Chapter 27 · Chapter 27

I closed my fingers over the silver band, the cold edges biting reassuringly into my palm beside the weight of the brass keys. The room remained suspended in the quiet drift of burning agarwood, but the stillness did not last.

A measured, double tap echoed against the tall walnut doors of the private wing.

Marzouq did not turn his head. He simply adjusted the crisp linen of his right cuff, his voice level and dry. "Tafaddal."

The door opened just wide enough for the estate steward to enter. The elderly man kept his gaze strictly lowered to the border of the Persian runner, his posture rigid with the deep-seated discipline of this household. Between both hands, held flat on a small leather-bound tray, rested an uncreased, thick parchment envelope.

"Ya ustadh," the steward said softly, bowing his head an inch lower. "A courier arrived at the outer gate from the northern district. It was handed through the side reception with instructions that it must reach your hands before the evening finishes."

Marzouq made a faint gesture with his index finger.