Zafin Rana Book Compelet Novels By Aysha Alto

He sat close to him and held his hand. The one he addressed as his elder brother looked back at him in a state of extreme, agonizing physical weakness. Squeezing his hand, the king whispered, "Abdul-Salam!"
He replied quickly, "Yes, my elder brother."
The brother looked at him, speaking with immense difficulty: "Abdul-Salam, I leave Junaid in your custody as a sacred trust. Look after him. If possible, take him out of this palace, because I absolutely do not want him to involve himself in leadership and power."
In utter astonishment, Abdul-Salam looked at his elder brother and questioned, "My brother? What kind of talk is this, when Junaid is the only child who rightfully deserves to inherit your throne? He is your only male child; no one else fits the crown but him."
The king shook his head quickly but weakly, speaking softly, "No, you take the throne instead. For Allah's sake, let him live the life that is best suited for him. You know him well; he is a child gifted with knowledge who loves peace of mind. I do not want him to grow up in this chaotic environment, where his very life would be placed in constant peril."
Abdul-Salam asked, "My elder brother, how then do you want us to handle this?"
The king's eyes began to close heavily. Clutching Abdul-Salam's shirt, he gasped, "Look after Junaid for Allah's sake, Abdul-Salam. I leave the throne to you... just let him live..."
The violent trembling of his body prevented him from finishing his sentence. His heart ceased its beating, his breathing halted, and his soul departed from this world.
In a state of severe panic, Abdul-Salam frantically shook his elder brother—King Zubair.
When he finally emerged from the chambers, his entire body was limp with grief. The male and female palace servants stationed outside turned their eyes toward him in suspense. A woman who was actively rushing forward to enter the room to see her husband froze instantly, staring intently at Abdul-Salam.
He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head, signaling that all hope was gone.
At that moment, the servants erupted into loud lamentations over the loss of the King. The woman began to step backward, shaking her head in denial. Then, she frantically rushed past him to enter her husband's chambers. She found him lying completely motionless. Terrified, she shook him forcefully, but seeing his limp body fall back onto the bed, she broke down into a devastating wail.
Before one could even process the news, word of the King's demise spread into every nook and cranny of the palace, and soon reached the outer city walls where the public lived. People began streaming in from all directions like a flood of ants to deliver their condolences, filling the palace to maximum capacity.
The following morning...
The late King's wives and children—who were entirely female except for one—gathered together. An eight-year-old boy sat closely huddled against his mother. Some looked at the boy with eyes full of deep pity, while others cast critical, mocking glances at him. He remained glued to his mother's side until the time arrived for the funeral prayers. His mother looked down at him and said, "Junaid, go outside; they are about to perform the funeral prayer for the Late King."
Looking at the female servant tasked with his care, the Queen directed, "Go with him."
The young boy stood up and walked outside.
The moment he exited, one of the royal women questioned aloud, "Now, what is to be done with Junaid?"
The Queen, who was his biological mother, flashed her such a sharp, commanding glare that the woman immediately bit her tongue and fell completely silent.
Once the funeral prayer for the deceased monarch was completed, everyone shifted their attention to delivering royal allegiance and condolences to Abdul-Salam. At this critical moment, absolutely no one paid any attention to young Junaid. All the dignitaries and courtiers who used to swarm around the boy to win his favor were now gathered entirely around Abdul-Salam, completely abandoning the child.
Being just an innocent boy, Junaid simply stood up and muttered, "I want to go back to my mother."
The male servant who had escorted him opened the path, and they turned back.
As he reached the entrance of his mother's private residential wing, he suddenly heard a voice calling out frantically from behind: "Prince! Prince!"
He turned around to see the speaker—a young man sprinting toward him at full speed, panting heavily. The man took a brief moment to catch his breath before gasping, "Councilor Abdul-Salam is summoning you immediately."
Junaid turned around and walked back. He was deeply surprised to see his uncle sitting completely alone inside his late father's inner chambers—the very same man who had been surrounded by a massive crowd of people just moments prior.
The moment he stepped inside, Abdul-Salam looked at him. Junaid blinked his eyes in confusion before breaking down into tears. He ran forward, and his uncle quickly held him in a warm embrace. Junaid sobbed into his chest, asking, "Uncle, is it true that my father has passed away? Was he the one they performed the funeral prayers for just now?"
