Chapter 34 · Chapter 34

The silence in the great majlis of northern Riyadh was total. The scent of warmed oud hung suspended in the chilled air, drifting from the mabkhara near the threshold where my uncle sat in rigid silence. None of the elders gathered along the perimeter carpets stirred; their fingers remained still over their beads, their gazes fixed upon the central floor.

Salman did not immediately address the men. He remained seated at the sadr, his white thobe immaculate, his bisht draped over broad shoulders with the effortless gravity of a man whose word governed every threshold in the district. In his right hand, the small porcelain finjan rested between his thumb and forefinger.

He gave it a single, deliberate tilt—the quiet dismissal of the server—and the brass dallah was set aside with a muted clink.

Then he turned his attention back to me.

I stood before the room, my black abaya draped in clean, unbroken lines from shoulder to hem, the dark tarha framing my face without a millimeter of disorder. My hands were resting lightly together beneath the heavy silk. There was no tremor in my posture.