His knees were still blistered. His back still bore the marks of correction. But he no longer cried. No longer begged. No longer asked to go home.
Progress.
“Continue,” I said, settling into the chair by the door. “I will observe.”
He continued. Verse after verse, surah after surah, his small voice filling the room with the words of the Prophet. His eyes, when I caught a glimpse of them, were empty. Hollow. The light that had once animated them—the spark of defiance, of hope, of childhood—had been extinguished.
This was what I wanted. What I had worked toward. A vessel emptied of weakness, ready to be filled with strength.
So why did I feel a flicker of… something?
Not regret. I did not regret. Regret was for weak men who second-guessed their decisions.
But something. Some small voice in the back of my mind that whispered:This is a child. This is your blood. This is not strength—this is destruction.
I silenced the voice. I had silenced it many times before.
“Your Arabic is improving,” I said when he finally paused. “Tomorrow we will begin memorization of Surah Al-Baqarah. It is the longest surah in the Quran. By the time you have committed it to memory, you will understand the value of discipline and perseverance.”
Yusef did not respond. Did not turn around. Simply bowed his head and waited for further instruction.
“Did you hear the commotion downstairs?” I asked.
A small nod.
“That was your father. He disappointed me. He is being… corrected.”
No reaction. The boy had learned not to react.
“You will not disappoint me, will you, Yusef?”
“No, sir.”
Two syllables. Flat. Lifeless. Obedient.
I stood and walked to the door.
“Resume your studies. I will send someone with your evening meal. Tomorrow, we increase the difficulty of your training. You have shown acceptable progress, but acceptable is not excellent. And I will accept nothing less than excellence.”
“Yes, sir.”
I closed and locked the door behind me.
The flicker of doubt had returned. Stronger this time. But I pushed it away.
I was doing what was necessary. What was right. I was saving this boy from the weakness his aunt had instilled in him. I was forging him into something worthy of my bloodline.
And if I had to break him completely to do it?
So be it.
I returned to my study.Sat in my chair. Stared at the photograph on my phone.
Farah. My daughter. My weakness.
Prentice knew exactly what he was doing. Knew that she was the one person I could not sacrifice. The one leverage point that might actually work.
But I would not fold. Not yet. Not to a man who had forgotten everything I taught him about respect and loyalty.
