Chapter 31 · Chapter 31

The heavy cedar doors clicked shut behind the last of the witnesses, sealing the quiet within the majlis. The scent of smoldering agarwood hung motionless above the carpets, cut through by the sharp, lingering bitterness of boiled cardamom from the silver dallah.

I remained standing near the arched colonnade, my abaya draping around me in stiff, dark folds, my shaila pinned tight. I did not shift my weight. I gave him neither the posture of a petitioner nor the defiance of someone preparing to flee.

Saad did not move at once. He stood at the edge of the central dais, towering and composed, the pristine white fabric of his winter thobe undisturbed by the tension that had just fractured the room. His bisht had been laid aside hours ago, yet the quiet authority in his shoulders needed no gold embroidery to hold the space. For a long moment, his gaze held mine, unblinking, dark with things neither of us had put into speech.

Then he turned toward the entrance where the house steward waited at the threshold.

"Abu Fahad," Saad spoke, his voice low, measured, cutting clearly across the expanse of the room.

"Sam, Ya Ustadh," the steward answered from