flee.
Women prepared water, cloth, and herbs—ready to treat the wounded. Many clutched daggers, unafraid.
Nasira led the archers to the north balconies.
Malik vanished into the alleyways with a group of swift-footed youth ready to strike from the shadows.
Idris stood alone in the courtyard.
Waiting.
Then—a horn.
Far off.
Faint.
Then closer.
Drums.
Shields clashing.
Boots marching.
The Iron Guard had come.
From the eastern street, Ghurab's soldiers appeared—faces veiled, spears gleaming.
But as they neared the masjid gate, Idris stepped out with hands raised.
"Ghurab ibn Salim," he called. "You once swore to defend the innocent of Zafraan. Will you now break that oath for gold?"
Ghurab hesitated.
His men looked at him.
Idris held up Ranya's letter—reading aloud the part where the Emir had written:
"Spare no one—not even the children. Burn it if needed."
Gasps. One of Ghurab's own lieutenants stepped back in shock.
And Ghurab—jaw clenched—lowered his spear.
"Fall back," he ordered.
"We do not spill innocent blood."
His men obeyed.
The eastern gate was spared.
But there was no time to celebrate.
From the southern alley came the sound of shouting—Captain Raqqan had arrived.
Fierce, fast, and brutal.
His mercenaries rushed forward like a storm. But they did not expect what came next.
A net of ropes tightened across the narrow path—tripping the first wave.
From behind barrels and rooftops, Malik's team sprang out—stones, smoke bombs, and oil pots flew through the air.
Fire blinded the attackers.
Confusion spread.
Then Malik himself leapt down, striking with the flat of his blade.
"No more fear!" he shouted. "You attack a house of Allah!"
The mercenaries stumbled—divided and without direction.
Raqqan himself fought like a beast—but now he was alone.
He was finally forced to retreat into the dark, vanishing with only a handful of men.
But one gate remained.
The western entrance—where Captain Dajan was already breaching the masjid.
His elite spearmen had smashed through the old wooden doors, storming the outer halls.
But here Idris had left his last surprise.
The sermon.
From the high minaret, the masjid speakers carried Idris's voice—recorded just an hour before:
"To those who carry swords against the people—know that your weapons are as dust if they serve falsehood. Do not fight the ones who stand for justice. For Allah is not with the oppressor."
The echo shook the attackers.
Some slowed.
Some stopped entirely.
But Dajan did not.
He pushed forward, snarling.
Until he entered the main prayer hall—
—and found no one.
A trap.
From the walls above, hidden archers released blunt arrows, knocking helmets askew and disorienting his troops.
Nasira dropped from a column, blade at Dajan's throat.
"Yield."
He hesitated.
Then dropped his sword.
"We were told… this place was filled with rebels."
Nasira glared. "It is filled with believers."
By dawn, the Iron Guard had scattered.
Ghurab had joined the people.
Raqqan had vanished into the sands.
Dajan's troops had surrendered.
And Idris climbed the minbar again—this time not with warning, but with truth.
He held up the scroll from Ranya. The crowd listened in stunned silence as he read the Emir's crimes:
Paid killings.
Orders to silence scholars.
A plan to burn the masjid.
Gasps turned to rage.
Rage turned to unity.
And unity turned to a single word, rising from the hearts of the crowd:
"ENOUGH!"
For the first time in years, Nurhal chose to speak.
And Idris knew:
The Emir's hold had begun to crack.
End of Chapter 16