Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

The heavy timber shuddered softly against the jamb as the bolt seated into the stone. The outer gallery vanished behind it, along with my uncle's rigid stance and the hollow murmurs drifting up from the lower courtyard. All that remained was the silence of the private wing and the deep, resinous scent of burning oud rising from the brass mabkhara in the corner.

Majed did not turn immediately. His hand lingered on the iron latch of the lock, his fingers uncurling with deliberate patience. The crisp folds of his white thobe were immaculate, untouched by the confrontation in the hall, yet the line of his shoulders carried the unyielding heaviness of an edict already delivered.

“He will not cross the threshold again,” he said quietly, his voice level in the shadowed space between us.

I stood beside the low mahogany console, my abaya draped lightly over my shoulders, the dark silk pooling against the woven wool beneath my feet. My pulse still hammered against my throat, a sharp reminder of the men who believed my name was an inheritance to be divided among voices that never saw past the curtain. But looking at Majed—