Chapter 38 · Chapter 38

The silence in the majlis settled deep and absolute, carrying the heavy scent of aged oud rising from the silver mabkhara in the center of the hall. The men seated along the perimeter lowered their gazes one by one, accepting the boundary drawn across the room. There were no murmurs, no appeals to the three old paths that had swallowed other women of our blood before tonight.

Abu Tariq signaled toward the low table between us. The heavy leather-bound register lay open beneath the warm, amber light of the sconces, its cream pages bordered in geometric gold foil. Hatim’s signature was already dry upon the vellum—firm, dark strokes that claimed every obligation of defense, name, and estate under the law of this house. Beside his name, the line reserved for mine remained stark and empty.

The house notary stepped forward without looking at my face, honoring the distance owed in a mixed room. He dipped the weighted brass pen into the dark inkwell and laid it flat upon the margin of the open leaf.