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The faint hum of life in KUDRAT's library contrasted sharply with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside Nisma. Bookshelves stretched high, their towering presence cloaking the room in an air of quiet authority. Nisma sat at a small wooden table near the window, her fingers tracing the edge of an old textbook, though her thoughts were far from the subject of history.

The sound of shuffling footsteps interrupted her reverie. An older student emerged from between the shelves, his arms laden with a stack of books. His blazer, slightly frayed at the edges, bore the emblem of KUDRAT. He paused, noticing Nisma sitting alone, and gave a polite nod.

"You're Nisma, right?" the student asked, adjusting the stack in his arms.

Nisma blinked in surprise. "Yes. And you are?"

"I'm Ridwan. I've been here long enough to recognize new faces," he said with a small smile. "But I've heard your name before... not just because you're Nawfal's sister. Your mother... Esra Fadhil, she was..."

Nisma's heart skipped a beat. "You knew my mother?"

Ridwan set his books down and took a seat, his expression softening. "Not directly. But her name still carries weight here. She wasn't a student, Nisma of course. She was a teacher. One of the best KUDRAT ever had. But she was more than that—she was a reformer. People say she stood against the High Council when no one else dared to. She believed KUDRAT should be more than just tradition and power plays."

The soft murmur of voices seemed to fade into the background as Nisma listened, captivated.

Fakhri appeared at that moment, a notebook in hand. He paused when he noticed the conversation but quickly slid into a chair beside Nisma. "What's going on?" he asked, sensing the tension.

"Wait, your mom was a rebel? At this school?" Fakhri interjected after catching up.

"A reformer," Ridwan corrected gently. "She wasn't reckless. She was... strategic. Her lectures and the way she spoke inspired students and even some staff members, even those who were skeptical of change. But the Council didn't take her defiance lightly. They called her a threat to the system."

Nisma's throat tightened. She had always known her mother as a kind, nurturing soul. But this side of her—a fighter, a voice for justice—was entirely new. "What happened to her?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ridwan hesitated. "From what I've pieced together, her ideals made her many enemies. Some say she left voluntarily, others..." His words trailed off, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

"Others what?" Fakhri pressed.

Ridwan sighed. "Others say the Council pushed her out. There were... rumors about how far they'd go to protect their traditions."

The weight of his words settled heavily on Nisma's chest. Her mother's death had always been a tender wound, but now it felt intertwined with something far larger and more insidious.

Later, as Nisma lay awake in her dorm room, her thoughts churned restlessly. How had her mother, a teacher, known so much about the High Council? The Council's workings were shrouded in secrecy, even to most students. Teachers were rarely privy to the inner dynamics of KUDRAT's power structure. Yet, her mother had not only understood it but actively challenged it.

Nisma stared at the ceiling, the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the curtains. Questions swirled in her mind, each more pressing than the last. Had someone within the school confided in her mother? Or had she uncovered something on her own? And if she had, what had driven her to take such a dangerous stand?