Chapter 31 · Chapter 31

The scent of aged oud hung motionless over the heavy carpet of the majlis, lingering in the quiet that Tariq’s retreat had left behind. But the hall never allowed a silence to settle before offering its oldest alternative once more.

Footsteps echoed sharply against the polished marble beyond the threshold. When the carved doors swung wider, it was not an attorney or an elder cousin who stepped into the light, but my uncle, Ammi Salman. He wore his formal bisht draped across his shoulders, the gold zari catching the low chandelier light, his posture rigid with the full weight of the Al-Subait elders.

He did not look at Hatim first. His dark eyes fixed squarely on me where I stood, fully veiled in my black abaya, my tarha pinned securely beneath my chin.

"Danah," Ammi Salman said, his voice flat, carrying the dry, unyielding chill of northern winds across the limestone plateau. "Step into the hall."

I did not move. I kept my hands folded beneath the fall of my silk sleeves, my weight grounded upon the woven wool at my feet. "Ammi. If you have words for this house, speak them here before the master of it.