Curiosity does not excuse disobedience, he said.

Reading such a book is forbidden.

You understand this? I nodded, shame filling my chest.

Yes, I said softly.

I understand.

My father exhaled sharply as if the sound alone eased some of the weight he carried.

“How much did you read?” he asked.

His voice was deeper now, harsher.

I couldn’t look at him.

My hands trembled harder.

“A few chapters,” I whispered.

“At night, silence followed.

Heavy, accusing, painful.

” My father looked away, pressing his fingers to his forehead.

The oldest Imam stepped closer to the table.

Princess, he said, “We are here not to punish, but to guide you back to the correct path, but first we need to know something important.

” He paused, then asked the one question everyone feared but needed,” answered, “Have you begun to believe anything from this book?” My breath caught, my stomach twisted sharply.

This was the moment I feared most.

If I said yes, everything would escalate instantly.

If I said no, I would be lying.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

My silence filled the room with dread.

My father’s jaw tightened.

My uncle shifted uncomfortably.

One imam closed his eyes as if praying silently.

I swallowed hard and forced the words out.

I do not know, I said honestly.

I do not understand everything I feel.

I am confused.

The answer was true but dangerous.

The room erupted into quiet whispers.

One uncle asked the imams what the Islamic ruling was in such situations.

Another adviser suggested immediate corrective action.

The older Imam spoke above them all.

Confusion is not belief, he said, but confusion is the path that leads to it.

We must intervene before confusion becomes conviction.

He turned to me.

Princess, you must renounce everything you have read immediately.

Do you understand? My father looked at me with expectation, hoping I would say yes and end this nightmare.

But I couldn’t.

My heart tightened painfully.

The words wouldn’t come.

Finally, I whispered, “I cannot say anything until I understand my own feelings.

” Gasps filled the room.

My father slammed his hand against the wooden table, making me flinch.

“Line, enough!” he shouted.

“This is not the time for feelings.

You are a princess.

Your duty is clear.

” His voice broke at the end, revealing the despair beneath his anger.

My eyes filled with tears.

I loved my father.

Hurting him was the last thing I ever wanted.

But my heart felt torn between fear and something I couldn’t define.

The older Imam regained control of the tribunal.

We must take action, he said firmly.

This is no longer a private struggle.

This is a threat to her faith and to the honor of this family.

He turned to my father.

She must be confined.

She must be instructed.

She must be given time to repent.

My father nodded slowly, though pain filled his eyes.

My uncles agreed.

The imam stepped closer to me, their faces heavy with responsibility.

Princess Lujain, the elder imam said, “You will be placed under spiritual supervision for the next 2 days.

You will pray.

You will fast.

You will read the Quran with guidance.

And at the end of these two days, you will be brought before this council again to publicly renounce the Bible and everything inside it.

He paused before continuing.

You will also burn the book yourself in front of us.

I froze completely.

Burn the Bible.

Burn the very book that had stirred something deep inside me.

Burn the pages that had touched the emptiness in my heart.

burn the words that felt like they understood my soul better than anything before.

My mind screamed for me to agree, to say yes, to end the pressure, to make my father proud again, to erase this disaster.

But my heart clenched painfully.

I couldn’t speak.

My father watched me while fighting back tears of frustration and shame.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on the table to steady himself.

And if she refuses,” he asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

The Imam lifted his eyes to meet his.

His voice was cold and final.

Then, according to our law, she will face the punishment for apostasy.

My blood ran cold, my hands went numb, my ears rang.

Apostasy, leaving Islam, was a crime with only one penalty: death.

The word hung in the air like smoke.

My father swallowed hard, his face collapsing with grief.

He could not argue.

He could not challenge the law.

He could only watch.

I felt my breath vanish.

I tried to speak, but couldn’t.

Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.

The tribunal ended shortly after, though I barely remembered walking out.

The guards led me back to my room, locked the door, and positioned themselves outside.

I collapsed onto my bed, shaking violently, unable to stop crying.

My entire body felt weak, drained, broken.

