Chapter 28 · Chapter 28

Turki did not offer another word of dismissal. In the central majlis, words once spent were never bought back. He simply turned his shoulder, a silent severing that left Abu Fahad standing amid the remnants of his shattered claims, clutching an empty ledger while the household staff quietly cleared the half-empty finjans.

My footsteps made no sound across the thick Najdi carpets as I retreated into the gallery. Behind me, the muffled hum of the corridor died away, replaced by the heavy silence that always gathered near the private wing. I did not run, nor did I look back to see if my uncle had found the pride to leave on his own feet.

It did not matter. He could sit on the perimeter cushions until the dawn tea turned bitter; he had been stripped of the right to question what lay behind the inner threshold.

Turki followed moments later. His stride was measured, unhurried, carrying the scent of Taif rose and aged dehn al oud that cut through the lingering cedar smoke of the outer halls.