Chapter 27 · Chapter 27

The silence in the majlis stretched, thick with the scent of smoldering agarwood that rose in a slow, pale ribbon from the mabkhara near the threshold. Hatim did not speak, nor did he reach for the silver-bound draft Sultan had abandoned on the low table. His stillness was not hesitation; it was the anchored weight of a man who had already measured the perimeter of the room and found no reason to shift his ground.

A light tap sounded against the carved partition connecting the formal hall to the inner salon. The brass latch lifted with a muted click, and my maternal aunt, Khala Hessa, stepped into the opening. She wore a deep charcoal abaya, her shaila pinned neatly beneath her chin, her face etched with the fine, weary lines of a woman who had spent four decades navigating the sudden storms of the Al-Subait household.

She looked first at Hatim, dipping her head in quiet, measured acknowledgment. "Ya ustadh Hatim."

Hatim inclined his head from the sadr, his voice low and level. "Marhaban, ya Khala."

She did not cross fully into the majlis; the formal hall remained the domain of the settlement.