The reality of my situation crashed over me like a tidal wave.

I had two days.

Two days to submit.

Two days to destroy the book that had awakened something inside me.

Two days to lie to myself and everyone else.

Two days to save my life by killing a part of my soul or face death.

The hours that followed were torture.

Imams came one by one to speak with me through the locked door, quoting Quranic verses, warning me of hell, reminding me of my duty.

My mother tried to visit, but the guards denied her until the council allowed it.

When she finally entered, her eyes were swollen from crying.

She sat beside me on my bed, holding my hand, begging me to repent.

Please, my daughter, she whispered, you are killing me.

This is not you.

You are strong in Islam.

You are obedient.

You are pure.

Don’t throw your life away.

Her tears soaked my hand.

I wanted to comfort her, to promise I would obey, but my throat locked every time I tried.

She cried harder, whispering prayers over me.

My father visited next.

He didn’t yell this time.

He didn’t ask questions.

He just looked at me with a pain deeper than anything I had ever seen in him.

Lujain, he said quietly, I cannot protect you from this.

The law is the law.

If you refuse, his voice broke.

I will lose my daughter.

I sobbed, apologizing repeatedly, but I had no answers.

He left the room with tears in his eyes.

The next day passed in a blur of fear, confusion, prayer, and pacing.

I tried reading the Quran, but my hands shook too much.

I tried praying, but I couldn’t focus.

Every time I closed my eyes, the words from the Bible returned to me.

Come to me and I will give you rest.

I cried until I was too weak to cry more.

I begged Allah for clarity.

I begged God, whoever he was, to show me what to do.

My soul felt torn in half.

By sunset of the second day, the guards opened my door again.

The council was waiting.

I knew what they expected.

I knew what the law demanded.

I knew what would happen if I refused.

And still, I didn’t know what I would say.

When the guards opened my door at sunset on the second day, my heart nearly stopped.

Their faces were stiff, unreadable, and their silence told me what I already feared.

They had come to take me to the tribunal for my final decision.

I stood slowly from my bed, feeling weak from crying and fasting.

My legs shook beneath me and my heart pounded so loudly that I could barely hear the sound of the door closing behind us as they escorted me down the long hallway.

The villa was silent, too silent, as if every wall, every light, every shadow knew what was about to happen.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

I wanted to turn back, run, hide, anything.

But I knew there was no escape.

My fate was waiting in the council chamber.

The door to the meeting hall opened and the entire room fell into a suffocating stillness.

My father sat in the center surrounded by uncles, royal advisers, and the three imams who had questioned me previously.

Their faces were unreadable, but the heaviness in the air made my stomach twist painfully.

The Bible lay on a small wooden table in the center of the room, resting beside a brass torch prepared for the burning.

Seeing it there felt like a knife piercing my chest.

They gestured for me to step forward, and I obeyed, though my legs barely carried me.

My father’s eyes were filled with grief, as if he had aged years in just two days.

My heart broke seeing him like that, knowing I was the cause.

But deeper than his sorrow was the weight of the law hanging between us, unchangeable, unmovable.

The Elder Imam rose from his seat, his voice calm yet stern.

Princess Lujin Al- Sabah, he began, “You have been given time to reflect, to repent, to return to the path of Islam as expected of a daughter of this noble family.

” His gaze never left mine.

We now require your answer.

Will you burn this Bible and publicly renounce everything you have read? Will you reaffirm your shahada before this council? The torch in his hand flickered softly, illuminating the room.

Everyone leaned forward, waiting for my response.

My throat tightened.

My palms grew damp.

My heart raced as if trying to flee from my body.

I knew that saying yes would save my life.

I knew that burning the Bible would restore my place in the family.

I knew my father prayed silently that I would submit.

But something in my soul refused to move backward.

I slowly lifted my eyes and looked directly at the Bible.

Memories flashed through my mind.

Psalm 23 whispering peace into my heart.

The dreams of the man in white.

The gentle words that felt like healing to my soul.

I felt tears welling up, but I forced myself to speak.

