Chapter 30 · Chapter 30

The morning sun had barely touched the tiled roofs of the Albaicín when the drumming began at the lower gate. It was not the rhythmic call of our youth, but the dry, wooden clatter of the municipal magistrate’s guard, accompanied by the rustle of stiff parchment nailed against the lime-washed stone of the public square.

From the upper gallery of the courtyard, I stood watching the dust settle between the cypress trunks. Saad stepped up beside me, his dark linen tunic neat, his presence quiet and immovable. He did not touch my arm—in the sight of the open court, decorum remained our shield—yet his shadow fell over mine, sheltering me from the morning glare.

"The crier has finished at Plaza Larga," Hasan said, entering the inner courtyard with brisk, controlled strides. He paused at the fountain, wiping stone dust from his palms before looking up toward the balcony. His voice remained level, drained of panic by years of watchful endurance.

"The magistrate has posted a new ordinance in Castilian. No apothecary or household may steep, grind, or dispense native draughts without license from the royal physician.