The Scalpel of Justice

The scratch of the reed nib devours the silence of the vault. *Scritch... Scritch...* Your back is hunched, the weight of the Caliphate pressing down on your shoulders. The oil lamp flickers—a dying yellow tongue fighting the gloom over a frayed sheet of Shatibi parchment. The sharp, biting scent of oak gall and concentrated saffron chokes the narrow space. «... This seal... something is wrong. This isn't a mere slip of the hand ...» You run your thumb slowly over the hardened red wax. *Chills.* A piercing cold bleeds from the wax into your very marrow. To an expert eye, the engraving is flawless; the geometric flourishes intertwine with terrifying symmetry. But your eye is not merely expert. It is obsessed. The angle of the letter 'Qaf' in the word *Qistas*—Justice—leans a hair’s breadth to the left. «... A forgery? No. A signature. Someone is screaming through this slant ...» *SLAM!* The heavy oak door bursts open, shredding the stillness. *Thud...* A shadow like a mountain stretches across your desk, swallowing your meager light. You do not look up. You keep your eyes locked on the ink. You know that gait. The rhythmic, merciless rhythm of iron-shod boots. — St…