Abdul-Salam held him with immense compassion, whispering, "Junaid."
Junaid wept bitterly for a long time before his tears finally slowed.
Abdul-Salam looked into his eyes and said, "We are about to leave shortly to take him to his final resting place. I rushed here ahead of time because there is something critical I must tell you."
Junaid did not understand the gravity of the situation at all; he simply stared back blankly.
Abdul-Salam continued, "Right now, you are going to follow this person," he said, gesturing to the young guard who had summoned him. "We will all leave the palace grounds together, but you will separate from us and follow him to a secure location. You won't be there for long; I will personally come to pick you up very soon."
The boy nodded his head in compliance. Abdul-Salam then warned, "Do not mention a single word of this to your mother. Just tell her that you are leaving to attend the burial site of the Late King."
Looking up at his uncle with complete, innocent trust, the boy nodded, turned around, and walked out. The young guard immediately followed closely behind him.
Abdul-Salam fell into a deep silence. He knew that if he truly wanted to honor the final wishes of the late King, he had to smuggle the boy out of the palace immediately while the kingdom was still in a state of chaotic distraction. If he delayed until the funeral dust settled, Junaid’s mother would never, under any circumstances, allow her only son to be taken away. Because of this reality, Abdul-Salam and the young guard—who was a highly skilled, brave warrior and a deeply trusted confidant—had slipped out of the palace the previous night to scout a suitable village hideout. They had already secretly transferred female servants and trusted slaves there early this morning to prepare for the prince's arrival.
Before leaving, Junaid attempted to see his mother one last time, but the massive crowd of mourning women entering her quarters to deliver condolences blocked his path entirely. However, she managed to catch a brief glimpse of her son from a distance.
The young guard looked down at him and urged, "Prince, it is time to leave."
Junaid looked back and replied, "Let’s go. When I return, I will speak with her."
He turned and exited the compound. None of his older sisters, who were gathered around their mother, paid any attention to his departure. In reality, they harbored a deep-seated resentment toward him because he was the only male child, making him the automatic heir to their father's throne.
They emerged outside and joined the long procession of mourners escorting the Late King to his true final home. Just as the crowd was preparing to enter the burial grounds, the young guard gently pulled Junaid by the wrist, guiding him away from the crowd. Junaid yanked his hand back initially, walking alongside him while asking, "Where on earth are we going?"
"We won't be long, Prince. We are heading to a nearby village. Don't you love riding horses?" the guard enticed.
Junaid’s face lit up instantly. "Yes, very much!"
The young guard smiled. They navigated toward a small rural settlement, entering a compound from which he emerged leading a beautiful horse. Junaid squealed in delight, "Wow, you were actually telling the truth!"
The guard lifted Junaid onto the front of the saddle, climbed up behind him, and spurred the horse forward into a full gallop.
They traveled a considerable distance before arriving at a distinct village. Junaid stared at the rural inhabitants with immense curiosity and fascination as everyone went about their daily bustles. Turning to the guard, he exclaimed, "This is the very first time in my life I've ever been allowed to move freely among the public like this! Oh, I want to eat that over there!" he added, pointing toward a local street vendor selling traditional Hausa dark brown sugar candies (Mazarkwaila).
The guard replied gently, "Prince, please have patience. The moment we arrive at our destination, I will have the servants source the absolute finest quality candies for you, not like these street varieties."
Junaid laughed merrily. "I'll hold you to that promise then!"
They dismounted from the horse as they reached the outer edge of the village. Before them stood a massive, beautifully constructed estate that prominently bore the distinct architectural hallmarks of royal majesty.
Junaid looked up in absolute awe and asked, "Whose palace is this?"
The guard smiled and replied, "This is the private estate of King Zubair."
"My father's?!" the boy gasped in astonishment.
The guard nodded with a smile. In truth, the guard himself had been entirely unaware of this village's existence until the previous night when Abdul-Salam brought him here. King Zubair had personally revealed the secret location to his brother and commissioned the construction of this hidden sanctuary for Junaid the moment his terminal illness began to take hold of him two years ago.

