Chapter 31 · Chapter 31

Majed did not move immediately. His gaze remained fixed on mine, steady as the deep night that settled over the high walls of the northern estate. Between us, the air smelled faintly of aged Taif rose and the resinous smoke of Dehn Al Oud, caught within the heavy draperies and the quiet expanse of the chamber.

From beneath the fold of his immaculate white thobe, he withdrew an object wrapped in a small square of dark leather. When he peeled the hide back, the heavy brass of an antique master key caught the amber light of the sconces. It was long, notched with precision, forged long before electronic panels and reinforced gates were set into the perimeter of Riyadh—the sole key to the inner archives carved into the stone beneath this wing.

"My uncle believes this trace is an inheritance to be divided among men who merely sit at the Sadr and speak in circles," Majed said, his voice quiet, devoid of doubt. "He forgets that custody belongs to the one who stepped past the threshold and took the truth into her own hands.