Chapter 33 · Chapter 33

The silence in the majlis hung brittle and thick, scented with the drifting smoke of aged oud from the brass mabkhara. Yet my uncle could not let the grievance die. His fingers tightened over his amber beads until the polished stones clicked sharply in the hush, and he leaned forward from his place near the center carpet, his voice sharpening with stubborn refusal.

"Salman," my uncle said, refusing the dismissal as his gaze darted toward the elders. "A corridor at midnight is not cleared by clever phrasing. If Lady Huda's presence is brushed aside so lightly, what standing does the testimony of our witnesses retain before this house?"

He had spoken into a settled verdict, violating the restraint the room demanded.

Salman did not raise his voice. He did not even turn his head fully toward him. The stillness in his broad shoulders under the formal bisht was more devastating than an outburst, carrying the absolute weight of heba that made every man in the perimeter avert his eyes.