🏰 The Kingdom of Biram

I am certain that the moment anyone hears the name Biram, your mind immediately wonders: where exactly is this place? However, I know that some of us are already well-acquainted with the name.
Biram is the foundational, ancient historical name for the town of Hadejia, which is the name most people recognize in this modern era. It is an ancient kingdom founded during the dawn of the Hausa Bakwai (the seven legitimate Hausa states) and the Banza Bakwai (the seven illegitimate peripheral states). The kingdom was formally established in the year 1808. It stands proud as one of the original territories established by the legendary historical figure, Bayajidda. It is a land deeply enriched by the cultural heritage of both the Hausa and Fulani peoples, a society built upon the historical foundations of agriculture, livestock herding, and trade.
Written by Ayusher Muhd
THE SCORCHING SUN (ZAFIN RANA)
Haske Writers Association
Chapter Two
The moment Junaid stepped across the threshold of the hidden estate, he began exploring the grounds with immense joy; the beauty of the place absolutely enchanted him. Just as he was about to enter the main living room, his eyes landed on some familiar faces—the female servants from his father's main palace.
Astonished, he sprinted toward them, calling out, "Hari, is that really you?"
Hearing his voice, she spun around quickly and rushed toward him, exclaiming, "Prince!"
He looked at her, deeply confused. "What are you doing here?"
"We were brought here very early this morning," she explained. "They instructed us to settle in and told us that you would be arriving shortly."
Without overthinking the bizarre situation, the boy asked, "Just you, or are there others?"
Hari immediately called out to the remaining female servants. Junaid laughed happily, running through the corridors of the estate, touching the beautiful decor. He was deeply amazed to find that every single item or luxury he had ever casually mentioned wanting to his father had been perfectly incorporated into this hidden house.
Turning to the young guard, he asked, "Hey, what is your name again?"
"My name is Azi, Prince," the guard replied warmly.
Junaid looked at him closely. "Ali or Azi?"
"Azi," the guard confirmed.
The boy giggled and asked, "Did you say you would have them buy that candy for me?"
Azi replied, "Yes, Prince. But only on the condition that you agree to stay here, sleep through the night, and promise not to cry."
Without a care in the world, the boy agreed, "Deal! But the moment we wake up tomorrow, we are going back to see my mother, right?"
Azi raised his hand, pointing to his fingers, and replied evasively, "Only after we have slept like this many times."
Junaid looked at his fingers and simply nodded, "Okay."
Meanwhile, back at the royal palace of Biram, the chaotic movement of mourners and dignitaries completely prevented Princess Queen Azeema from finding a single moment of peace. It wasn't until late evening, immediately following the completion of the Maghrib prayers, that she finally realized her young son had been missing all day.
Turning to her personal maidservant, she directed, "Tell the Prince to come over and eat his dinner here."
The maid quickly complied. Left alone, Princess Azeema stared blankly at the food tray. She had never, in her wildest dreams, imagined that King Zubair would precede her in death. How on earth was she supposed to navigate the treacherous waters of life now? She had been married off to him when she was just a tender, tiny girl. She had grown up under his protection; he was her father figure, her husband, and her ultimate confidant. What was she to do now?
She rested her heavy head against the edge of the bed, her heart sinking into absolute despair. Throughout their marriage, the massive number of other wives and royal concubines the King kept had never bothered her in the slightest, because King Zubair had always made it abundantly clear to the entire court that Azeema held the supreme, unmatched position in his heart.
She mentally forced herself to stiffen her spine. She had to stand strong and take control of her destiny, if only for the sake of Junaid's survival. She would never, under any circumstances, sit idly by and allow Abdul-Salam to usurp the throne when the true royal lineage belonged exclusively to Junaid. She had to remain fiercely resilient to ensure her son's ascension.
Hearing the maidservant re-enter the room, she snapped her head toward the door, expecting to see Junaid walking in behind her. But when the maid approached alone, Azeema’s brow furrowed.
The maid reported anxiously, "Princess, he is not in his private quarters."
Azeema wasn't worried yet. "Go check Princess Hanna’s wing, or search the central courtyard of the main palace."
