The next morning, the village of Dar al-Afiyah awakened to the clanging of pots, children's laughter, and the slow rhythm of survival. But Idris felt no laughter in his bones—only the echo of the night's vision, burning like a lantern in his chest.
He had barely slept. The figure at the masjid, the glowing scales, the words: "You have asked why. Now prepare to ask how."
He washed for Fajr prayer in silence, his hands trembling under the cold water. When he entered the masjid, it felt as if the air inside was heavier—sacred, expectant.
The village imam, Shaykh Yunus, was already praying. A man of few words but deep eyes, he finished the prayer and sat quietly as Idris approached him.
"Shaykh," Idris whispered, "last night... something strange happened."
Shaykh Yunus glanced at the boy, his gaze calm. "Strange things happen to those who truly ask. Tell me."
Idris described everything—the robed figure, the radiant scales, the words, the feeling that the vision had not been a dream.
The Shaykh closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, they held a depth Idris had never seen before.
"Come with me."
He led Idris behind the masjid, through a small garden where fig trees leaned over ancient stones. Hidden beneath a patch of overgrown grass, the Shaykh lifted a slab of flat stone with surprising strength.
Beneath it, wrapped in layers of cloth and old parchment, was a small wooden box.
"This," said Shaykh Yunus, placing the box in Idris's hands, "was given to me by my teacher, and to him by his teacher before that. We were told to guard it—and to give it only when a child of sincerity saw the sign."
Idris's heart pounded as he unwrapped the box and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside was a simple brass pendant, shaped like balanced scales. Though old, it gleamed as if newly polished. A strange warmth radiated from it, not of fire, but of light. On the back, an inscription in ancient Arabic:
وَأَقِيمُوا الْوَزْنَ بِالْقِسْطِ وَلَا تُخْسِرُوا الْمِيزَانَ
("And establish weight in justice and do not make deficient the balance.") — Surah ar-Rahman, 55:9
"The Seal of Mīzān," the Shaykh said. "Forged long ago by the Lightbearers—an order of men and women who walked the earth with one mission: to defend the oppressed, uphold justice, and remind the world of the balance set by Allah."
Idris stared at the pendant, feeling its glow seep into his skin.
"Why me?" he asked.
"Because most people are content with the world as it is," the Shaykh replied. "But you were not. You asked why it is unjust—and you didn't turn bitter. You sought truth, not revenge."
He motioned for Idris to sit. "But know this, Idris. Justice begins not with the sword, but with the self. Many seek to fix the world before fixing their hearts. The Lightbearers were trained first in wisdom and restraint—before ever confronting tyranny."
Idris nodded slowly. "Then I want to learn."
The Shaykh smiled for the first time. "Then your journey begins."
He pressed the Seal of Mīzān into Idris's palm. The instant it touched his skin, Idris felt a pulse of warmth flow through his body—then silence.
From that moment, he felt as if the world had shifted. Every lie, every cruelty, every injustice—he felt them more deeply now. His eyes saw the same village, but now the shadows looked darker. The wounds of his people were clearer.
He wasn't just seeing the world anymore.
He was weighing it.
That night, he sat beneath the stars again, clutching the pendant.
"Ya Allah," he whispered. "I don't know what I'm supposed to become… but guide me. Let me not become the kind of man I stand against."
And from the horizon, as if in answer, a wind stirred the trees. The path ahead would be dangerous, but his footing had been placed on solid ground:
Justice.
End of Chapter 2