Chapter 7 - Eyes in the Hall

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 7 – Eyes in the Hall

There is a kind of stillness that doesn’t soothe, but watches.

Idran felt it more and more.

In council meetings, when he asked too many questions. In temple ceremonies, when he bowed without touching the ground. Even in the library, where his scrolls were sometimes misplaced—no doubt moved “accidentally” by the palace scribes.

He had once moved through the court like mist—present, unnoticed.

Now, he was being seen.

And not kindly.

It began subtly.

The chief priest stopped inviting him to scripture readings.

The court astrologer, once warm, now passed him with tight-lipped nods.

And when Idran submitted a modest proposal to reduce temple levies on farmers, citing the Qur’anic principle of equitable charity, the High Treasurer called it “naïve” and laughed in open court.

No one defended him.

Not even his brother.

“Why do you keep provoking them?” Wirabumi said later that day, arms crossed in the training hall. He was watching soldiers drill, his voice low but sharp. “They think you’ve lost your footing. Or worse, your loyalty.”

Idran wiped sweat from his brow, slower than necessary. “Since when does asking for fairness provoke fear?”

“Since fairness threatened comfort,” Wirabumi replied. “You may speak of God, brother, but you forget—this palace listens only to power.”

“I speak of both,” Idran said quietly. “God and power. But not yours.”

Wirabumi’s gaze narrowed.

That night, Idran returned to the observatory and found a note tucked beneath his prayer mat.

It was unsigned, written in a clumsy hand. Just a single line:

They are watching. Not all will wait.

The next morning, his favorite steward, a boy named Tomas who often brought his books, was reassigned to the stables without explanation.

Idran said nothing.

But in his chest, a cold ember stirred.

He began to be more careful.

When Karim visited, they met beyond the walls—in forest clearings and empty fishermen’s shacks.

When he read Qur’anic verses, he did so from memory, whispering them beneath the sound of pouring tea.

And yet… even through caution, something inside him grew steadier.

Not louder. But firmer.

One day, during a council session, a minor lord accused a peasant of blasphemy—claiming the man had desecrated a shrine by questioning the temple’s tax collection.

The peasant, small and barefoot, knelt trembling.

Idran looked at the man’s face.

Then at the lord’s.

He stood.

“The gods of Tumapel are not so weak,” Idran said, his voice calm, “that they are offended by hunger.”

The room fell silent.

And in that silence, Idran understood: he had crossed an invisible line.

They wouldn’t strike him now. Not yet.

But he had become uncomfortable.
And in a court of inherited power and performative faith, that was enough to be dangerous.

That evening, he stood by the garden pond, watching the koi swim beneath the moonlight. Karim’s voice returned to him, unbidden:

“When you follow truth, you stop fitting into spaces built on lies.”

Idran inhaled.

Held it.

Let it go.

And whispered beneath his breath:

“Then let the spaces change.”