Chapter 35 · Chapter 35

The air inside the grand majlis hung heavy with the dry, resinous drift of aged Cambodi oud from the silver mabkhara, cutting cleanly through the quiet hum of the cooling vents. Rows of senior kin lined the low divans along the walls, their spines straight against the embroidered cushions, their fingers arrested over amber misbaha beads. The hall fell into absolute, watchful silence the instant we stepped past the carved threshold.

Majed did not break his stride. His pace remained deliberate and measured, carrying an unspoken weight that made two younger cousins near the entrance drop their eyes and draw back their hems. His crisp white thobe fell in unbroken lines over polished leather shoes, his gaze fixed straight ahead, conceding nothing to the eyes tracking our passage.

I walked beside him, the hem of my black abaya whispering against the wool carpet, my tarha pinned secure and neat over my hair. For days, the corridors had run thick with rumors that the locked private wing concealed ruin, that I had been drawn into a scandal that would leave my name broken before the council.