The year was 161 AH, outside the vast walls that surrounded a young yet colossal city at the time of dusk. The sun was slowly leaning toward the horizon, its color melting into gold. The grass swayed with the dry summer wind, and sheep wandered across the pasture, grazing on the green blades near the Tigris River.
Sitting atop a small hill was a boy, his dark hand clutching a shepherd's staff. His eyes—black as night—were fixed intently on the flock, yet his focus drifted toward a distant point when he noticed a wolf creeping with calculated steps, preparing to pounce on one of the sheep.
Before it could strike, an arrow pierced through its neck, sending it crashing to the ground.
Calm footsteps approached through the grazing flock, the bow dragging along the earth and leaving a thin trail behind it. His dark eyes stared at the dead wolf—without fear, without hesitation.
He reached out, gripping the arrow, and pulled it from the wolf's throat. The only sounds were the bleating of sheep and the gentle flow of the Tigris… until the silence was broken by a deep, familiar voice.
"So, Ilyas… another target claimed by your unerring arrow."
The boy lifted his head and turned to see a man before him—brown hair like the branches of trees, sun-kissed skin, and eyes the same shade as his hair. He wore a long robe, a headscarf resting atop his head, and a thick yet neatly groomed beard. His smile was gentle, full of warmth.
Ilyas smiled and pointed to the wolf's corpse.
"Yes, Father! It was trying to prey on the sheep."
The man laughed softly, ruffling Ilyas's hair before smiling again—this time with a trace of sadness. He sighed.
"Ilyas… wake up."
Ilyas frowned in confusion.
"Father… what do you mean?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the world before him shifted.
The beautiful sunset turned into a terrifying night. The gentle warmth transformed into cold dread, filled with screams.
His father—who had stood smiling just moments ago—was now a lifeless body, his throat slit, clutching Ilyas's murdered mother, blood soaking both her and the unborn child she carried.
The once lively village, filled with laughter and warmth, had become a beacon of darkness. Ash drifted through the air like cursed snow. Joyful whispers had turned into piercing cries of agony.
And Ilyas…
He stood in the midst of this devastation, blood spilling from his eyes before tears could even form. His face and body burned with unbearable pain. In his trembling arms, he held a small infant wrapped in white cloth—his blood staining both the fabric and her tiny face.
He could not bear what he was seeing.
The last thing he remembered before darkness swallowed him was a man holding out his eye—staring at it as though it were a bar of gold.
Then everything went black.
He felt nothing. No pain, no weight of the child in his arms, no sense of his own body.
When sensation slowly returned, it came with agony.
He forced his eyes open with great difficulty—it felt as though mountains rested upon his eyelids. His vision was blurry at first, then slowly sharpened enough to recognize a ceiling above him.
Sounds flooded in: merchants calling out, camels shuffling, birds chirping.
He felt something soft beneath his head, and the weight of a blanket covering his battered body.
He lifted his trembling hand slightly, noticing how his sleeve slid down his right arm, revealing clean bandages wrapped around it. Strangely, he wasn't surprised to see them—only aware of the pain throbbing through him.
He tried to sit up, but it felt as though he were being beaten from every direction.
His left side…
His hands…
His face…
His entire body—from his chest down to his abdomen—burned with unbearable pain.
Especially his eye.
With great effort, he managed to sit, his breathing uneven. He didn't know if he was still dreaming, if this was reality, or if the massacre had been nothing more than a nightmare.
But here he was—inside the walls of the City of Peace.
His trembling hand came into view, blood dried beneath his nails. He pulled back the fabric covering his wounds and saw the bandages wrapped tightly around his arm. His thoughts swirled like a black storm cloud, but they were cut short by a rough yet gentle voice—familiar, deeply etched into his memory.
He lifted his head to see his uncle, Saleh—his father's old friend. A bearded man with silver eyes and wavy black hair partially covered by a headscarf. He approached and sat cross-legged before Ilyas, smiling warmly—yet Ilyas's heart did not settle.
"Ilyas… thank God you are safe, my boy."
Ilyas furrowed his brows, pressing his lips together before speaking in a shaky, uncertain voice.
"Uncle… my father and mother were killed. I saw their bodies."