My voice cracked as I whispered, “I cannot burn it.

” Gasp filled the room.

The imams froze.

My father clenched his fists, pained disbelief spreading across his face.

“Line,” he said, barely able to speak.

“Do not do this.

” My tears fell uncontrollably now, but I stood firm.

“I cannot deny what I have read,” I said, voice trembling but clear.

And I cannot burn the words that touched my soul.

The room erupted into chaos.

My uncles argued loudly.

The imams raised their voices, quoting scripture, warning me.

Advisers shouted about consequences.

Guards stepped closer.

My father closed his eyes in devastation.

The elder Imam silenced the room with a single command.

Then he turned to my father.

According to the law, he said solemnly, “She must face the punishment.

” My father’s breath faltered, but he nodded slowly.

He had no power against this ruling.

Two guards stepped forward immediately and seized my arms.

My mother suddenly appeared at the doorway, crying out my name, but the guards held her back as she tried to reach me.

“Please,” she screamed.

Please don’t take her.

She is my daughter.

Her cries cut through me more deeply than anything else.

I begged the guards with my eyes to let her hold me, but they pulled me away, dragging me down the corridor as she sobbed uncontrollably behind us.

My sister had collapsed into her arms, shaking violently.

The guards led me outside the Almasila residence to a black convoy waiting in the courtyard.

The cool night air hit my face like a shock, reminding me that this was real.

I was shoved gently but firmly into the back of the vehicle and the doors closed.

As we drove through the quiet streets of Kuwait City, I stared out the tinted window, watching familiar places blur into shadows.

The roads were empty.

The city lights glowed softly under the night sky.

Unaware that a princess was being driven to her execution, my body trembled uncontrollably, I whispered prayers, some to Allah out of habit, others to the God I had come to know in secret.

Please, I whispered into my trembling hands.

If you are real, if you hear me, help me.

I am so afraid.

But no voice answered.

Only silence filled the car, heavy and suffocating.

We arrived at a restricted section behind a government compound used for private royal matters.

The courtyard was enclosed, dimly lit by lanterns and torches.

A small group of officials, guards, and two imams stood waiting.

There was no audience, no ceremony, only a quiet, controlled environment where decisions were carried out without public knowledge.

They escorted me to the center of the courtyard where a simple execution platform stood.

The air felt heavy, still, almost suffocating.

I could hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

One of the imams approached me, his expression sorrowful but resolute.

This is your final chance, he said softly.

Renounce what you have read and you may walk away alive.

I shook my head slowly, tears streaming down my face.

I cannot lie, I whispered.

The imam’s expression tightened with grief.

He stepped back.

The executioner stepped forward.

He wore a black hood and carried a gleaming sword.

My legs nearly gave out.

Two guards caught me as I swayed, forcing me to kneel on the platform.

My hands were tied before me.

My tears soaked the fabric of my abaya.

My fear screamed inside my mind.

Every instinct in my body begged me to run, to fight, to plead.

But deep inside, beneath the fear, there was a strange stillness, gentle, quiet, almost comforting, like someone whispering, “You are not alone.

” I closed my eyes tightly as the executioner raised his sword.

The cold night air brushed against my neck, making me shiver.

The imam began reciting a final prayer.

The guards held their breath.

The executioner positioned his feet.

The courtyard waited in absolute silence.

Then everything changed.

Just as the sword began to descend, the ground beneath us trembled violently.

At first, it was a small vibration like a heavy truck passing nearby.

But within seconds, the entire courtyard shook with a force so powerful that several guards fell to their knees.

The executioner stumbled backward, dropping his sword with a loud clang.

The imams grabbed onto each other to avoid falling.

Dust shook free from the rooftops.

The lanterns hanging on the walls swayed wildly.

The ground cracked beneath the platform, splitting the stone surface with a lightning-shaped fissure.

I gasped and lifted my head in shock, unable to comprehend what was happening.

The guards who had been holding me released their grip, trying desperately to steady themselves.

The trembling intensified, and then suddenly a brilliant light descended into the courtyard.

