Chapter 35 · Chapter 35

The silence in the northern majlis remained unbroken for several moments, save for the faint, steady crackle of oud smoldering in the brass mabkhara near the threshold. The resinous sweetness drifted across the woven rugs, settling around the seated elders who had spent three seasons attempting to carve my father’s name into pliable, subordinate shares.

My uncle, Ammi Tariq, cleared his throat. It was a dry, brittle sound, stripped of the booming confidence he had brought into the room before dusk. He kept his gaze fixed on the low brazier between us, refusing to meet Nayef’s level eyes, yet entirely unable to pretend that the weight of the assembly had not shifted irrevocably.

"The ledgers of the Al-Zamil commercial trust," Ammi Tariq began, his tone stiff and deliberately formal, "will not be transferred to the secondary council. That petition is withdrawn."

Beside him, Abu Fahad—the eldest among the cousins—slowly turned the amber beads of his misbaha, letting stone click against stone with measured precision.