Saleh closed his eyes with a heavy sigh before looking at the child who had aged a thousand years in a single night.
"I buried your father near Bab al-Sham."
Shock spread across Ilyas's face. He had hoped—desperately—that this was all a nightmare. But reality was far crueler.
He lowered his head in grief, but suddenly lifted it again in panic.
"Uncle—where is the baby who was with me?!"
Saleh blinked in confusion.
"The child has been with Umm Jameel for three days now—she has been nursing her."
Relief washed over Ilyas… then realization struck.
"Three days? What day is it now?"
Saleh avoided his gaze before answering hesitantly.
"Rabi' al-Awwal… the seventeenth."
The shock hit him like a blow. It had been the fifteenth when everything happened.
Saleh placed his large hand gently on Ilyas's head—a fatherly tenderness he had lost forever.
At that moment, a young girl entered. Dark-skinned, with large hazel eyes that seemed to glow like sunlight captured in amber. She carried a tray with a steaming bowl that smelled sweet and comforting. She bowed respectfully, handed the tray to Saleh, and quietly left.
Ilyas stared at the food: chicken breast floating in ginger broth, potatoes bobbing in the liquid. But he felt no appetite. Not after what he had seen.
He shook his head softly.
"I'm sorry… I can't."
Saleh sighed, but his voice remained steady.
"Ilyas… you are not alone."
Ilyas looked at him—not just as an uncle, but as the man who had saved him from death. He lowered his gaze to his hands—the same hands that had once held an empty eye socket and cradled an orphaned infant.
He raised his head again.
"Uncle… may I see the baby?"
Saleh smiled—a reassuring, healing smile.
"I will bring her to you myself. Rest for now."
Ilyas nodded weakly as Saleh left the room.
But before he could exit, Saleh noticed his son, Jameel, standing by the doorway—listening in. A boy the same age as Ilyas, with soft brown hair, light brown eyes, and fair skin.
Saleh ruffled his hair gently before leaving. Jameel entered, clearly unsure what to say, his hands clasped behind his back.
Ilyas sighed and gestured for him to sit beside him. Jameel sat, but kept a noticeable distance.
"What's wrong? Why are you so tense?" Ilyas asked.
Jameel bit his lip.
"I'm afraid I'll say something wrong."
Ilyas gave him a tired smile.
"It's alright. You won't."
He spoke with quiet certainty, then turned toward the window where sunlight poured in. He was eerily calm—waiting for the moment he would finally break.
Then the door opened.
Saleh returned, carrying the infant in his arms.
She was wrapped in white cloth, her light brown—almost blonde—hair peeking out. She made soft, innocent sounds, unaware of the cruelty of the world around her.
Ilyas struggled to stand. His hands trembled as Saleh placed her in his arms.
He held her just as he had that night. His dark fingers contrasted sharply against the white cloth as he clung to her small body.
Tears threatened to spill. His vision blurred, his eyes burned.
Jameel quietly slipped out.
Saleh sat before Ilyas and placed his hand gently on his uninjured shoulder—causing the tears to finally fall onto the baby's face. She stared at Ilyas in confusion, raising her tiny hand as if trying to comfort him.
He lowered his forehead to touch hers and whispered through broken sobs:
"You are just like me now… without a mother or father."
Saleh gently rubbed his back.
Ilyas lifted his head, tears pouring down like winter rain, holding the child tighter.
"What will become of her now that her entire family is gone?"
Saleh frowned slightly.
"I will take her as my own daughter… and you as my son."
Ilyas pressed his lips together as the final tear slid down his cheek.
"But… what about my uncles? They must absolve themselves of responsibility for me."
Saleh looked at him—not as a child, but as someone forced into adulthood by tragedy.
"Rest now. Leave your fate to One greater than all of us."
Ilyas lowered his gaze back to the baby, smiling faintly.
"Uncle… promise me you will care for Zamrud if I end up staying with one of my uncles."
Saleh placed his hand on Ilyas's head.
"I swear by the One who created you—I will care for her."
He paused, then lifted Ilyas's chin.
"Ilyas… whose daughter is she?"
Ilyas's eyes shimmered.
"She is the daughter of my friend in the village. He was dying and entrusted her to me."