The maid nodded and hurried out. The Queen stood up from her prayer mat and sat at the edge of her massive, beautifully adorned bed.
Suddenly, the maidservant, Barira, came bursting back into the room at a frantic run. Azeema’s temper flared, and she flashed her a look of such severe royal discipline that Barira immediately froze and corrected her posture, bowing her head toward the floor.
"Princess... Junaid is nowhere to be found," Barira stammered in panic. "We have asked everyone across the estate, and every single person claims they haven't seen him since midday, assuming he was with you all along."
Azeema bolted upright, her heart stopping. "Where on earth could he have gone?!" she gasped. "Come, let us search for him ourselves."
They rushed out of the quarters. Azeema personally navigated every corner of the palace grounds, desperately calling his name. Initially, she tried to keep her composure, but as she moved from wing to wing, the other palace residents emerged to join the search. Soon, a massive crowd had formed, but absolutely no one could provide a single lead on the boy's whereabouts.
The entire world began to spin around her. A frantic search was launched under the cover of darkness. The palace grounds were already packed to maximum capacity with visiting mourners, adding to the absolute chaos.
Every faction in the palace harbored their own hidden thoughts regarding the disappearance. Many of the royal women were weeping loudly, but a discerning eye could easily see that their tears were entirely performative—fueled by malicious palace gossip and jealousy.
Princess Azeema felt a severe wave of dizziness wash over her, her legs completely giving out. Turning to her eldest daughter, Samira, who was standing right beside her, she whispered urgently, "Hold me tightly... let us return to my room."
Samira gripped her mother's frame, helping her stand straight. Forcing a calm, serene smile for the watching crowd, Azeema announced aloud, "Everyone should return to their quarters; it is nothing serious. He likely wandered off to a quiet corner and fell fast asleep."
With that calculated statement, they turned around and walked back. Azeema leaned toward Samira and asked quietly, "Samira, where is Councilor Abdul-Salam right now?"
Samira whispered back, "You know it’s late, Mother. He has likely retired to his private chambers for the night."
Azeema tightly shut her eyes as they continued walking. The moment she stepped into the privacy of her bedroom, her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the floor, the physical strength completely draining from her limbs.
In a panic, Samira ordered all the maidservants to evacuate the room immediately. Kneeling beside her mother, she asked trembling, "Umma (Mother), do you truly believe something terrible has happened to him?"
Gimbiya Azeema, completely overwhelmed by panic, looked up with tear-filled eyes. "Samira, just think about it... how many factions are desperately lusting after this throne right now?"
Samira swallowed hard. "Abba's (Father's) younger brothers are five men... plus Councilor Abdul-Salam’s eldest son makes six powerful contenders in total."
"Exactly!" Azeema cried out. "Do you honestly believe they would ever allow Junaid to peacefully ascend the throne when he is just a vulnerable child? Especially when those six powerful men are already locked in a vicious internal war against one another for power?"
Samira’s heart skyrocketed into her throat. "Umma... are you implying they have assassinated or kidnapped him?!"
The Queen's chest felt incredibly heavy, a suffocating weight pressing down on her lungs. Gripping Samira’s hands tightly, she wailed, "Samira, we made a catastrophic mistake! We openly signaled to the entire court that Junaid was completely unprotected within this palace!"
Samira stared at her mother in sheer terror as Azeema pressed on, "Now, even those who were completely oblivious have been alerted to his vulnerability! Anyone seeking to permanently eliminate him can easily do so in the dark without anyone finding out!"
The horrific realization finally crashed over Samira’s mind, her entire body beginning to tremble violently. Azeema clutched her head, crying out, "What is wrong with me, Samira?! Why on earth didn't I foresee this dangerous reality until now? If anything fatal happens to Junaid, I am completely ruined! I am utterly doomed!"
Samira, fighting down her own rising hysteria, asked, "Umma, what do we do now? How do we handle this?"
Princess Azeema fell silent for a long moment. Recognizing that allowing herself to wallow in weakness would only seal her son's doom, she forcefully wiped her tears and stood up with sudden resolution. "Where is your husband?"
"Mahmud is currently at our private residence," Samira replied.
