Somewhere Beyond Baghdad — Stone Chamber in Darkness
Torchlight flickered and danced across the wooden pillars of the chamber, casting long, quivering shadows on the stone floor. Several men sat cross-legged in a circle, calm in posture yet tense beneath the surface, their eyes sharp, alert, and simmering with resentment that could cut like steel.
A tall man draped in a robe of deep crimson sat with his hands folded on his knees, staring down at the floor. A cold, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. "A month has passed," he said evenly, voice steady, but each syllable carried weight. "And Al-Fadl's daughter has just awakened. One strike. One warning."
"She never saw us coming," said another, his black turban shadowing the intensity in his eyes. "Malian, I must admit, I admire your style."
A third man, broad and thick-bearded, tattooed across his forearms, slapped his palm slowly on the ground. "Too easy… a single strike? That is hardly sufficient. They deserve far worse."
Tension coiled around the chamber, dense and suffocating, until a commanding voice broke the air from a high-backed chair. "Enough."
Instant silence followed.
"We are not child-killers," the voice continued, low and deliberate. "We deliver warnings, not bloodshed. This has never been about the Wazir's daughter alone. It is about shaking their sense of security, testing their confidence."
No one dared to respond.
"Our next target," the voice went on, measured and deliberate, "is the old scholar who spoke against us, daring to oppose our will."
A single torch guttered, its flame faltering—and then died, leaving only the men's faces lit by the faint glow of shadows.
Outside, moments later
The desert wind carried grains of dust, the faint tang of metal, and the distant call of a solitary hawk. From the horizon, horses slowed to a careful trot as figures dismounted. Faris ibn Yahya led the group, his black cloak brushing the sand, his face half-veiled. Behind him, Halim and Rashid followed: Halim, the shadowy tracker who moved with eerie subtlety, and Rashid, a seasoned soldier forged in countless battles, muscles taut beneath his tunic, ready for any strike.
Halim raised a hand, pointing toward the sand. "Cart tracks," he whispered, voice barely more than the wind. "Old, but unmistakable. They lead to that structure."
Rashid's gaze swept the windowless stone building. "Hah… a nest. Built for secrecy. They wish to remain unseen."
Faris observed calmly, noting every disturbance in the sand—the footprints, the upturned earth, the subtle signs of hurried departure. "The network is wider than we feared," he murmured. "This explains the attacks on the Wazir's household."
"Yes," Rashid agreed quietly.
"Poor girl," Halim muttered.
"They did not stop at the Wazir," Halim continued. "Three households in the eastern quarter have suffered similar intimidation. This is no longer a warning—it is coercion, a statement."
Faris's voice dropped, measured and firm. "Then tonight, we act. Quietly, carefully. Precision, not chaos."
Inside the building
The men within the stone chamber remained unaware of Faris and his team, still deliberating their next victim—the scholar known for defying oppression. Each word, each plan, revealed their arrogance and their blind confidence in secrecy.
From concealment behind low walls and sand dunes, Faris signaled silently. Halim's eyes traced weak points in the building, scanning corners, doors, and hidden pathways. Rashid marked patrol patterns, exits, and escape routes.
Faris's gaze swept over the conspirators calmly, unhurried. "We fight only if necessary," he murmured under his breath. "Capture, not slaughter."
The team moved like ghosts. Rope ladders slithered down walls, hands and feet silently negotiating rough surfaces. Hidden doors opened at precise intervals. Within minutes, ten men were bound, gagged, and immobilized. The leader, Malian, struggled violently, but his strength was useless.
Outside, horses waited in shadow, muscles tensed and ready for any emergency.
Faris approached the crimson-robed Malian, his voice low, precise, cutting through the silence. "Your victims were civilians—girls, families unprotected. That will not be forgotten."
Malian spat, trembling. "You… cannot stop this network. This is only the beginning."
Faris leaned closer, eyes dark and steady. "If this is the beginning, your reckoning will come sooner than you imagine."
The men were secured and transported to a hidden fortress in the eastern district. In Baghdad, no one would know of this operation—at least, not yet.
Weeks later, Baghdad
The city moved with its usual rhythm: the call to prayer drifted over winding streets, merchants shouted over market stalls, and the walls of the palace shimmered in the afternoon sun. Aisha—still in Ruqayyah's body—had stabilized after her ordeal. Al-Fadl ibn Sahl returned to his duties, patrolling the corridors with measured steps, his eyes sharp but calm.
Faris stood outside a carved wooden door, hands folded behind his back. Inside, Al-Fadl awaited, seated beside a low table littered with military reports. The wazir's gaze swept over the documents without touching them; he already knew their contents.
"Enter," a servant intoned.
Faris bowed, stepping into the quiet room.
"Faris," Al-Fadl said without looking up, voice steady, almost casual, "I hear you have made discoveries."
Faris straightened, eyes lowered. "We located their hideout, Sayyidī. Ten men, three tied to Baghdad's underworld. They confessed—these were the men who entered your residence that night."
Al-Fadl's hand clenched briefly. His eyes flickered, sharp, then calm.
"They do not see themselves as killers," Faris continued. "They call themselves 'warning-givers.' But someone orchestrates these attacks, testing three eastern households and the Wazir's own family."
Silence thickened in the room, broken only by the distant murmur of palace activity.
"Motives?" Al-Fadl asked.
"To unsettle Baghdad's sense of security," Faris replied. "To test your response. And to measure your strength, Sayyidī."
Al-Fadl finally lifted his gaze, calm but firm. "Someone always seeks to test a wazir's strength," he murmured.
Faris inclined his head. "And someone forgets that true strength lies not only in the sword, but in control."
