The Chronicals of Alaraf

Author’s Note:
This story is an allegory about epistemic ethics: how “creative fiction” can be used to launder wrongdoing, obscure attribution, and convert real harms into dismissible entertainment. All institutions, titles, and referenced “novels” are fictional constructs used to model patterns of misattribution, accountability, and institutional liability.


—

Bird had long since changed back into a cat and wandered into the library, knowing, for once, it would be entirely unoccupied. College Administration remained at the bonfire in their field, so it was only fair if he slept in their spots in subtle revenge.

Bird found his place beside the heating grate, curled up, and fell asleep.

Since Ibn Arabi had shaved, Bird satisfied himself by purring, “I am the intellectual fluffy gray kitty of the central library now,” especially since no one could confirm or deny it, as the wealthy continued to debate past nonsense around the campfire.

At the campfire itself, as Bird left willingly, the Mango Butler was dismissed to perform security rounds and exclude himself from the conversation.

Mr. Butler remained in awe. His security job was meant to stay a secret, as he primarily focused on growing his YouTube audience of “Mango Lovers” as much as possible. He wasn’t resentful, though he did need a real campus security uniform designed for people… instead of the cat collar he wore on his wrist and the tiny police hat awkwardly pinned to his mango-colored hair.

Around the fire, only four remained: all three men named “Leto,” and Commodore Fischadler.

The topic: ‘The Adventures of Agathon Krahe’, authored entirely by Leto2, under several pseudonyms. Most of it was inaccurate; all of it obscured real-life crimes that Leto2 transformed into plot points—so outsiders could dismiss true horrors as “something you would read in an Agathon Krahe novel.”

The books weren’t even well written. They read as trashy while staying below a PG-13 ceiling: gratuitous violence; romance implied, then  redacted, almost in panic, for decentering violence, even temporarily.

Shah Leto I was about the same height as Baron Leto۳, but nearly twice his age. He had not diminished in sharpness. He examined a paperback with one hand while scrolling through old faculty timecards on his phone.

“…and then, after I killed the last man for My Beloved, I returned to her jewelry store, where she was enslaved, and she added the seventh and final chain to my face—attached to the metal pin that held my nose at the bridge, this one comprised of blue and black pearls, like tears, that almost felt like taubah to wear…” read Shah Leto, his face twisting in disgust.

“Duke Leto, this is not even quality writing,” Shah Leto stated simply, shaking his head. Then he looked to the elder, more terrifying ginger.

“I did not authorize any of this, Commodore Fischadler. Despite what was told about me, I do not—nor would I ever—authorize creative fiction. I have struggled all my life with students creating lies about me to hide wrongdoing.”

He paused, then looked directly at Duke Leto2.

“It seems the wrongdoing of my own students never stopped. My deepest apologies, Dr. Fischadler,” finished President Shah Leto I, sincerely.

Baron Leto stared into the fire, his back lightly propped against the leg of his mentor, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Duke Leto2 very much wanted to be a cat again—but knew Shah Leto I would simply become a faster one and block his exit. Or worse, a slower cat, and block it anyway as a display of power. Either way, he was humiliated. Dissociation while staring at burning wood seemed the next best option.

“The True Love of Agathon Krahe—an enslaved Baloch jeweler in Karachi making weapons from walking canes and tasbih, wordlessly guiding a Sufi Shaykh to murder people on her behalf—is not just haram,” muttered Shah Leto, “it’s truly terrible writing.”

Commodore Fischadler interrupted subtly, then paused.
“No pressure, Baron—but what actually happened to get you out of Afghanistan?”

Baron straightened slightly.

“I was abandoned by my prior radio support, and all I had was a burner phone. I had just met a certain celebrity Imam, or so he styled himself, with an FBI badge who promised extraction. He was bribed by locals to attack me instead. His rationale, I’m told, was ‘to test if I was real.’” Baron glowered,

“I survived. I ended up in a field hospital under new supervision. My trust in him did not survive, so a student gained a mentor from Khorasan—but one who can never fully trust him.”

Shah Leto I, known for discernment and an immunity to stories—no one having more told about him than Shah Leto I—looked up.

“New supervision?”

Baron leaned back, closed his eyes.