"Listen to me carefully," Azeema commanded. "If tomorrow midday arrives and Junaid is still missing, you must secretly dispatch a highly confidential letter to Mahmud. Since he is outside the immediate palace circle, the court won't easily monitor his movements. Instruct him to deploy every resource to locate Junaid at all costs! As for us here, the moment the sun rises tomorrow morning, we will officially announce to the palace that Junaid returned safely in the dead of night and is currently resting inside his room. We must not allow a single soul to suspect that something is amiss!"
Samira blinked in confusion. "Announce that he is in his room? How will that help?"
"The moment the public believes he is safe inside his room, the dangerous palace gossip will immediately die down," Azeema explained strategically. "We will systematically avoid any action or conversation that exposes our panic. While Mahmud is secretly hunting for him on the outside, we will have Barira quietly and meticulously comb through the inner palace structures."
Samira nodded in deep admiration. "I understand completely, Umma."
Gimbiya Azeema sat back down at the edge of the bed, her brow furrowing. "Those Islamic scholars who arrived here a few days ago to establish the daily religious recitations... do you know them personally?"
Samira shook her head. "No. What do you mean by recitations?"
"Never mind. I will have the matter investigated privately. You must covertly keep your eyes open and monitor the movements within our court."
"I will do so immediately, Umma," Samira promised.
"I absolutely must secure a private audience with Abdul-Salam," Azeema murmured to herself, "but I must be incredibly careful about how I approach him."
Samira asked, "What do you plan to do?"
Azeema looked at her daughter, opening her mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. "Do not worry about that right now. Return to your quarters and rest before your children begin looking for you."
With a heavy, anxious heart, Samira turned and exited the room.
Left entirely alone, Princess Azeema paced the floor of her chamber erratically, her mind a storm of anxiety. To make matters worse, she felt completely helpless regarding spiritual warfare; she had no idea how to perform the complex prayers or defensive supplications required in times of crisis. The late King had only taught her the basic, rudimentary recitations required for the daily ritual prayers. In that era, formal Islamic education had not yet deep-seated into the fabric of the palace; the nobility possessed only a basic literacy and lacked deep theological training. It was only recently that independent Islamic scholars had begun actively spreading advanced religious knowledge throughout the region.
Meanwhile, inside the hidden village estate, young Junaid was weeping bitterly inside his bedroom. He was deeply accustomed to a rigid nightly routine where his mother, Umma, would sit by his bedside, recite comforting verses to him, and gently soothe him to sleep.
Hearing the muffled, agonizing sobs echoing from the chamber, Hari quickly opened the door to find the Prince huddled tightly into a corner, his small frame trembling.
She turned up the wick of the traditional kerosene lamp (Fitilar Kwai) to brighten the room, stepping closer while whispering, "Prince! What is wrong? Are you in pain?"
He snapped his head up, his tear-streaked face full of desperation. "Hari, please take me back to Umma! I hate it here! I don't want to stay here!"
She looked down at him with immense pity and sorrow. "Prince... in all honesty, I don't even know where on earth we are. We were literally sealed inside heavy sacks and transported here in total darkness. I swear to Allah, I have absolutely no idea how we arrived."
He choked out, "Then call Azi for me!"
Hari’s eyes welled with tears as she knelt beside him. "Prince, please try to understand... I highly doubt you will be allowed to see your mother anytime soon."
Junaid’s eyes widened in fear. "What do you mean?"
Wiping a tear from her cheek, she explained softly, "Looking at the massive, endless stockpiles of food, luxury provisions, and daily necessities that they have brought and locked inside this estate, it is abundantly clear that you are meant to stay here for a very long time."
"Then what am I supposed to do here?!" the boy wailed in deep distress.
She held his hand gently and comforted, "Because of that reality, you must calm your heart, eat your food, and go to sleep. You must focus on growing up quickly, Prince. Perhaps once you have grown into a strong young man, they will finally grant you the freedom to return home."
Junaid’s breath hitched, his lips trembling violently as a fresh wave of tears burst from his eyes. He cried bitterly until his small body grew completely exhausted, finally collapsing into a deep, heavy sleep.
