Chapter 37 · Chapter 37

The silence that settled over the majlis was thick with the sharp scent of roasted cardamom and the thin, pale smoke rising from the mabkhara. No one reached for their finjan. The men seated along the perimeter kept their gaze fixed upon the geometric weave of the carpet, unwilling to meet Hatim’s eyes or mine.

At the far end of the room, seated at the sadr, Abu Tariq leaned forward with measured stillness. The crisp fold of his white thobe was immaculate, his fingers resting steady against the amber beads of his misbaha. His gaze moved from Hatim to me, weighing the posture of my shoulders against the long customs of this house.

"Danah bint Mansoor," the elder said, his tone carrying the cold, quiet weight of a man who had presided over decades of family settlements.

"Let every witness in this hall hear what is spoken beneath this ceiling tonight. You are not kept here by force, nor are you an exile awaiting a sentence. The courtyard gates stand open. If you choose this hour to step outside, your car will be brought to the front without hindrance, and no word of blame will follow your name.