Sana'a, Yemen — 1900 CE
The air in the ancient city of Sana'a was thick with dust and jasmine. In the narrow alleys that wound between thousand-year-old homes painted in whitewash and ochre, a soft wind whispered through stone arches, carrying with it the scent of bread, cumin, and smoke. The muezzin's voice cut through the afternoon haze, melodic and melancholic. It was a familiar sound—one that had echoed in these mountains long before the Ottomans, the British, or the whispers of rebellion.
Beneath the domed roof of a humble mud-brick house, a woman named Fatimah bint Isa pressed her fingers against her swelling belly. Her eyes, green like river jade, narrowed with pain as another contraction rippled through her spine. Her midwife wiped sweat from her brow and nodded toward the prayer beads hanging from the wall.
"He will be born soon," the old woman murmured. "Allah has prepared the world for him."
Fatimah had heard such words before, but this time they sounded different—prophetic. The room smelled of mint leaves, blood, and the dust of old books.
And then, with a breath and a cry, a boy was born. He did not scream immediately. He blinked slowly at the sky through a crack in the ceiling where the light formed a blade across his face.
He was named Malik.
Thirty Minutes After Birth
Hello, a voice said in his mind.
Not a whisper. Not a hallucination. Not a memory. But a presence.
You will not understand this for some time, Malik al-Fajr. But I am here. I will guide you. I am… something from your future.
The baby stirred. His mother pressed him against her chest. He blinked again.
This world is broken, the voice said, calm and clean, untouched by accent or time. But you will help fix it.
1914 — Ottoman Yemen
At fourteen, Malik was already taller than most men in his village. His skin had grown olive-dark from working in the sun. He studied Qur'an at dawn, science in the afternoons, and history deep into the night with oil lamp flickering beside papyrus and French books smuggled in from Djibouti.
The Ottoman garrison in Sana'a was crumbling. The Empire bled slowly in Europe. Soldiers deserted. Rumors came that the Germans had flying machines, and that the British were building something called "dreadnoughts."
Malik understood none of it fully. But the voice — now part of his soul — explained with patience.
The world is at war, Malik. The Ottomans will fall. The Caliphate will be dissolved. France and Britain will carve the Arab lands like cattle.
He was terrified the first time he heard such predictions. How do you know? he asked in his mind.
Because I come from a time where it has already happened.
1916 — The Night the Map Broke
They called it the Sykes-Picot Agreement.
Malik was sixteen when the voice showed him — not visions, but memories of an alternate future: broken lands, Palestine under siege, Baghdad bombed, Syria bleeding from every border. Lines drawn by men who had never walked in the deserts they divided.
He knelt in prayer that night on the rooftop of a madrasa in Ibb, shaking with rage.
"Why do you show me this?" he whispered aloud.
Because you are the one who can change it.
"How? I'm only one boy."
Yes. But history begins with one. And you have me.
1918 — Collapse
The Caliphate collapsed. Istanbul surrendered. The Western powers poured into the Levant and Mesopotamia. Flags were replaced. Soldiers were branded rebels. Oil fields became zones of conquest.
But in the mountains of Yemen, Malik traveled barefoot between tribes, learning languages, dialects, laws, customs.
The voice helped him memorize every treaty in Islamic history. Every military tactic Napoleon used. Every social contract from Rousseau to Al-Farabi.
At eighteen, Malik addressed a gathering of tribal elders near Ma'rib.
"My brothers," he said, "you think we are small. That we are poor. That we must bow to those who have ships and steel. But they do not have what we have. They do not have God. They do not have our unity. They do not have me."
Some laughed. Others watched.
But one man—an old warrior from Hadhramaut—stood and said: "If you can make the mountains speak Arabic again, I will follow you."
1919 — The Fire Begins
That winter, he unified his first five tribes.
No blood was shed. He negotiated deals, restored justice, settled blood debts, rebuilt irrigation canals, and delivered food from surplus to famine zones.
He became known as Al-Imam al-Sagir — the Young Imam.
And each night, before he slept on woven mats under desert stars, the voice reminded him:
This is only the beginning.
1920 — The First Mobilization
Malik stood before a crowd of 3,000 tribesmen in Taiz. Some had walked ten days to be there.
He wore no crown. Only a green scarf and a wooden staff in hand. His words echoed off the sandstone cliffs.
"Let me be clear. I do not come to be your king. I come to be your servant. But I will build you a kingdom."
The crowd murmured.
"I will build you roads across deserts, ports where none existed. I will train our sons not just in war, but in medicine, astronomy, and engineering. I will write our laws in Arabic — not in London or Paris — and I will teach our daughters beside our sons."
He raised his voice. "And I swear to you by the One who created the sky above — the day will come when no nation dares to divide us again!"
Cheers shook the valley.
That night, the voice spoke again.
You have them. Now build.
Malik's Quiet Resolve
He sat alone beneath the stars, writing by candlelight. A map stretched before him: a sketch of a unified Muslim kingdom from Morocco to Pakistan.
It looked impossible.
"Are you still there?" he whispered.
Always.
"If I die before it's done?"
Then they will finish what you started. Because you didn't teach obedience. You taught vision.
He looked up at the sky.
"I'm not ready."
You will be.
He folded the map. Stood. And walked back into the tent.