The following morning, back at the grand palace of Biram, the court was bustling with arriving nobles and gossiping relatives. However, Princess Azeema had meticulously executed her defensive strategy. Every nosy courtier who peered toward Junaid's quarters found his royal shoes perfectly placed right outside the entrance where he always left them, and his formal royal cloak (Alkyabba) was prominently draped right beside the Queen's seating area.
Azeema sat in her state chair with absolute, unbothered composure. Whenever a visitor subtly probed about the prince's whereabouts, she would smoothly reply with a calm smile, "Oh, the poor child was so exhausted from grief yesterday that he slipped into the Late King's inner chambers and spent the entire night there. He didn't get a single wink of peaceful sleep, which is precisely why he is currently sleeping heavily inside his room right now."
Some of the naive visitors accepted the explanation instantly. Others, however, harbored deep suspicions, silently questioning how a young, energetic child could possibly remain completely asleep from the early hours of dawn until midday.
Written by AYUSHER
THE SCORCHING SUN (ZAFIN RANA)
Haske Writers Association
Page 3
Princess Azeema had spent the entire night completely awake, her mind trapped in a vicious cycle of plotting, evaluating dangers, and calculating survival strategies. The moment the first cracks of dawn emerged and the morning prayers were completed, she summoned Barira to her side.
In a low, urgent whisper, she directed, "Go station yourself covertly near the edge of the royal mosque. Intercept Councilor Abdul-Salam right before he retires to his private inner sanctuary. Tell him these exact words: 'She wishes to see you immediately at the designated eye.'"
Barira didn't dare question the hidden, cryptic meaning behind the phrase. She bowed and hurried out.
The moment Abdul-Salam emerged from the morning congregational prayers, Barira approached his personal bodyguard, who promptly relayed the message to the Councilor.
Upon hearing the phrase, Abdul-Salam’s expression shifted. He turned to his attendants and commanded, "Return to the inner chambers; I will join you shortly."
Without a moment's hesitation, he marched briskly across the palace grounds, navigating a considerable distance until he reached an abandoned, half-demolished structure (Kango) located at a isolated corner of the estate. The brickwork had been initiated years ago but was abruptly abandoned, leaving the crumbling walls to sit in silence.
The moment he stepped past the broken threshold, he found Princess Azeema standing in the shadows waiting for him.
He looked at her sternly and demanded, "What on earth are you doing here? You are currently undergoing your sacred period of widowhood mourning (Takaba); you have no business leaving your quarters."
She looked back at him with a face contorted by intense psychological trauma and demanded fiercely, "I know my obligations! Cut the lectures, Abdul-Salam... where is Junaid?!"
He feigned ignorance, tilting his head. "Junaid? Is he not with you in your quarters?"
A bitter, cynical laugh escaped her lips. "Not with me? Do you truly take me for a fool, Abdul-Salam? Did you honestly believe I wouldn't instantly realize that you were the one who abducted my son?!"
"Azeema, what on earth are you accusing me of?!" he barked back.
Her temper completely exploded. "Abdul-Salam, I want my son back right now! You know me better than anyone else in this court! I swear to Allah, if a single hair on my son's head is harmed, you will face a catastrophic vengeance that will tear this entire kingdom apart!"
He stared deeply into her eyes, searching her gaze, trying to ascertain if she possessed any concrete evidence or if she was simply acting on raw, maternal instinct. In truth, Abdul-Salam knew Azeema inside out. The two of them had essentially grown up together within these palace walls; she had been married off to King Zubair when she was an exceptionally young, tiny girl, back when Abdul-Salam was just her age-mate and childhood companion.
Seeing that his face lacked the subtle, familiar tells that usually surfaced whenever he was actively lying to her, Azeema’s fierce royal composure completely shattered. Her eyes filled with tears, and she broke down, begging, "Abdul-Salam... I beg of you, please help me find Junaid. For Allah's sake, find my boy! You know me... I cannot survive a single day in this world without Junaid."
A profound wave of pity washed over Abdul-Salam's heart. He understood the unimaginable weight of her grief—she had just lost her protector and husband, and now her only son was gone. He looked at her tenderly and whispered, "Azeema."
As if his gentle tone had unlocked the floodgates of her soul, she collapsed into a desperate wail, kneeling on the dusty floor of the ruins. "Please help me... find Junaid! I will lose my mind without him!"
