Chapter 20 · Untitled Chapter

The latch settled into the strike plate with a dry, final snap, cutting off the murmur of the men in the outer courtyard. Silence washed back through the long corridor, thick with the lingering scent of cardamom and the cool, resinous trail of Cambodi oud that drifted from the brazier near the archway.

Bandar did not move immediately from the threshold. His white thobe hung in sharp, ironed lines against the dark cedar framing, his silhouette commanding the width of the hall without the need for an elevated voice or an open hand. In the pale gray filtering through the clerestory glass, his posture carried that cold, immovable heba that had kept his cousins from crossing into our wing all night.

Beyond the heavy double-paned glass overlooking the walled garden, the northern Riyadh dawn was breaking across the limestone perimeter. The low growl of luxury SUVs idling outside the compound gates remained audible—a steady, persistent vibration through the stone foundation. They were waiting for ink.