NOORBANE

The midday sun beat down on the Zawiya training courtyard. Ayaan stood alone, a solitary figure amidst the ancient stones, sweat beading on his brow as he pushed himself through the Dhikr Combat exercises. He recited, "Hasbunallahu wa ni'mal wakeel" under his breath, striving to channel the Nur into a tangible form, trying to shape it into a blade of pure light. But each time, it flickered, hesitated, and then broke apart, dissolving into the air before it could fully coalesce. Frustration gnawed at him.

Suddenly, a searing blast of red-orange fire slammed into the stone wall beside him, leaving a smoking, charred mark. Ayaan spun around, startled.

"Noor is wasted on someone who doesn't know how to use it." The voice, sharp and dismissive, came from off-panel.

Into the courtyard strode Zeeshan. He was tall, his frame lean and powerful, with sharp, assessing eyes that missed nothing. A vibrant crimson scarf was wrapped around his neck, contrasting sharply with his dark attire. His hands were clad in fingerless gloves, and a prayer-bead necklace, its beads singed and scarred, was seemingly burned into the skin of his wrist. He carried a formidable Relic Sword, its blade crafted not from steel, but from the very stones of Mecca—a weapon known as "Rukh al-Naar," the Spirit of Flame.

Zeeshan walked with an arrogant swagger, stopping a few paces from Ayaan, his eyes raking over the younger boy.

"They say you carry the Seal of Light," Zeeshan stated, a sneer twisting his lips. "Funny, I don't see anything special. You purify. I burn." His gaze was disdainful. "You're not a warrior, boy. You're a spark pretending to be a flame."

Ayaan's fists clenched at his sides, a flush rising to his cheeks. The insult stung, igniting a temper he barely knew he possessed. He stepped forward, ready to retort. From a distance, near the archway leading into the main Zawiya, Raihana watched them, a silent, unreadable observer.

Murshid Umar appeared, moving quickly to intervene, but the Zawiya elders, emerging from the shadows of the training hall, raised a hand, stopping him.

"Let the flame and light test each other," one of the elders intoned, his voice ancient and wise.

A large circle, meticulously drawn into the stone floor, now shimmered with faint energy—the Dairah, a sacred battlefield for soul energy, where spiritual prowess, not just physical strength, was tested.

Zeeshan didn't hesitate. He immediately went on the offensive, his eyes blazing with a fierce determination. He began his attack with Flame-Tongue Verse Attacks, his voice rising in a powerful recitation of Surah Al-Masad, each word a conduit for scorching energy.

"Tabbat yada Abi Lahab…" (Hands of fire shall perish.)

As the words left his lips, his sword, Rukh al-Naar, blazed to life, unleashing a massive wave of scorching Nur flame, red-orange and hungry. The heat rippled through the courtyard.

Ayaan stumbled back, struggling to defend himself. He threw up a shield of light, but it was weak, flickering under the intensity of Zeeshan's attack. His Nur felt inadequate, stubbornly refusing to fully coalesce.

Zeeshan, seeing his advantage, charged forward, Rukh al-Naar raised high, intending to finish the duel.

Time seemed to warp for Ayaan. The roar of the flames, the shouts of the elders—all faded into a distant hum. His mind flashed back, pulling forth a memory he hadn't consciously accessed in years: his mother's voice, soft but unwavering, whispering a truth that had echoed through his childhood.

"The strongest light is the one that stands alone in the dark."

A primal scream tore from Ayaan's throat. He instinctively placed his hand on the Seal of Light on his chest, the mark now burning with an uncontainable power. His voice, raw and filled with a desperate, newfound conviction, resonated through the courtyard:

"An-Nur… Allahu Noor-us-Samawati wal Ard…"

(God is the Light of the heavens and the earth.)

Suddenly, a dazzling dome of pure light exploded outward from Ayaan, blindingly bright. It wasn't a destructive blast, but a wave of profound purification that washed over Zeeshan's scorching flame, absorbing it, rendering it harmless. Zeeshan was knocked back, thrown across the Dairah, but there were no burns on his skin, only the shock of the overwhelming Nur.

Everyone in the courtyard was stunned into silence. The Zawiya elders watched with wide, awestruck eyes. Raihana, who had watched impassively until now, was utterly speechless, her golden eye reflecting the fading light.

Zeeshan lay on the stone, panting, the wind knocked out of him. His sword, Rukh al-Naar, lay beside him, its flames temporarily extinguished. He pushed himself up slowly, his gaze fixed on Ayaan. The usual arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a strange mix of surprise and grudging respect.

"…Fine," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. "You're not weak. But you're not ready either. We fight again when you earn that Seal." He finally allowed a small smirk to return, a hint of his old self. He turned and walked away, the air around him still crackling with residual heat, but the defiance in his posture tempered by a flicker of acknowledgment.

Raihana finally broke her silence, stepping towards Ayaan, her gaze unwavering. "He's a fool," she said dryly, a rare hint of something akin to admiration in her voice. "But he's right—your light is growing."

Far away, deep beneath the decaying stones of an ancient fort, Faseel the Red Whisperer knelt before a bubbling blood pool, its surface swirling with dark energies. From the writhing fire that danced above the pool, Zalim's voice echoed, vast and chilling.

"He has begun to recite verses I buried… centuries ago." Zalim's voice was a low growl, filled with a dangerous curiosity. "Unseal the False Muezzin. Let him test the boy's faith."

In a hidden, lightless crypt, a shadowy figure began to stir. It was wrapped in the crumbling, cracked stones of what looked like a destroyed minaret. Its mouth was unsettlingly sewn shut with thick, dark thread. As Zalim's command echoed, its eyes slowly, malevolently, opened. This was the False Muezzin, a corrupted jinn, born from the deepest perversion of prayer, designed to shatter belief itself.

TO BE CONTINUED…