📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
إِنَّ اللّهَ يَأْمُرُكُمْ أَن تُؤدُّواْ الأَمَانَاتِ إِلَى أَهْلِهَا وَإِذَا حَكَمْتُم بَيْنَ النَّاسِ أَن تَحْكُمُواْ بِالْعَدْلِ
"Indeed, Allah commands you to render trusts to whom they are due and when you judge between people to judge with justice…"
— Surah An-Nisa (4:58)
The city of Zafraan slept uneasily.
Storm clouds gathered above its golden domes. To most, it was merely weather. But to Idris, it felt like a sign—like the heavens themselves were watching the city's game of deception and delay.
Lady Nasira called for him that morning.
"You must enter the palace," she said bluntly. "There is a voice within it—one who whispers truth among lies. If we are to change anything, you must find him."
"Who is he?"
She hesitated. "They call him the Whispering Scribe. No one sees him. Only messages appear. Hidden scrolls, smuggled through servants and ink."
Idris bowed. "I will go."
She handed him a robe of a palace page and a false sigil. "Today, you wear their mask. Be careful not to become it."
The palace was more beautiful than Idris imagined—tiled mosaics of ancient battles, fountains that sang, and corridors perfumed with sandalwood. But behind every polished corner were eyes, guards, and walls that listened.
As he swept through the halls pretending to clean, he caught murmurs—nobles laughing about peasants, judges accepting "gifts," ministers reciting hollow verses.
Then he heard it.
A whisper. Not from a tongue, but a piece of folded parchment slipped beneath a brass statue.
"The Emir's justice is for sale. Beware the man with the red hawk ring."
He looked up. No one. Only shadows.
The Whispering Scribe was real.
That night, as he tried to exit the palace, a blade was pressed to his neck.
"Not very good at sneaking, are you?" a voice said—low, firm, and filled with annoyance.
A tall figure in a dark cloak pulled him into a side room.
The hood fell back.
A young man, no older than twenty-one, with sharp eyes and a deep scar along his jawline. A dagger at his side, a broken Seal shard hanging around his neck.
Idris's eyes widened. "You're… a Lightbearer?"
"Was," the man snapped. "Until they shattered my Seal for speaking truth through action."
"Who are you?"
The man sneered. "I am Zayd ibn Jahlun, once chosen like you. But I don't beg kings for justice. I take it."
Zayd paced. "You think justice is earned by words and wisdom? You think quoting ayat will stop the whip from striking a poor man's back?"
"There is power in truth," Idris said calmly.
Zayd scoffed. "Power without force is poetry. Nothing more."
"What happened to your Seal?" Idris asked quietly.
"I used it to free a slave boy," Zayd said. "Burned a magistrate's records. The Council called it extremism. They broke my Seal, exiled me. But I didn't stop."
He pointed at Idris. "They'll break you too. Unless you act now."
Idris lowered his gaze. "I will not become the darkness to fight it."
Zayd approached. "Then you are weak."
"No," Idris said. "I am different."
Suddenly, a knock at the chamber door.
Zayd drew his dagger. Idris motioned for silence.
A voice whispered: "The Scribe awaits in the Archive. Come before the bells toll."
Idris turned to Zayd. "We can find truth together."
Zayd shook his head. "I don't follow scribes. I follow fire."
He vanished into the shadowed corridor.
The Archive was hidden beneath the western wing of the palace. Dust and silence filled the air.
There, among scrolls and ancient manuscripts, Idris found a small oil lamp glowing on a table—and beside it, a hooded figure, writing without pause.
"You are the Whispering Scribe?" Idris asked.
The figure nodded, never looking up. "I write because I cannot speak. My tongue was taken by the Emir's father."
Idris bowed. "Why risk this?"
The Scribe wrote quickly:
"Because silence is a sin when truth is dying."
Then he handed Idris a scroll sealed in wax with the Emir's crest.
"This document proves that the Emir pardoned criminals in exchange for bribes. Take it to the people."
Idris held it like fire.
"Zayd wants war," he said. "He burns to bring justice. But I…"
The Scribe placed a hand on Idris's arm.
"Zayd is a sword. You are a scale. The world needs both—but in balance."
As Idris left the palace that night, scroll hidden beneath his robe, he looked up at the dark sky.
Rain began to fall again, soft and steady.
Justice was stirring.
But so was war.
And Idris would soon have to choose:
Fight like a fire?
Or shine like a lantern?
End of Chapter 7