The Court of Thorns

📖 Quranic Verse (Chapter Opening)

قُلْ جَاءَ الْحَقُّ وَزَهَقَ الْبَاطِلُ ۚ إِنَّ الْبَاطِلَ كَانَ زَهُوقًا

"Say: Truth has come, and falsehood has vanished. Surely, falsehood is ever bound to vanish."

— Surah Al-Isra (17:81)

The palace of Nurhal was built to intimidate.

High domes of black stone. Guard towers lining the marble walls. Etched ceilings where golden stars stared down at you like silent judges. Idris had only seen it once—years ago, as a child beside his father.

Now he walked it alone.

No weapon. No guards of his own.

Only courage—and truth.

They led him into the Hall of Assembly, where the Emir's Council sat in a crescent.

Twelve men and women—some aged judges, others political puppets. Most kept their eyes low, lips tight. At the head of the room, seated beneath a golden arch, was the Emir himself.

Emir Jalal ibn Fadl. Robed in crimson, his beard streaked with silver. His eyes, cold as a mountain storm.

"Idris ibn Zubair," the Emir spoke. His voice was soft, but every syllable carried the weight of command. "You are accused of inciting rebellion, slandering the crown, and endangering public peace. Do you deny these charges?"

Idris looked around.

"Peace built on oppression," he said calmly, "is not peace. And truth spoken is not slander."

Murmurs rippled through the council.

The Emir raised a hand.

"You speak boldly. But where is your proof?"

Idris untied the small scroll from his waist and held it up.

"This," he said, "was written by your former courier. A confession. Detailing the orders you sent—commanding the massacre of innocent civilians. The burning of the masjid. The killing of anyone who stood in your way."

A servant took the scroll and handed it to the Emir.

He read it slowly. Then smiled.

"A forgery," he said smoothly. "A child's tale written in panic."

Idris stepped forward.

"The wax seal is yours. The ink is yours. And your own former allies have confirmed its truth."

The Emir didn't flinch.

He turned to the council. "Let it be recorded that the accused brings baseless claims. Now, let us hear from witnesses."

One by one, carefully chosen voices stepped forward.

A merchant claimed Idris caused riots.

A noblewoman said he had threatened her estate.

A soldier accused him of "spreading confusion" during the Iron Guard's retreat.

Each lie, smooth as silk.

Idris's fists clenched—but he remained silent. He knew this was not a trial for truth, but a performance for control.

Then the Emir said, "Bring in the final witness."

The doors opened.

And Idris's heart froze.

It was Imam Safwan.

The elderly scholar who had once mentored him. A man of wisdom and quiet faith. The same man who had once told Idris, "A believer's silence can be louder than a tyrant's roar."

Safwan walked slowly to the center.

His face was unreadable.

The Emir smiled. "Imam Safwan, you are respected by the people. Tell us—has Idris led the faithful astray?"

The hall went quiet.

Safwan looked at Idris.

Then at the Emir.

Then… closed his eyes.

And said:

"Yes."

A dagger through the heart.

Idris could barely breathe.

Safwan continued. "He has led the faithful… away from silence. Away from fear. He has taught them to speak truth. And for that—I am grateful."

The Emir's eyes narrowed.

Gasps echoed through the chamber.

Imam Safwan raised his voice.

"I will not bear false witness. Idris is no rebel. He is the conscience this city forgot."

The hall burst into shouting.

The Emir slammed his cane against the marble.

"This court is adjourned!" he barked. "Idris is to be detained until final judgment."

Guards rushed forward.

But Idris did not flinch.

He looked at Safwan—who met his gaze and nodded, slowly.

Then to the council.

Then to the Emir.

And he said:

"A day will come when these walls fall silent—and the voice of the oppressed will rise louder than your throne."

They took him in chains.

But as they dragged him through the palace halls, Idris saw something he didn't expect.

People watching.

Palace servants.

Guards.

Scribes.

Not jeering.

Not mocking.

But thinking.

Whispers were already starting.

And whispers were how revolutions begin.

Meanwhile, far from the palace, in the winding alleys of the old quarter—

Malik, Nasira, and Bahir prepared a counterstrike.

For they had found a hidden tunnel, once used by royal architects.

And deep within it lay not just a passage to the palace prison—

—but the key to the Emir's darkest secret.

End of Chapter 18