Chapter 9 - The Guard at the Outer Gate

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 9 – The Guard at the Outer Gate

There was a rhythm to the palace guard’s shift changes. Morning, noon, dusk, midnight—four turns, two dozen men, and a hundred unspoken rules. Most followed orders out of habit, not conviction. They carried spears, wore bronze-plated armor, and looked past things they were paid not to see.

But Basran—young, broad-shouldered, too honest for his own safety—watched.

He saw the looks the other guards gave Prince Idran these days.

He saw how, when Idran entered a chamber, conversations tightened. How certain scrolls disappeared from the reading shelves the day after the prince read them.

And Basran remembered something else:
Years ago, when he was just a stable hand, Idran had once helped him lift a broken wagon in the rain. No command. No witnesses. No reason.

Only kindness.

One afternoon, Basran stood at the outer gate near the archives, shielding his eyes from the sun. Idran approached, carrying a satchel of scrolls.

“My prince,” Basran greeted, bowing.

Idran nodded. “Is the scribe in?”

“He is. But…” Basran hesitated. “Some of the senior guards say you visit too often. They say the scrolls you read… change you.”

A pause.

“And do you think I’ve changed?”

Basran looked up. “No. But I think you’ve started walking straighter. And that makes some men nervous.”

Idran smiled, not with triumph—but with understanding.

He stepped closer.

“Do you know the story of the Prophet Yusuf?”

Basran blinked. “The name is familiar. A foreign tale?”

“From the Qur’an,” Idran said. “He was cast into a well by his brothers. Left for dead. But he did not curse them. He rose—not through vengeance, but through truth.”

Basran frowned. “But this is Tumapel. Not Arabia.”

“Yes,” Idran agreed. “But men are the same everywhere. They fear what they cannot control. And sometimes… they fear those who do not fear them.”

Later that week, Idran found a folded slip of parchment beneath a prayer mat in the observatory.

Written in rough hand:

If ever you are summoned alone, I will be nearby.
—B

He didn’t need to ask who had written it.

And he didn’t need to say thank you.

Trust was enough.

That evening, Idran met with Hasan again. They discussed new reports of unrest in the outer provinces—farmers withholding tribute, temple taxes being refused.

“Does it begin already?” Idran asked.

Hasan shook his head. “Not yet. But it breathes.”

Idran thought of Basran, of Karim, of Maya’s quiet eyes before she passed.

He thought of every name he had written in his private ledger—those who mattered more than titles ever could.

And for the first time, he felt ready.

Not for battle.

Not even for rebellion.

But for movement.

The kind that starts with footsteps no one hears—until the earth beneath them shifts.