Chapter 19 · Chapter 19

I stepped backward over the threshold and let the heavy carved oak swing shut, the iron latch dropping into its groove with a sound like a drawn bolt. The corridor of the private wing swallowed the sharp clatter of the arcade outside, leaving only the dry whisper of air moving through the courtyard vents and the faint, cold resin of old cedar.

Nawaf did not crowd the space behind me. He stood beside the low mahogany console near the inner vestibule, his white thobe crisp and undisturbed, hands resting loosely at his sides. The tension that had held his jaw rigid before my uncle had not dissolved; it had merely gathered inward, disciplined and watchful.

Two soft knocks sounded against the exterior panel—measured, discreet, the distinct rhythm of the estate’s senior steward.

"Enter," Nawaf said evenly.

The door opened barely enough for Abu Tariq to slip inside. The elderly steward kept his eyes lowered, his posture bent in deference to the house and to the privacy of the room.