He rose, robes flowing dark green like shadows in sunlight. Every movement radiated authority, the very air seeming to pause around him.
"Where are they now?"
"Detained, Sayyidī. Brought to the eastern fortress."
"Good," Al-Fadl said. "We will not display them publicly."
Faris frowned slightly.
"If we announce my daughter was targeted politically," Al-Fadl continued, voice smooth as polished steel, "we elevate cowards into enemies of the state. We will grant them no such honor."
A dangerous serenity clung to the wazir, three steps ahead of any adversary.
"What are your orders, Sayyidī?" Faris asked.
Al-Fadl unrolled a map of Baghdad, tracing intelligence routes with a finger. "Proceed as always. Quietly… completely. Transfer the culprits to the Special Division's hidden prison. No public interrogation. No rumor. No spectacle."
Faris nodded. "As you command, Sayyidī."
In that room, between carved wood and dusted sunlight, strategy outmatched chaos. Baghdad remained unaware of the events that had unfolded in shadows, while its protectors—calm, measured, and precise—ensured the city's security with silent vigilance.
————
Somewhere in Kufah — Morning at a Quiet Residence
Muhammad ibn al-Fadl paused at the half-open gate, adjusting the ceremonial sash draped across his shoulder. The morning sun had just begun to burn away the last traces of dew, and the quiet streets of Kufah smelled faintly of figs and dust.
Beyond the gate, a young woman knelt among her flowers, watering each plant with careful, measured movements. Her blue dress was simple yet immaculate, and the thin veil over her face revealed high, graceful cheekbones and a smooth, pale complexion. Her eyes, dark and bright, were intelligent and observant, framed by long lashes that brushed her cheeks. Her lips, full but composed, hinted at both gentleness and quiet confidence. Even in her calm, measured movements, there was an unmistakable elegance—she carried herself like someone born to refinement.
Muhammad hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. He, too, bore the unmistakable mark of Abbasid nobility. His features were strong and balanced: high cheekbones, a straight, noble nose, and burnished copper eyes that held both sharp intelligence and a warmth that softened his gaze. His jawline was firm but not severe, and his dark hair, carefully kept beneath the ceremonial turban, framed a face both commanding and approachable. There was an effortless grace to the way he stood, the poise of a man accustomed to respect but not arrogance.
"Peace be upon you. Is this the residence of Ishaq ibn Sulaiman ibn Ali?" he asked, his tone measured and courteous.
The woman straightened slowly, her eyes lifting to meet his. There was a cool deliberation in her gaze, yet something in the way she regarded him hinted at curiosity, as if she were quietly weighing his character. "And peace be upon you. Yes. Are you his guest?"
"I bring a letter from Baghdad—from Vizier al-Fadl ibn Sahl," he replied.
She inclined her head once, lowering her gaze modestly. "Please enter. I will call him."
As she turned, Muhammad found himself blurting the question before thinking: "Are you… Zainab bint Ishaq?"
Her head tilted slightly, the faintest lift of her lips betraying neither surprise nor annoyance. "Yes. And how do you know my name?"
Muhammad smiled faintly. "Kufah prefers to keep its pearls hidden. Yet sometimes, a pearl reflects light even before it is lifted from the depths."
Zainab offered no blush, no challenge—only a measured, quiet nod—and went inside, leaving the gate ajar.
Muhammad lingered for a moment, watching the flowers glisten with dew. He realized, with a slight catch in his breath, that the letter might not be the only reason he had come.
Inside the house
Ishaq ibn Sulaiman sat cross-legged, his dark robe framing a white beard and eyes sharp as steel. When Muhammad entered, Ishaq's gaze fixed upon him. Memories drifted to the banks of the Nile, years ago—when the dust of rebellion had blinded him and a young foreign hand had pulled him from the brink of death. It was almost impossible to believe that the hand which had saved him then belonged to the son of the man he now wished to destroy.
Ishaq set down his teacup with a soft chime. "I never imagined Al-Fadl would be bold enough to send his own son to Kufah. Or perhaps he knew I could never drive away the man who saved my life in Egypt."
Muhammad inclined his head respectfully, his voice low and measured. "I come not to demand repayment for old debts, Ya Amir. I come as a messenger."
"Even so," Ishaq murmured, his tone heavy with restrained bitterness, "your father weaves shrouds for Arab influence in Baghdad, yet here I am offering his son cinnamon tea. Fate has a bitter sense of humor."
Ishaq's eyes returned to Muhammad. "You will stay here. Not because I take kindly to your father's letter, but because Kufah seethes, and I will not allow the man who saved me to be torn apart by the streets of this city."
From behind her curtain, Zainab's gaze lingered on Muhammad just a moment longer than necessary. Then, with a quiet shake of her head, she slipped from the room and made her way to the kitchen.
Inside, she set about preparing a small tray of snacks for her guest. She arranged soft dates stuffed with almonds, roasted chickpeas spiced with cumin, and warm flatbreads brushed lightly with olive oil. Once satisfied, she called one of the attendants. "Take these to the sitting room. Carefully," she instructed. The boy bowed and carried the tray off.
Zainab returned to her family. Together with her mother, elder sister, and the household staff, she helped prepare the evening's sahur. She kneaded dough for barik breads, sliced vegetables for cucumber and herb salads, and prepared small bowls of lentil stew with dried mint. She supervised the younger servants arranging platters of fig preserves and honeyed walnuts, moving efficiently but without fuss.
"Make sure the trays are ready before sunset," her mother reminded, and Zainab nodded.
By the time preparations were complete, she had ensured everything was in order, her attention split between the tasks at hand and the lingering thought of Muhammad in the sitting room.