The next morning, the Baghdad market thrummed with life, the air alive with the calls of merchants hawking their wares. The mingling scents of exotic spices, rain-dampened earth from the previous night, and warm bread drifted together, creating a heady perfume. Ruqayyah moved slowly, accompanied by Zahra and her two guards, her eyes drawn to the jewelry displays sparkling in the sunlight.
She leaned closer, inspecting a silver necklace set with deep blue stones. Her small fingers brushed the neatly arranged pearls, and her eyes shone as she admired the delicate carvings. "Zahra, look at this…" she whispered softly, stifling a smile. Zahra nodded, her gaze following every movement of the young princess, always alert.
Elsewhere in the market, a man in plain robes and a hood moved deliberately through the crowd, careful not to draw attention. He scrutinized the jewelers and swordsmiths alike. Al-Mu'tashim was searching for a skilled polisher or swordsmith to repair a blade damaged during recent rigorous training. He inclined toward one craftsman and asked in a low voice, "Which sword is the sharpest, most durable, and best balanced?" The craftsman presented several blades with an expectant smile. They spoke briefly, discussing the qualities of the metal and the balance of each sword.
Meanwhile, Ruqayyah continued examining the jewelry, occasionally glancing at her two guards stationed nearby. Suddenly, from a narrow alley at the edge of the market, hurried footsteps echoed. Six rebels appeared, their eyes fixed sharply on Ruqayyah. One raised a sword, stepping forward as if to strike.
Haidar, Ruqayyah's guard, leapt instantly, blocking the blow with all his strength. Ruqayyah gasped, her heart hammering. Zahra gripped her hand, whispering, "Steady, Princess… we must remain calm."
But the numbers were overwhelming. Two of Ruqayyah's guards had already fallen, wounded, and the six rebels advanced with malicious grins. Fear flared in Ruqayyah's chest, and she could not conceal it.
From his hidden vantage, Al-Mu'tashim furrowed his brows. A girl is about to be attacked in my city… what good is a warrior of the Abbasids if he stands by and lets this happen?
As a rebel lunged for Ruqayyah, Al-Mu'tashim moved with lightning speed, parrying the attack with his own blade. Ruqayyah's jaw dropped, eyes wide. "Who is he?" she murmured.
He fought with fluid precision, even though his sword had not yet been properly sharpened. Suddenly, the brittle blade snapped. Ruqayyah stared in a mix of awe and disbelief, while Zahra pressed a hand to her mouth, shocked.
In her mind, Ruqayyah muttered, "I almost would have called him a true knight… he is certainly strong… or merely pretending to be?"
Al-Mu'tashim regarded his broken blade with casual ease. "Heh… I forgot I haven't repaired my sword," he murmured, almost smiling.
Ruqayyah's panic rose at his calm demeanor amid the chaos. "Is he not going to help?" she whispered to Zahra.
Without waiting for an answer, Ruqayyah snatched Haidar's fallen sword and stepped toward Al-Mu'tashim, who was about to be attacked again. He looked at her, startled but faintly amused. "Courageous, indeed," he murmured.
Ruqayyah swung the sword with full intent, both hands gripping the hilt tightly, eyes locked on the rebel's throat. Yet her movements were slow; the rebel easily dodged and seized the blade from her hands. Both Al-Mu'tashim and Zahra looked slightly disappointed.
"My Princess, always full of surprises," Zahra commented, exhaling deeply.
Al-Mu'tashim merely crossed his arms over his chest, appearing nonchalant. Yet when the rebels attempted another strike, Ruqayyah quickly produced a small spray from her satchel and aimed it at their eyes. The attackers yelped, blinded and in pain.
In an instant, Al-Mu'tashim moved without a weapon, striking precise punches and kicks with astonishing speed and grace. Ruqayyah could only stare, captivated. "A true knight, without a sword," she thought.
A voice, almost like a whisper in her mind, reminded her: "Host, you used the spray without permission. The system imposes a three-day rest starting tonight as a penalty."
"Very well," Ruqayyah replied with a sly smile.
Once the rebels were dispatched, Al-Mu'tashim departed swiftly, leaving Ruqayyah with no chance to thank him. A twinge of disappointment settled in her chest, for she could not glimpse the man's face. Across the market, however, Al-Mu'tashim walked with a small, amused smile, recalling the young princess's spirited antics.
----
Elsewhere
Zainab belonged to the main branch of the Abbasid family. She was the daughter of Aliyah bint al-Mansur, the granddaughter of Caliph al-Mansur—the founder of Baghdad and the second caliph of the Abbasid dynasty.
Her father, Ishaq ibn Sulaiman, was al-Mansur's nephew, married to Aliyah. From them, Zainab carried two lines of Abbasid blood.
The Ishaq family was not at the center of palace politics, yet their name carried weight. They lived in Kufa—a city that, in the early ninth century, had earned renown as a gathering place for jurists, scholars, and thinkers.