“There are weapons in the field that can cause heart attacks. They aren’t toys, but some idiots treat them as such. There is only literary value in attempting to break people’s hearts on purpose for money, fame, or approval.

“So after I was attacked, from the hospital bed, in indignation, I contacted the Mufti’s chain of command and reported him.”

Commodore Fischadler remained silent. Duke Leto2 remained dissociated. Bird slept in Ibn Arabi’s favorite spot, unbothered and alone. Mango forgot he was human and looked rather silly patrolling campus in a cat-sized police hat: yet his enthusiasm was noted.

Only Shah Leto I was fully coherent, flipping through paperbacks while calculating campus liability.

“Nephew,” he said. “How did you get out of enslavement? If I must turn into a Pallas cat and claw you until you answer properly, do not think I would refuse. There is near-zero liability in cat scratches—especially if the mascot feels disrespected.”

Elsewhere, Mr. Butler’s ears burned. He blamed indigestion, licked his wrist to clean his face, and then he remembered he was not a cat and continued patrol.

“I was abandoned long ago,” Baron continued, “except aesthetically, and secretly, when it suited him for his novels.”

“That is not truth,” punctuated Leto2. “I was there in spirit.”

“…and spirits, as a category, are largely useless,” replied Dr. Fischadler acerbically, “except to disinfect wounds—and that requires real spirits, not a corrupt spook in an ivory tower mismanaging assets to become a paperback writer.”

“Full story, Baron,” said Shah Leto I. “Out with it. Leto2 needs to hear it directly.”

Baron sighed.

“When I was attacked, my radio was unaffected. I thought the Americans had sent him to harm me—but when I tuned into his frequency line, it wasn’t American at all. There was a poisoned operator from the Commonwealth on the same unit, singing.

“At that moment, I realized I wasn’t uniquely targeted. I partnered with the poisoned operator. By radio, he guided treatment and escape from Khorasan while I wrote detailed reports, which he broadcast to the proper channels.

“It was tedious. Painful. And I remain grateful God did not abandon me: when lesser men not only dropped me, but profited from my injuries by turning my life into amusing fiction instead of contributing meaningfully to it in Reality.”

“But stories are Reality!” exclaimed Duke Leto2. “They outlast Reality! Reality is nothing special when stories are immortal!”

Shah Leto I stared at him as if at the dumbest creature he had ever seen. Only the lightest touch on Baron’s arm prevented harsher words.

“What I see here,” Shah Leto I sighed, “is endless liability for this institution until we determine the full scope of Duke Leto’s ‘creative writing.’ It appears he wrote to cover up crimes against servicemen seeking support and extraction.

“First: identify the vector of compromise. Then trace it to its source. Then litigate to preserve the campus.”

“What will happen to me?” squeaked Duke Leto…now with paws and whiskers.

“First,” said Shah Leto I, “you do not blame me. Second, you correct every misattribution: buy back unsold copies if you must and burn them. Rewrite everything accurately. Third, you are now fully responsible for preventing Mango from becoming a further war criminal.”

Duke Leto withered. Baron understood, more than most, an occasional dressing down prevents future crimes.

Baron’s position was secure because it rested on what was Real: logs, frequencies, treatment, chain-of-command action, and the stubborn mercy of God that persists when lesser men convert another person’s pain into paperback entertainment.

Fiction may outlast a moment.
But accountability outlasts fiction—because it leaves records.


—

Companion Vignette

Heating Grate Doctrine

Bird woke to the library’s radiators clicking like old teeth. The building was finally honest: no speeches, no bonfire politics, no paperback mythmaking—just heat moving through pipes, doing what heat does quietly.

He stretched, inspected the grate, and sat as if guarding a shrine.

Down the corridor came footsteps. A faint jingle from a cat collar worn wrongly on a human wrist. Mango: still on patrol, still trying to be a person with a job rather than a mascot with an audience.

Bird considered announcing himself as “the intellectual fluffy gray kitty of the library,” purely for morale. He decided against it. Titles were cheap.

Instead, he purred once, low and steady, and let the sound be the record.

When Mango passed the doorway, he paused without knowing why, as if reassured that reality still occupied at least one room.

Bird closed his eyes. The radiator clicked again.

Good.