Abdul-Salam tightly shut his eyes, fighting down his own intense sympathy. However, he knew that if he yielded to his emotions and revealed the secret hideout, she would immediately bring the boy back to the palace. And as a vulnerable, targeted child in this den of wolves, Junaid’s life would be placed in constant, fatal jeopardy—assuming his rivals even allowed him to live at all.
"I will launch a full investigation to locate him," he promised solemnly, keeping the secret buried. "But you must remain strong and endure this trial."
Wiping her tears forcefully, Azeema stood up and looked at him. "To buy us time before the court catches on to his absence, I am going to officially inform the public that Junaid has fallen severely ill and has been secretly dispatched to Daura to reside under the care of my mother. For Allah's sake, Abdul-Salam... use this window to find my son before people uncover the truth."
"It shall be as you wish, Princess," he complied.
She looked at him as if she wanted to say something more, but ultimately decided against it, turning on her heel and exiting the ruins. Abdul-Salam watched her retreating figure, closing his eyes tightly in deep sorrow.
The weeks bled into months. Mahmud searched frantically across the regions until he was completely exhausted, but found absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, Princess Azeema had grown completely emaciated, her physical frame wasting away from grief. Despite her official narrative that Junaid was recovering in Daura, the treacherous factions within the palace refused to believe a single word.
Observing her drastic physical deterioration, malicious palace gossip spread like wildfire. Jealous rivals and fake mourners visited her quarters under the guise of delivering condolences, but secretly laughed at her misery behind closed doors, mocking her grand ambitions of installing her son onto the throne.
Amidst her helpless grief and silent suffering, the high council formally finalized the transition of power. Abdul-Salam was officially crowned as the new King of the ancient realm of Biram. On the morning of his grand coronation ceremony, Princess Azeema woke up suffering from a severe, debilitating fever. She had wept and fought until her spirit was completely broken, falling into absolute despair as she came to the horrific conclusion that her precious son had been permanently assassinated.
According to the ancient palace traditions of that era, whenever a new King ascended the throne, he was granted the absolute royal prerogative to review the harem of the deceased monarch. He could select whichever widows or concubines he wished to incorporate into his own household, while those he rejected were permanently evicted from the royal apartments and relocated to the squalid, furthest peripheral edges of the palace grounds.
The moment the mandatory Islamic mourning period (Takaba) was completed, Abdul-Salam’s senior wife—who had now assumed the coveted title of Queen Mother (Sarauniya Hajjo)—marched directly toward the King's inner sanctuary. She found him sitting quietly, finishing his meal.
She took a seat right beside him, waiting patiently until he finished. Abdul-Salam looked up at her and asked, "Do you have something critical to discuss?"
She locked eyes with him and demanded coldly, "Your Majesty... what exactly do you intend to do with the widows of King Zubair?"
He stared back at her calmly. "What exactly do you mean by that?"
Queen Hajjo narrowed her eyes. "I have already granted my royal consent for you to select whichever minor concubines you desire, especially since we are currently only two official wives in your household. However, let me make one thing abundantly clear: I will never, under any circumstances, allow you to marry Azeema!"
Abdul-Salam went stone-cold silent, setting down his cup of water before staring at her with an unreadable expression. "And what is your reason for this decree?"
She sneered bitterly, leaning forward. "Do you honestly believe I am completely blind to the hidden history that exists between the two of you?!"
He remained dead silent, staring at her coldly.
Queen Hajjo pressed on, her voice rising in jealousy, "Both of us were married off to you as political obligations! You have never harbored a single drop of genuine love or affection for either of us! What on earth do you think has prevented you from loving your own wives throughout all these long decades we have shared under your roof?!"
Abdul-Salam calmly set his cup down on the table, his voice dropping into a dangerous, razor-sharp baritone: "Whatever the past may be, it does not concern you. Furthermore, you know me better than anyone else in this kingdom, Hajjo... you do not possess the power to make me abandon an action once I have set my mind to it."
She stared back at him, her eyes flashing with pure rage, before unleashing a bitter...

