Chapter 27 · Chapter 27

The departure of Abu Fahad left a hollow chill in the cavernous hall, despite the midday sun beating against the high arched windows. The scent of burning oud rose from the brass mabkhara in thin, curling ribbons, cutting through the heavy silence that settled over the Persian rugs. No one moved to fill the vacant seat near the entrance. The lines had hardened, and the men remaining in the council knew precisely what was at stake.

From the far side of the majlis, an older man smoothed the lapel of his charcoal bisht and rose to his feet. It was Abu Mishaal, the fifth representative whose voice carried the weight of ancestral alliances. Unlike Abu Fahad, there was no venom in his posture, only the practiced, suffocating calculation of a mediator who believed individual pride should always be crushed beneath the collective name.

He stepped forward with deliberate cadence, his sandals silent on the wool runners, until he halted three paces before Nayef. He did not look at me.