The path of light

 

Prologue: The Whisper of Fate
Cordoba, Al-Andalus – A Night of Storms

The heavens split apart in violent streaks of white, jagged bolts of lightning tearing through the ink-black sky. Thunder crashed over the rooftops of Córdoba, its deafening roar shaking the tiled domes of masjids and palaces alike. The storm raged with unrelenting fury, sheets of rain drumming against the city’s stone pathways, cascading from rooftops, pooling in the cracks of ancient cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, the freshness of the storm mingling with the lingering aroma of burning oil lamps.

Yet, in a modest chamber on the eastern edge of the city, one fragile flame still defied the tempest outside.

A single candle flickered on a wooden desk, casting long, wavering shadows against the walls. Beneath its dim glow, Ibrahim al-Fahmi knelt on a simple prayer rug, his forehead pressed to the woolen fabric. His breathing was slow, steady, a quiet rhythm that contrasted the storm’s chaos.

His chamber was sparse—a desk cluttered with parchment, ink bottles, and a few well-worn books, their spines cracked from years of handling. A single shelf, sagging slightly in the middle, held a handful of prized texts: treatises on philosophy, translations of Aristotle and Plato, and a collection of mystical writings that had captivated him since his youth. The lattice window at his side rattled against the force of the wind, allowing the night’s damp breath to slip into the room, curling around the candle’s frail flame.

Yet tonight, his mind was far from the world around him.

His gaze rested on the letter before him, its parchment softened by the countless times he had unrolled and read it. The once-pristine wax seal bore the mark of his thumb, an unconscious imprint left by hours of hesitation. And though the paper had begun to show signs of wear, the words remained unchanged, as clear and final as the first time he had laid eyes upon them:

To Ibrahim al-Fahmi, Scholar of Córdoba—
You are invited to the House of Wisdom in Baghdad,
Where knowledge meets the heavens.

The insignia of the Abbasid court gleamed faintly beneath the candlelight, a mark of honor that most scholars could only dream of receiving. To be summoned to Baghdad—to walk the halls of the famed House of Wisdom, to study alongside the greatest minds of the age—was an opportunity beyond measure. It was the culmination of a lifetime devoted to scholarship, the highest calling for a man of intellect.

And yet, as his fingers traced the elegant script, an unfamiliar weight settled in his chest.

Doubt.

Would knowledge alone bring him peace?

Or was there something more—something beyond books and reason—that he had yet to grasp?

For years, he had immersed himself in the pursuit of wisdom, seeking truth in the words of the ancients. He had spent countless nights copying the works of Al-Kindi, Ibn Masarra, and the philosophers of old, walking the grand halls of Córdoba’s libraries in search of understanding. Yet, despite all he had learned, a restlessness remained—a yearning that no book had ever answered.

Tonight, as the storm raged outside, he sought guidance not from the written word but from something greater.

The Prayer of Istikhara

The candle’s glow trembled as he raised his hands, palms open in quiet surrender. His voice, though soft, carried through the stillness of the chamber:

"O Allah, if this matter is good for me in my religion, my livelihood, and my final destination, then ordain it for me and make it easy for me. And if it is bad for me, then turn it away from me, and turn me away from it, and grant me contentment with what You have decreed."

The words left his lips and settled into the quiet, rippling outward like stones cast into still water.

Outside, the downpour began to ease, the violent drumming of rain against stone softening into a gentle patter. The wind, which had howled through the city moments ago, seemed to catch its breath. Within the chamber, the air grew still, as though the very walls had paused to listen.

Ibrahim remained motionless, hands resting on his lap, waiting for a sign—for some shift in his heart, some subtle whisper of certainty that would tell him which path to follow.

And then—

A whisper.

Soft as wind against silk.

"Seek the path of light."

His breath caught.

The chamber had not changed. The candle still flickered, the air still carried the cool dampness of the night. And yet, something unseen had shifted. The atmosphere, once heavy with uncertainty, now held a quiet hum, a presence just beyond the reach of sight. The voice had been neither loud nor insistent—only a murmur, slipping into the stillness of his mind like a golden thread woven through dark fabric.

Slowly, he turned toward the latticed window.

Beyond the glass, the storm had begun to break apart. The thick clouds, which had moments ago swallowed the sky, now drifted apart, revealing the first pale glow of the moon.

Had he imagined it?

Or had the Divine spoken to him through the night itself?

His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse a steady thrum against his fingertips. The path of light.

What did it mean?

His eyes fell upon an old manuscript lying beside the candle—a book he had discovered in Córdoba’s Great Library weeks ago, its leather binding softened by time, its title long faded. Within its pages were words that had stirred something nameless within him:

"To seek is not to find; to find is not to seek. The light is not in the eye but in the heart. Walk, and it will walk with you."

At the time, he had not understood its meaning.

But now, beneath the storm’s retreating whispers, it felt as though the words had been meant for him alone.

Visions of the Unknown

Sleep came slowly that night, and when it did, it carried him into a dream unlike any he had ever known.

He stood in an endless desert, its golden sands glowing with a soft, ethereal light. The ground beneath him shifted like rippling silk, yet there was no wind, no sound—only silence as vast as the horizon.

Ahead, a lone figure emerged from the distance.

An old man, his robes tattered by time, his face hidden in shadow. In his right hand, he carried a lantern, its golden flame steady, unwavering, untouched by the air around it.

Ibrahim took a step forward.

The man lifted the lantern, and its glow expanded, surrounding Ibrahim in warmth.

"The mind seeks knowledge," the old man said, his voice the same whisper Ibrahim had heard in his chamber. "But the heart seeks the path."

Ibrahim parted his lips to speak—to ask what it meant—but before he could, the dream began to unravel. The sands slipped through his fingers, the sky folded inward, and then—

He woke.

A New Dawn

The call to Fajr echoed through the streets of Córdoba, its melody weaving through the quiet hush of the early morning. The first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft gold and indigo.

Ibrahim sat up, his breath unsteady, the remnants of his dream clinging to him like mist before the rising sun.

The path of light.

He did not yet know where it would lead him.

But as he rose and reached for his cloak, he understood one thing with absolute certainty.

He would go to Baghdad.

Not merely for knowledge.

But for something greater—something unseen.

The lantern had been lit.

And now, he had no choice but to follow.