Chapter 25 · Chapter 25

The silence that settled over the majlis was heavier than the scent of burning agarwood drifting from the silver mabkhara. No one stirred on the low diwans. Even the older cousins, men who had spent forty years arguing over land boundaries and commercial deeds, kept their gazes fixed firmly on the woven wool beneath their leather slippers.

I remained seated in the alcove, the black crepe of my abaya and shaila gathered cleanly at my collar, watching Nayef stand motionless beneath the central arch. He had not raised his voice. He had not gestured with violence. Yet the sheer heba of his presence seemed to reduce the vast, stone-lined hall to an arena where only two wills remained upright.

My uncle Tariq’s face had drained of color, the ruddy insolence that had sustained him across the carpet vanishing into a tight, pinched line around his mouth.

"You speak of seals and trusts, Nayef," Tariq said, his fingers tightening over his gold-tipped cane as he fought to reclaim his footing before the elders. "You speak as though this estate stands separate from the allied agreements signed in your father’s time.