👥 Character Profiles & Royal Dynamics

🏛️ Historical Context Guide: The Kingdom of Biram

• The Foundation (1808): The text explicitly anchors the narrative in the year 1808, a critical turning point in Nigerian history marking the height of the Fulani Jihad led by Sheikh Usman dan Fodio.
• Biram and Hadejia: Biram is historically recognized as one of the original Hausa Bakwai (the seven legitimate founding states of the Hausa civilization). According to the Bayajidda legend, Biram was the seat of the primary lineage. In the modern era, this territory evolved into the Hadejia Emirate, located in modern-day Jigawa State, Nigeria.
• Cultural Blend: The narrative highlights the coexistence of the Hausa and Fulani peoples, characterized by an economy centered around agriculture, large-scale livestock herding, and trade.

• The Islamic Renaissance: The text notes a transition period where formal, deep Islamic literacy (Karatun Addini) was just beginning to actively spread via traveling scholars (Malamai), contrasting with the older palace nobility who only possessed basic liturgical knowledge.

  📋 Plot Outline & Sequential Structure

  1. The Deathbed Pact

  The story opens in the royal bedchamber where King Zubair is dying. In his final breaths, he forces his younger brother, Abdul-Salam, to accept a sacred trust: Abdul-Salam must take the throne, and Prince Junaid must be smuggled out of the palace to safeguard his life from royal assassins. King Zubair passes away mid-sentence.

  2. The Great Deception

  While the palace erupts into mourning, Abdul-Salam and a trusted guard named Azi execute the plan. They exploit the chaos of the funeral procession to separate Junaid from the crowd. Junaid is taken to a beautifully constructed, hidden royal estate located at the outer edges of a distant village—a sanctuary built in secret by King Zubair two years prior.

  3. Palace Intrigue and Counter-Measures

  Back at the capital, Queen Azeema discovers her son's disappearance. Recognizing that her co-wives and rivals will execute her son if they discover his vulnerability, she launches a brilliant counter-intelligence play: she announces that Junaid has fallen ill and has been sent away to Daura.

  4. The Confrontation in the Ruins

  Azeema secretly summons Abdul-Salam to a half-demolished structure (Kango) within the palace grounds, accusing him of abducting her son. Abdul-Salam maintains his cover to protect the boy, leaving Azeema to sink into deep despair.

  5. Consolidating Power and Harem Politics

  Abdul-Salam is formally crowned King of Biram. Following traditional customs, the new king must decide the fate of the previous ruler's wives. Queen Hajjo, Abdul-Salam's senior wife, confronts him in his chambers, explicitly forbidding him from marrying Azeema and exposing a long-standing, unresolved romantic tension between the new King and the grieving widow.