Chapter 24 · Chapter 24

The heavy cedar doors of the main majlis opened inward, parting the heavy hush that had gathered in the corridor. The scent of burning oud from the silver mabkhara met me at the threshold, carrying the ancient, solemn weight of an assembly that met only for matters of blood or covenant.

I walked into the hall with measured steps, my dark abaya falling straight to the marble floor, the shaila pinned securely across my hair. I did not hurry. In Riyadh, haste in an assembly of elders was an admission of weakness, and I had surrendered nothing.

Both families occupied the long, low perimeter of the chamber. On the left sat the men of Al-Qahtani, my uncle Ammi Mansoor positioned near the head of the carpet, his fingers resting motionless against the carved arm of his chair. Opposite them sat the Al-Harthy kinsmen, rigid in their immaculate white thobes and stiff collars, their gaze fixed forward in deliberate, unblinking discipline. Between the two lines sat Nawaf.