Chapter 25 · Chapter 25

The sunset over the northern edge of Riyadh bled a quiet, deep amber across the courtyard, throwing long shadows through the stone arches of the gallery. I walked with steady steps along the limestone corridor, my black abaya trailing lightly against the polished flagstones, the keys to the inner estate resting heavy and cold inside the pocket beneath my silk sash.

Before I could reach the archway leading toward the residential quarters, a shadow broke the amber light.

My uncle stepped out from the alcove near the carved wooden screens, his hard face set in lines of ancient, unforgiving pride. He wore a crisp white thobe and a dark red shemagh, his posture taut with the bitter impatience of a man who saw his authority slipping through his fingers like dry desert sand.

"Lulwa," he said, his voice flat, dropping into that sharp register meant to command immediate obedience. He did not step aside.