Chapter 17 · Chapter 17

The silence in the gallery was cold, smelling faintly of dry stone, cardamom from a distant service wing, and the dawn wind filtering through the high vents.

Nayef did not step across the threshold, nor did he bar it. His white Thobe fell straight, the collar undone by a single notch, his posture set in that rigid, unyielding stillness that belonged to a man who answered only to his own council and cared nothing for the hall below. The heavy bronze bolt rested loose in its cradle. The private wing was open.

"The driver is at the northern gate," he said. His voice was level, carrying neither anger nor the soft entreaty of a man seeking pardon. "Hamad has the engine running. If you take the courtyard passage now, no one will speak to you. If you walk through the majlis, they will see you leave with your name intact. None of them will cross your path. I gave the word before midnight, and the word stands."

I looked at him. The grey morning light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the dark shadow along his throat, and the unblinking composure in his eyes.