📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
وَاصْبِرْ وَمَا صَبْرُكَ إِلَّا بِاللَّهِ
"And be patient, and your patience is not but through Allah."
— Surah An-Nahl (16:127)
Before Zayd became a name whispered with both awe and fear, he was just a boy with bloodied hands and a bruised heart.
The village of Qal'at al-Zuhur once sat nestled between valleys, surrounded by rose gardens and Qur'an reciters. It was there that Zayd ibn Jahlun was born — to a shepherd father and a mother who stitched verses into tapestries.
His childhood was simple, filled with stars and stories. But like all tales that carry the weight of truth, his peace was short-lived.
One night, raiders descended on Qal'at.
They weren't wild bandits, but soldiers—men in uniform bearing the mark of Zafraan's elite guards. They accused the village of harboring rebels. They found no weapons. But they punished everyone.
Zayd watched as his father was beaten for refusing to give up food. His mother's hands—once so graceful—were broken for protecting a child not her own.
No one came to help.
No judge.
No Lightbearer.
No justice.
At thirteen, Zayd left the ashes of Qal'at with fire in his chest. He wandered for days until collapsing near the city of Halwan. It was there that the Seekers of Nurhal found him.
They saw potential—intelligence, strength, defiance—and brought him into the training of the Lightbearers. For years, Zayd studied Qur'anic law, ethics, and the philosophy of divine justice.
But even within Nurhal, he saw cracks.
Some mentors turned blind eyes to corruption. Others twisted texts to serve the powerful. When Zayd questioned this, he was told, "Justice must be patient."
But Zayd had waited.
Too long.
He earned his Seal earlier than most. A rare honor.
His symbol was a flame within a balance scale—signifying justice with intensity.
He was sent to mediate disputes, to intervene in villages—just as no one had intervened for his.
But one day, he came to a town where a governor had enslaved orphaned children to build roads.
Zayd confronted him.
The man laughed, showing signed papers of royal approval.
Zayd demanded he stop.
When the man refused, Zayd used his Seal—to destroy the chains, to break the records, and to exile the governor by force.
The children cheered. The people rejoiced.
But the Council of Lightbearers summoned him.
"You went beyond your station," they declared.
"You have no right to act as judge, jury, and punisher," said the Grand Mentor.
Zayd replied:
"Then what good is justice if it fears the unjust?"
They shattered his Seal.
He left Nurhal in silence.
From that day, he wandered alone. Helping where he could. But always from the shadows. To some, he was a savior. To others, a vigilante.
Over time, the people began to speak his name in fear and reverence: "Zayd the Broken Flame."
He swore never to join another council, never to bow to another oath that chained mercy behind protocol.
Until he met Idris.
A Lightbearer who still believed justice could come without fire.
Zayd saw in him something he had lost.
Hope.
Back in the present, Zayd stood atop the cliffs of old Qal'at al-Zuhur. The village ruins were still there—cracked stone, shattered wells, and fading memories.
He knelt and placed a small oil lamp in the soil. A ritual he repeated every year.
This time, though, he whispered:
"Maybe the boy I was... would have followed Idris."
He stood.
But his jaw hardened again. His eyes turned toward the horizon—toward Zafraan, where the Emir remained silent.
"But the man I am… knows silence cannot cure tyranny."
He drew a blade—not to kill, but to mark.
He carved into a nearby stone:
"If justice sleeps, the flame must wake it."
End of Chapter 9