Chapter 31 · Chapter 31

The quiet that settled over the private wing did not last long, for the outer majlis remained occupied by the men who had been summoned to witness my dismantling. When the heavy carved doors parted once more and I stepped back onto the threshold of the long hall beside Nayef, the air was dense with the cooling drift of burning agarwood from the brass mabkhara and the bitter steam of cardamom gahwa.

My abaya was drawn close around me, the dark silk falling unbroken to the carpet, the tarha fastened securely beneath my chin. I walked with my chin level, keeping pace with Nayef’s deliberate stride. He wore his plain, stiff-collared white thobe without adornment, his bare cuffs unhurried as his right hand counted three smooth beads of his misbaha, letting the amber click softly against the silence of the room.

At the far end of the carpet sat the remaining three elders of the assembly, their seating arranged strictly by precedence along the gilded divans. Between them and the empty sadr lay the thick morocco-bound folder containing the decree of surrender—