Chapter 33 · Chapter 33

The silence between us carried the weight of the courtyard beyond the heavy timber door. In the outer perimeter, past the shaded stone colonnade, the low rumble of an idling engine vibrated faintly against the marble sill—the car my uncle’s house had sent to collect me the moment my name was cleared in the majlis.

They had sent it to take me back to their halls, assuming that once the public scrutiny subsided, I would slip away like a guest who had narrowly survived a storm.

On the low console between us lay the heavy brass key to the inner wing, resting beside my leather bag.

I looked at Marzouq. He stood tall in his crisp white thobe, his posture immovable, his dark eyes observing me without a hint of desperation or haste. He did not extend a hand to stop me, nor did he lean toward the threshold to bar my way. He was a man who commanded an empire of silence, whose word once given became an unyielding fortress.

In the great hall, before the elders and the whisperers, he had spoken that single sentence, taking the nameless paper into his palm and naming it his own.