📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
وَقُلْ جَاءَ الْحَقُّ وَزَهَقَ الْبَاطِلُ ۚ إِنَّ الْبَاطِلَ كَانَ زَهُوقًا
"And say: Truth has come, and falsehood has vanished. Indeed, falsehood is bound to vanish."
— Surah Al-Isra (17:81)
The next dawn in Zafraan broke not with birdsong, but with a rumble.
It was the sound of awakening.
In the heart of the city's Grand Square, Idris stood upon the Marble Steps of al-Haqq—a public platform once used by judges to declare verdicts. Now, for the first time in years, it would echo with the voice of a Lightbearer.
A crowd had already gathered—merchants, scribes, workers, and children. Lady Nasira stood at the edge of the throng, her veil drawn low, watching in silence. Somewhere in the shadows, Idris knew, Zayd was watching too.
Idris held the scroll from the Whispering Scribe in his hand—its wax seal still unbroken. The final choice had not yet been made.
But the time had come.
Idris stepped forward and raised his voice.
"People of Zafraan, I come not as a prince or a preacher, but as a witness."
He unrolled the scroll, and a hush fell.
"The Emir of Zafraan," he began, "has pardoned known criminals in exchange for gold. While you starve, his halls echo with bribes. While your children weep, his court laughs."
Gasps. Murmurs. Then a heavy silence.
He continued: "This scroll bears his seal. This proof comes from a man who lost his voice so we could find ours."
He held the parchment high.
"I do not call for rebellion," he said. "I call for return—to the justice Allah commands. To Mīzān—the Balance. I call for accountability, not anarchy."
From a rooftop above, a shout rang out:
"He speaks while the tyrant still sits on his throne!"
It was Zayd.
All eyes turned upward as Zayd stood tall, his cloak fluttering in the wind, and his voice laced with fire.
"Idris speaks of balance while the scale has long since shattered!" Zayd roared. "Do you not see? Words alone will not unseat a tyrant!"
The crowd parted as Zayd leapt down from the rooftop, landing with feline grace beside the platform.
He pointed at Idris. "You carry parchment. I carry scars. You speak of peace. I have bled for justice."
Idris stepped down to meet him. "And what would you have us do, Zayd? Burn the palace? Spill blood in the streets?"
"If that is the cost," Zayd growled, "then yes."
The crowd murmured again, torn between fury and fear.
Idris took a deep breath. "Justice is not revenge. If we become like them, what have we won?"
Zayd laughed bitterly. "You still think justice can grow in rotten soil."
Then, a child's voice broke the tension.
It was Alya, the orphan girl from the slums, pushing her way through the crowd.
She climbed onto the platform and stood beside Idris. Her voice trembled, but she spoke.
"My father begged for bread. A guard beat him until he couldn't stand. I saw it. No judge came. No one cared."
Zayd nodded solemnly. "And this is why we act. This is why we strike."
But Alya turned—not to Zayd, but to Idris.
"But now... he listened. He taught us. He brought us bread and stories. He gave us hope."
She looked at the people.
"Justice is not in fire. It's in remembering what it feels like to be human."
A silence fell like a prayer.
Zayd's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in pain.
Idris stepped beside her.
"Zayd," he said gently, "you are right. The system is broken. But if we shatter everything, we also lose what little remains."
He handed the scroll to a neutral scribe in the crowd.
"Take this to the public record. Let it be known. Let the Emir answer in daylight."
The scribe took it, trembling.
Zayd stared for a moment, then turned to leave. But before vanishing into the crowd, he called over his shoulder:
"Your path is slow. Mine is sharp. But we walk the same way—for now."
That evening, across Zafraan, whispers turned to questions. Scroll copies spread like wildfire. Court scribes denied them, but the seal was real, the document true.
The people began to stir—not with torches, but with talk. And talk, as Idris knew, was the beginning of change.
In the quiet of his chamber, he unwrapped the Seal of Mīzān once more. It pulsed faintly, responding not to might, but to mercy.
Then he looked at Alya, who now studied by lamplight beside him.
"Do you still believe I will return?" he asked.
She smiled. "You never really left."
End of Chapter 8