Chapter 25 · Chapter 25

The quiet in the majlis deepened, thick with the scent of burning oud curling slowly from the brass mabkhara in the corner. Across the vast expanse of hand-knotted wool, my uncle stepped forward from the line of seated kinsmen. His stride was measured, his jaw set with the severe rigidity of a patriarch accustomed to obedience.

In his hand, he held a bound folder of aged vellum leaves, its ribbon trailing against the pristine white hem of his thobe.

He did not look at Salman first. His eyes fixed directly upon me where I sat beside the mahogany table, my spine straight, the dark folds of my abaya draped motionless over my knees.

"The ledger Salman holds may be sealed by his own hand," my uncle said, his voice carrying clearly beneath the vaulted ceiling, hard and unhurried. "Yet the household records do not begin with this morning's assembly. We keep what was written before."

He placed the aged papers flat upon the central low table between the rows of divans, smoothing the parchment with a deliberate palm. A murmur stirred among the cousins on the perimeter, instantly silenced as Salman’s gaze drifted across them.