Chapter 39 · Chapter 39

The silence that followed was neither light nor forgiving, but it was absolute. The ink on the parchment had dried beneath the heavy light of the chandeliers, binding two names into a singular, unalterable claim. Across the expanse of the Persian wool, the elders of the council sat in rigid alignment, their hands resting upon their knees, their thobes pristine and their gazes shuttered against what could no longer be undone.

A server stepped through the arched threshold of the majlis, bearing a polished brass dallah and a nest of white porcelain finjans upon a silver tray. He moved with the quiet deference expected of this house, his eyes lowered, preparing to begin the customary round at the primary seat where the eldest sat.

Hatim did not wait for the circuit to begin.

He rose to his full height, his white thobe falling in unbroken, immaculate lines. Without a word, he stepped forward, arresting the server’s path with a single, calm motion of his wrist.