📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)
وَلَا تَسْتَوِي ٱلْحَسَنَةُ وَلَا ٱلسَّيِّئَةُ ۚ ٱدْفَعْ بِٱلَّتِى هِيَ أَحْسَنُ
"The good deed and the evil deed are not equal. Repel evil with that which is better."
— Surah Fussilat (41:34)
The seven nights passed.
Each one felt like a blade drawn, waiting to strike.
Idris did not spend those nights in hiding or fear. He walked openly through the streets, visited the scholars in the House of Scrolls, offered prayers in the Grand Masjid, and listened to the stories of the poor.
"Why are you not afraid?" a child asked him on the eve of the journey.
Idris smiled gently. "Because Allah is with those who stand for truth."
The morning of the council dawned gray and windless.
The palace gates, once symbols of grandeur, now loomed like jaws of a beast.
Idris walked forward, dressed simply in white, accompanied by Zayd, Nasira, and Bahir.
"I still say we shouldn't let you walk in without a sword," Bahir muttered.
"We bring truth," Idris replied. "Let them bring the swords."
The guards stood aside—not out of loyalty, but from orders. Even Emir Jalal wanted the illusion of peace.
The grand chamber was filled.
The Council of Emirs sat like vultures robed in silk.
At the center sat Emir Jalal, clad in purple and black, a polished ring on every finger. His face bore a mask of calm, but his fingers tapped the armrest—impatient, irritable, afraid.
"My court welcomes you, Idris ibn Zubair," he said, his voice rehearsed. "Let us speak like men of reason."
"I am not here to flatter," Idris answered. "Only to speak the truth."
The first accusations were raised.
A portly advisor named Azim claimed Idris had incited rebellion.
Another councilor, Rashid, read forged letters implying foreign plots.
Qadir, cloaked in shadow, offered manipulated accounts of "testimonies" from anonymous witnesses.
Each charge was countered.
Zayd presented records, dates, documents.
Nasira exposed the forgeries.
Idris did not defend himself like a man desperate for innocence—he spoke like a witness to injustice, not a defendant.
"Do not fear my words," Idris said. "Fear what they reveal."
But Jalal had prepared a final stroke.
He raised a hand and motioned to the rear of the chamber.
Two guards dragged in a figure—chained, hooded, bruised.
When the hood was removed, a collective gasp rippled through the room.
It was Yunus ibn Zubair.
Idris's father.
Alive.
Bloodied.
Eyes hollow.
"Your son's rebellion has cost us everything," Yunus rasped. "He has abandoned the oath of our house. I... I disown him."
The chamber fell into stunned silence.
Idris's jaw tightened—but he did not falter.
He walked forward slowly, knelt beside his father, and whispered something only he could hear.
Yunus's lip trembled. His chained hands gripped Idris's sleeve.
And then, he wept.
"I lied," he choked. "They threatened the orphans in the quarter… I—I lied…"
Qadir surged forward, shouting, "Enough! He's mad—he's broken!"
But the moment was gone.
The illusion shattered.
Zayd rose. "You have your witness, my Emir. And he has spoken."
Nasira held up a scroll—a signed confession from a palace guard turned witness. "And this proves that the palace fire was no act of rebellion. It was ordered—by Emir Jalal himself."
The guards shifted.
Even the councilors looked uneasy.
One by one, some stood and walked out, unwilling to partake in a farce.
Jalal stood.
Face livid.
"Arrest them all!"
But no guard moved.
The illusion of fear had crumbled.
One soldier laid his sword at Idris's feet.
Another turned his back on the Emir.
Qadir drew a dagger.
But Bahir was faster—a flash of steel knocked it from his hand.
Qadir was seized.
Jalal's eyes widened.
He reached for the ceremonial scepter beside his seat.
But before he could raise it, a voice echoed from the entrance:
"Drop it, Jalal."
A cloaked man strode into the court.
Half the room froze.
Nasira whispered in disbelief: "Is that…?"
The man threw back his hood.
Scarred face.
Sharp eyes.
Ayman ibn Faris—the legendary rebel general once thought dead.
"I bring testimony from Azram, from the southern marshes, from the prisons of Qariyah. I bring witness after witness, all with one name on their lips—yours, Jalal."
The last of Jalal's loyalists turned pale.
The Emir looked around.
At the emptying council.
At the quiet guards.
At Idris.
He dropped the scepter.
Silence reigned.
Then Idris spoke:
"This city is not mine to rule.
But it will no longer be yours to ruin."
That night, the Emir of Nurhal was placed under arrest.
Not by force of rebellion.
But by the will of the people, carried through the voice of truth.
And as the moon rose over the palace, Nurhal tasted something it had forgotten—
Justice.
End of Chapter 23