📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
وَلَا تَلْبِسُوا الْحَقَّ بِالْبَاطِلِ وَتَكْتُمُوا الْحَقَّ وَأَنتُمْ تَعْلَمُونَ
"And do not mix the truth with falsehood or conceal the truth while you know [it]."
— Surah Al-Baqarah (2:42)
The city of Zafraan was nothing like Dar al-Afiyah.
Where Idris had grown among fig trees and faded mud homes, Zafraan towered with marble archways, bustling markets, and streets perfumed with rosewater. Banners fluttered in golden threads, and smiling faces were everywhere—but beneath the beauty, Idris sensed something was wrong.
He had traveled for days after Shaykh Yunus gave him a sealed letter and a mission: deliver it to Lady Nasira, an old Lightbearer hiding within Zafraan.
"She watches," the Shaykh had said. "But the city is sick with lies. Be careful. Not every truth belongs to every ear."
The guards eyed him suspiciously at the city gate, but the mention of Nasira's name changed their tone. Soon, he was escorted through winding alleys into an old courtyard covered in jasmine vines.
Lady Nasira was not what he expected—elderly, yes, but sharp-eyed, sitting on a stool as she embroidered golden thread into a torn shawl.
"You carry the Seal," she said after reading the letter. "And you want to speak truth?"
Idris nodded. "Truth, and justice."
She smirked. "Then you've come to the worst place. Zafraan doesn't silence truth. It sells it."
That evening, she took him to the rooftop. From there, the Grand Palace shimmered in the distance.
"There sits Emir Jalal. Every Friday, he holds court. He says sweet things. Recites poems. Hands out coins. But ask the poor in the southern quarter about justice, and they'll show you their hunger."
The next day, Idris stood among the crowd in the palace court.
The Emir arrived in robes white as snow, smiling like a scholar. One by one, people presented their cases.
A widow wept, accused of stealing bread for her children. A rich merchant brought the claim.
The Emir stroked his beard thoughtfully and ruled in favor of the merchant.
"Justice," he said gently, "must not bend for emotion."
Applause followed. Idris felt his stomach twist.
More cases came, and the pattern repeated—whoever spoke with wealth or flattery won. Truth was not denied, just decorated and then dismissed.
That night, Idris told Lady Nasira what he saw.
"The Emir is not a cruel man," Idris said, "but his words twist what is right."
Nasira nodded. "That's Zafraan's sickness. Here, truth isn't killed—it's drowned in perfume."
Idris looked at his glowing Seal. "Then I must speak against it."
"Not yet," Nasira warned. "You speak too purely. In this city, honesty must wear a mask, or it will be crushed."
Later, Idris wandered the marketplace and met an old blind man under a fig tree. The man muttered:
"They call the liar clever, and the truthful a fool."
Idris listened.
"You see this city for what it is," the boy said.
The man turned toward him. "You carry a light. But beware—those who live in darkness may try to snuff it out."
He handed Idris a white feather wrapped in a red thread, then vanished into the crowd.
As Idris held the feather, the Seal of Mīzān pulsed warmly against his chest.
The trial had begun—not a trial of courage, but of wisdom.
He would need to speak, not to please—but to awaken.
To serve justice, not with anger, but with clarity.
To bear the light, even when the world called it fire.
End of Chapter 4