Location: Village of Dar al-Afiyah, edge of the Nurhal plains
The call to prayer echoed faintly in the distant wind, carried across the golden fields of barley. Idris, a boy of sixteen with sharp eyes and a restless heart, stood at the edge of the village well, watching the sun melt behind the hills.
"Why did they take our harvest, Ummi?" he asked, gripping his small satchel tighter.
His mother, a kind-faced woman who bore the scars of both grief and patience, quietly folded the last of the cloth over their remaining grain. "Because power does not fear the weak," she replied.
Idris looked at the dusty road where the Sultan's tax guards had ridden away just hours ago, their saddlebags full, their laughter cruel. "But they had more than they needed. We don't even have enough for next week."
"Then we trust in Ar-Razzaq," his mother said gently.
Idris lowered his gaze. "Is that enough? Just trusting?"
She touched his shoulder. "Trust, and act. But never act without justice."
That night, Idris climbed the small hill where the village masjid stood. He often went there to think, to ask Allah for strength—and sometimes, to ask why. Why the world was so tilted. Why the wicked thrived. Why good people suffered.
But this night was different.
As Idris prayed alone under the stars, a whisper carried on the wind—not of sound, but of feeling. His heart trembled. The crescent moon above seemed to glow brighter, casting silver light onto the worn prayer mat.
And then he saw it.
A robed figure standing by the gate of the masjid, neither shadow nor solid. In its hand, a glowing symbol—scales balanced in perfect harmony, encircled by divine light.
The figure pointed at him.
"You have asked why. Now prepare to ask how."
And then it vanished.
Idris stood frozen, the weight of something ancient pressing upon his soul.
Justice was calling—and it had chosen him.