Chapter 13 · Chapter 13

Dawn crept through the high, narrow clerestory of the private wing, cutting thin slivers of pale amber across the heavy wool carpets. The ink on the vellum before Majed had dried completely to a deep, matte iron. Neither of us had moved from our places; the quiet between these thick stone walls remained unbreached by the waking city outside.

A single, disciplined rap sounded against the heavy timber of the locked outer antechamber door.

It was not the impatient thud of an elder's cane or the clamor of the hall, but the measured signal of the steward. Majed did not startle. He rose with unhurried grace, adjusting the crisp line of his white thobe, his stature carrying the effortless authority that commanded silence without a raised voice.

He walked toward the inner threshold, turning the brass latch just enough to acknowledge the vestibule beyond, keeping the inner room shielded from any stray glance.

"The morning tray, ya ustadh," the steward’s voice came through, lowered in strict deference. "And the elders have gathered below in the outer courtyard. Abu Fahad and the delegates from the southern branch are seated.