Chapter 23 · Chapter 23

My uncle did not answer at once. The silence stretched between the stone pillars of the majlis, thick with the lingering smoke of Oud drifting from the brass mabkhara near the threshold. His fingers curled over the curve of his cane, tightening until the knuckles paled beneath his weathered skin.

In a Najdi majlis, hesitation from an elder of his stature was an admission of defeat; to press an inquiry without evidence was to scatter one’s own standing before the gathered men.

"There is no formal charge, Salman," my uncle finally said, his voice flat, stripped of its earlier bite. "Only the duty of the household to ensure no shadow touches our name. If the written ledger is closed under your hand, the household still witnessed the night. They will speak."

"Let them speak," Salman replied without inflection. "Outside this threshold, one by one. Nothing enters the written record, but I will hear every word they bring before Ammi."

He did not yield ground, nor did he offer the customary pleasantries that softened a dismissal. Turning with measured precision, his white thobe pristine and sharp against the patterned stone floor, Salman stepped toward the threshold of the outer corridor.