Chapter 25 · Chapter 25

The silence inside the private wing did not break at once. The lock had fallen into place, heavy and final, separating us from the corridor where my uncle’s cane had struck the marble. Through the high, recessed clerestory windows, the Riyadh sun cast sharp, amber slants across the wool carpet, cutting the cool shadow into quiet geometry.

Turki did not cross the rug immediately. His white thobe was immaculate, the stiff collar resting cleanly against his throat, his posture steady with the cold, immovable weight of an heir who answered to no assembly. He looked at me, his gaze measuring the stillness in my hands.

"They will not take the threshold," he said, his voice quiet, devoid of anger. "Let them stand in the gallery until their sandals wear through the stone."

"They brought parchment, Turki," I said. My voice did not waver, though my throat felt parched. "They did not send an elder merely to inquire after our health. If the council meets before Asr, they intend to register the apportionment."

Before he could answer, the bronze knocker on the outer anteroom sounded—not the furious blow of a disgraced elder, but the measured, two-stroke rap of a neutral intermediary.