Chapter 22 · Chapter 22

The quiet that settled over the suite did not outlast the hour. Beyond the heavy cedar door, the gallery stirred again, not with the hurried, solitary rustle of a clerk, but with the deliberate, heavy cadence of a man walking with purpose. A single measured step struck the polished limestone outside our threshold.

Majed did not turn from the console where the parchment of the master registry lay beneath a cut block of crystal. He merely raised his chin, his dark eyes meeting mine with absolute stillness. “Your uncle does not accept an emissary’s defeat,” he observed, his tone stripped of haste.

“He never accepts what he cannot inspect with his own hands,” I said softly, smoothing the black silk of my shaila over my shoulder. My abaya remained fastened, pristine and severe, concealing every tremor that the morning threatened to wake. Behind us, the inner chamber was locked, its secrets folded into the private silence of the night we had spent, but the gallery belonged to the house’s contention.

Three raps struck the wood. Firm, heavy, and rhythmic—