The Veil Slips

📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)

يَا أَيُّهَا الَّذِينَ آمَنُوا إِنْ تَتَّقُوا اللَّهَ يَجْعَلْ لَكُمْ فُرْقَانًا

"O you who have believed, if you fear Allah, He will grant you a criterion (to judge between right and wrong)."

— Surah Al-Anfal (8:29)

The letter shook in Idris's hands.

The moonlight painted its edges silver, but the words bled darkness into his thoughts.

They're not waiting until dawn.

They move tonight.

Midnight.

Masjid first.

You must flee.

— A Friend Behind the Veil

The ink was carefully written, not rushed. The handwriting bore elegance—trained, deliberate. Not a child's hand. Not a servant's scrawl.

Idris read it again.

Then again.

"Something's wrong," he muttered.

Malik looked over his shoulder. "What is it?"

Idris's eyes narrowed. "This was not written in fear. It was written with precision. That means… the writer is practiced."

"Meaning?"

"Someone within the palace inner circle."

They brought the messenger boy into a quiet chamber in the back of the masjid.

He was thin, eyes darting like a hunted animal.

"I'm not a spy!" he said quickly. "They—they just told me to carry the letter! I didn't open it, I swear by Allah!"

Idris softened his tone. "We don't think you wrote it, lad. We need to know who gave it to you."

The boy hesitated.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"It was the seamstress. The one who stitches the Emir's banners and robes. She gave it to me just before evening prayers and told me to run like my life depended on it."

Nasira's brow furrowed. "The palace seamstress?"

"She wears blue," the boy whispered. "Her name is... Ranya."

Malik stood back, stroking his beard.

"I remember her. She was a noble's daughter once. Her family fell from favor after her brother was accused of treason."

Idris's eyes lit up. "That's it."

"What?"

He pointed to the letter.

"The calligraphy. It matches the old courtly style—the kind nobles were trained to write in before the Emir changed the curriculum. I saw it once before, years ago."

He turned to Nasira.

"Get me my father's scrolls. The ones from before the siege."

Moments later, old papers were laid out on a prayer rug—scrolls Idris had kept in secret. Among them was a letter written by a young woman addressed to Idris's father, warning of corruption in the palace food stores.

The script was the same.

Ranya bint Alimah.

A name long lost.

A voice long silenced.

And now… the one risking her life to send warnings from within the lion's den.

"Ranya was close to my mother," Idris said softly. "I thought she was dead."

Malik's expression grew dark. "If the Emir discovers she's the informant—"

"He won't," Idris said. "Because we're going to protect her."

"But how do we reach her?" Nasira asked. "The palace is locked at night. She'll be surrounded."

Idris looked at the moon's position.

"Not if we go now."

In hushed tones, Idris gathered a small trusted team—Malik, Nasira, and a former palace scribe named Bahir. They slipped into robes of palace servants and made their way through the old aqueduct tunnels beneath Nurhal.

Long ago, Idris had played in these tunnels. Now, he moved through them with purpose.

Their torches flickered as they crept below the sandstone arches, listening to the distant hum of guards above.

At last, they reached the underground entrance near the royal laundry wing.

It was there they found her.

Ranya.

Dressed in deep blue, seated beside a loom. Her fingers moved swiftly over fabric, but her eyes turned to them the moment they entered.

"You're late," she said.

Malik grinned. "She hasn't changed."

Ranya stood and approached Idris, face sharp with intelligence.

"I wrote fast and vague, because I knew they might intercept the messenger. But I had to warn you."

"Why?" Idris asked. "Why now?"

Her eyes softened.

"Because for the first time… I believe someone can succeed. Someone is making the city believe again."

She handed Idris a second note.

"This one… is far more dangerous. It holds the names of the mercenary captains the Emir is hiring—and the exact plan of attack."

Idris took it, heart pounding.

"This could turn everything."

"No," Ranya said. "You will turn everything. I'm just a needle in the folds of power."

Footsteps echoed from the hallway above.

Ranya's eyes widened. "You have to go—now!"

"Come with us!" Nasira urged.

Ranya shook her head. "I'll stay. I'm still of use here. If you succeed… I want to see the dawn rise from these windows."

Idris hesitated—but finally nodded.

"May Allah guard you."

"And you," she said, eyes firm. "You carry the prayer of a city now."

They disappeared into the tunnels once more, scroll in hand.

By the time they reached the masjid again, Idris knew everything would change by midnight.

The names on the scroll would allow them to predict the attack, to expose the Emir's private dealings, and possibly to turn the mercenaries themselves.

He climbed to the minbar and raised the letter.

"People of Nurhal," he called.

"This night, we do not run. We do not scatter. We do not die in silence."

He held up Ranya's letter.

"We speak. We expose. We awaken the lion's shadow—and face it together."

End of Chapter 15