Like most women of her time, Zainab was forbidden to leave the house without a male guardian. Her life unfolded mostly within the walls of the family home—among the inner courtyard, the study chambers, and beside her mother.
She had reached nineteen, an age when many girls were already promised in marriage. Yet Zainab remained unbetrothed—not for lack of beauty or merit, but because her father refused to rush. Ishaq ibn Sulaiman believed a woman should mature in both knowledge and character before assuming the responsibilities of a household.
The room glowed softly in the lamplight of oil lamps. The air was rich with the scent of warm bread, honey, and spices. Servants moved with quiet grace, the gentle splash of water from a jug punctuating the stillness, and the morning breeze whispered between the wooden pillars.
Ishaq sat at the center of the low dining table, boys gathered at his side. Muhammad, who had spent the last two nights under his roof, joined with careful courtesy. On the opposite side, Zainab and her mother arranged small bowls with meticulous hands.
Ishaq lowered his gaze briefly, then fixed Muhammad with a sharp look. His voice was calm, yet every word carried a hidden sting.
"Eat well, Muhammad. You will need strength… to understand the world as it truly is. Do not allow your father's instructions to outweigh your capacity to act wisely."
Muhammad swallowed, the tension rising in his chest, but a thin smile touched his lips. "Thank you, Sheikh Ishaq. May Allah grant me strength—and understanding—beyond the sweet words carried from Kufah."
Ishaq's lips curved in a faint smile, though his eyes remained keen. "Ah… sweet words. Often a veil for hidden thorns. You will soon notice that some appear great before the Caliph, yet forget who should truly lead—with heart and mind. Do not let your steps here become mere shadows of another's power."
The implication was clear: a subtle rebuke of Al-Fadl, delivered to Al-Fadl's own son.
Muhammad raised an eyebrow, replying with composed yet pointed courtesy. "That is precisely what makes this journey worthwhile. I learn to weigh words before assuming their weight… or sharpening them into blades."
Ishaq exhaled softly, regarding him as though testing his resolve. "Tomorrow, you will return home. Remember… do not let a man who hoards power bar your path. Some seem to hold the reins, yet only move shadows over the throne. You must discern when to speak… and when silence bears greater wisdom."
Muhammad inclined his head briefly, his thin smile betraying a trace of bitterness restrained. "All I hope for, Sheikh Ishaq, is to learn from those with wisdom… and certainly, from those whose tongues cut as sharply as yours."
This time, Ishaq's smile was warmer, yet his eyes remained unyielding—emphasizing that wisdom and vigilance mattered more than courtesy in a world dominated by those too eager to command.
Before anyone touched the food, Ishaq bowed his head.
"This suhur is a blessing," he said softly. "The Messenger ﷺ recommended it. In observing the manners of fasting—hastening the breaking of fast and delaying suhur—goodness remains with us."
A hush fell. Heads lowered.
Then Ishaq whispered a short prayer.
"O Allah, bless the sustenance You have granted us, and protect us from the punishment of the Fire."
"Ameen," came the soft reply from both sides of the screen.
Muhammad closed his eyes for a moment. His hands trembled slightly as he brushed his face. He did not look toward the women's side, yet he knew that behind the curtain, someone was offering the same intention.
They ate slowly, each bite begun with Bismillah. Zainab and her sister Hindun passed bread to their mother. Occasionally, Muhammad spoke quietly with Ishaq about the next day's schedule. Between bites, the soft murmurs of dhikr and tasbih drifted from the older servants at the edges of the courtyard.
Later, Zainab tended the plants with her trusted servant, Syafiyah, planting soft-hued flowers between the stones of the courtyard. She then sat by the fish pond with children from neighboring homes, teaching them the Hijaiyah letters and the manners of proper life, her voice gentle yet firm, carrying both patience and authority.
Muhammad, passing by, paused without thinking. A faint smile curved his lips. Something in that scene—the way the children leaned forward, the sunlight catching Zainab's hair, the quiet dignity in her posture—made him linger for a moment longer before he continued on his way.
Muhammad stood in the courtyard, a soft winter breeze stirring the curtains. Beside him, a black horse pawed gently at the ground, ready for the long journey ahead.
When the Fajr call rose, the conversation paused. Ishaq bowed his head in prayer, though the corner of his eye never left Muhammad. Behind the screen, Zainab's calm gaze lingered briefly, a quiet reinforcement—but the world, as Ishaq had shown, demanded shrewdness, courage, and precision, especially when facing men such as Al-Fadl, whose dominance knew no bounds.
After the meal, Muhammad mounted his horse, glancing once toward Ishaq's house, a faint smile playing on his lips. He understood that their exchange had been more than mere politeness—it was a duel of minds, preparing him for the challenges awaiting him in Khurasan.