Saleh lifted the cloth slightly to examine Ilyas's wound.
"The wound has healed. Give me the baby while I remove your bandages."
Ilyas handed her over. She clung to his robe briefly before letting go.
Saleh began removing the bandages—revealing a deep, intersecting scar that cut across Ilyas's eye, a permanent reminder of that night.
He then asked Ilyas to remove his robe to take off the rest of the bandages. Beneath them were severe burns—so intense they had stripped away his skin along his arms, chest, and abdomen.
Burns that should have been impossible for a child to survive.
Saleh handed him one of Jameel's robes—a new, narrow, cream-colored garment.
"It should fit you. I'm certain."
Ilyas thanked him quietly.
Saleh placed his hand on his shoulder.
"From now on, you are like my own son—just like Jameel, even if you end up living with one of your uncles."
His words felt like cool water on a burning heart.
Ilyas forced a faint smile.
"Is the judge here?"
Saleh nodded.
"Yes. To make everything official, with two trusted witnesses."
Ilyas stood, glancing at Zamrud before turning to Saleh.
"Let us finish this. I am certain they will abandon me as they abandoned my father."
Saleh stood and placed a reassuring hand on his head.
"Even if they disown you, I am here. Do not carry this burden alone."
They left Saleh's house and walked toward a neighboring home, then through narrow alleys toward the center of the City of Peace.
The smell of fresh bread filled the air, mingling with the sound of flowing water from a small canal. Women filled their water jars while barefoot children ran laughing—unaware that this boy beside them was walking toward a moment that would change his life forever.
Soon, they reached a large wooden door guarded by a man in a black turban, holding a long spear. His gaze toward Ilyas was unreadable.
Inside, the hall was cool, silent, and heavy with authority. Woven mats covered the floor.
At the front sat the judge—an elderly man with a thick, gray-streaked beard, a large black turban, and a dark robe. Behind him, verses from the Qur'an were inscribed beautifully on the wall.
Beside him sat a scribe with a reed pen and ink.
Three men stood in the center.
Ilyas's uncles.
The eldest, Abu 'Ubadah—half his hair white with age.
The middle, Abu Bashir—dark-skinned, stern, and unsmiling.
And the youngest, Abu Ayyub—wheat-colored skin, brown hair, and an unsettling smile.
The judge spoke in a calm, authoritative voice:
"Step forward and state your purpose."
Saleh bowed respectfully.
"We have come to formalize what has been decided, under your judgment and witness."
The judge turned to the uncles.
"Who will speak?"
Abu 'Ubadah stepped forward.
"We are his uncles… and we have come regarding Ilyas, son of al-'Ukayli."
He pointed toward Ilyas.
"We, the three of us, have agreed to disown his father because of his marriage to Salma bint Malik al-Barsi. Therefore, we are also disowning Ilyas."
Before Ilyas could process this, Abu Ayyub suddenly raised his hand.
"Your Honor… I will take responsibility for Ilyas. May I?"
Shock spread across Ilyas's face.
The judge narrowed his eyes.
"You disowned him—and now you wish to take him?"
He paused, then continued firmly:
"If you take him, you bear full responsibility for his provision, protection, and any consequences that may arise from him or against him. Do you accept this?"
Abu Ayyub smiled.
"There is no hidden motive. It is unjust to punish a child for a sin that is not his."
The judge nodded to the scribe.
"Record that Abu Ayyub al-'Ukayli has accepted guardianship of Ilyas al-'Ukayli, assuming responsibility for his care until he reaches adulthood."
Saleh leaned down to Ilyas.
"If he mistreats you, come to me. I will take you under my wing."
Abu Ayyub extended his hand.
They walked toward a house at the edge of the city.
Ilyas frowned.
"This is not your home—"
Abu Ayyub cut him off harshly.
"Did you really think I would care for you? Pathetic."
He grabbed Ilyas's wrist tightly.
A man emerged—Abu Khalid. The same man who had always claimed that Ilyas's mother should have been his.
He handed a bag of money to Abu Ayyub.
Then Abu Ayyub shoved Ilyas to the ground.
Abu Khalid stood over him, gripping his robe and lifting him roughly.
His smile was cold and terrifying.
"You belong to me now, Ilyas."