It was not lantern light, not electricity, not fire.

It was something otherworldly, pure, bright, and unlike anything I had ever seen.

It radiated from above, illuminating everything with a white gold glow that made the shadows flee instantly.

The light was so bright that several guards shielded their faces, terrified.

One fell to the ground, crying out.

The imam stared upward in disbelief, their mouths open, their voices frozen in their throats.

The executioner stepped back, trembling violently, his sword forgotten on the ground.

The light surrounded me, not touching me, but encircling me as if forming a protective barrier around my body.

My tears stopped instantly.

My fear vanished in a single breath.

A warmth filled my chest, reaching places I had never felt before.

And then a voice spoke.

It was not a human voice.

It did not come from the guards or the imams or the officials.

It came from everywhere at once.

From the air, from the ground, from the sky, and from inside my own soul.

It was powerful yet gentle, strong yet comforting.

It spoke in no earthly language, yet I understood every word with perfect clarity.

This is my daughter.

I am with her.

” The moment the voice echoed across the courtyard, the trembling stopped.

The light grew brighter for one final second.

then slowly faded into the night sky, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

The courtyard was transformed.

Guards dropped to their knees, shaking with fear.

One of them cried, “This is from God.

” Another began whispering prayers, unsure which faith he was speaking to.

The imam stared at me with wide, trembling eyes, their certainty completely shattered.

The executioner removed his hood slowly, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

I cannot, he whispered.

I cannot touch her.

The officials backed away as if unsure whether they were standing in the presence of something holy.

I remained kneeling on the ground, still tied, but feeling freer than I had ever felt in my life.

The elder imam took a hen step toward me, his face pale.

What? What have we witnessed? He whispered, but no one answered him.

A moment later, a voice broke through the silence.

My father’s.

He had arrived during the commotion, running toward the courtyard with several guards behind him.

He froze when he saw the fractured ground, the terrified officials, and me kneeling in the center, surrounded by a faint lingering glow.

His eyes widened, feeling first with confusion, then with fear and then with something unexpected.

Recognition.

He approached slowly, as if afraid to come too close.

“Line,” he whispered.

“What happened here?” His voice shook.

The younger Imam stepped forward and spoke in a trembling voice, “Your Highness, God has intervened.

” My father looked around at the men kneeling, the executioner frozen in terror.

The Imam speechless and the ground cracked under the executioner’s platform.

For the first time in my life, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.

Then he looked at me, really looked at me with a mixture of awe, confusion, and something I never expected.

Respect.

That was the moment everything changed and nothing in Kuwait would ever be the same again.

My father did not speak for several seconds after the imam declared that God had intervened.

He stood in the dim courtyard staring at the fractured ground, the dropped sword, the officials kneeling in fear and the last traces of light fading from the night sky.

His chest rose and fell heavily as if he had forgotten how to breathe.

I remained kneeling too, still bound at the wrists, unsure if I was allowed to move.

My body felt weak from the shock, yet at peace in a way I had never felt before.

Something deep inside me knew that nothing would return to the way it had been.

Slowly, my father approached the platform with hesitant steps, as if walking towards something sacred.

The guards behind him stayed several paces back, afraid to go further.

When he reached me, he didn’t shout.

He didn’t question.

He only stared into my face, searching for something.

He knelt down slowly in front of me, the way he used to when I was a little girl, afraid of thunderstorms.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he finally spoke.

Lu Jane, tell me the truth.

who protected you just now? His eyes were filled with confusion and fear, but also with longing, like a man trying desperately to make sense of the impossible, I swallowed hard and lifted my trembling voice.

The God I read about in the Bible, I whispered, “Jesus.

” The moment the name left my mouth, several guards gasped.

One of the imams stumbled backward, murmuring prayers under his breath.

But my father didn’t flinch.

He simply closed his eyes tightly as if the weight of the truth pressed down on him all at once.

When he opened them again, they were filled with a mixture of grief and acceptance.

“I saw it,” he whispered.

“We all saw it.

” He stood slowly and turned towards the officials.

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