Chapter 34 · Chapter 34

The quiet of the vast hall was immediate, heavy with the weight of names that had governed these walls for generations. Across the long perimeter of the majlis, the elders of both families sat on the low, firm divans, their white thobes crisp beneath the amber glow of the chandeliers.

A brass mabkhara stood on the polished stone near the center of the carpets, sending ribbons of Taif rose and dense oud into the dry, chilled air. Not a single voice rose above the murmur of greeting that rippled through the gathering as we entered.

Turki did not hurry my pace. He remained two paces to my right, his presence an absolute anchor that commanded deference without uttering a syllable. He did not touch my sleeve, nor did he look down to offer reassurance. In the public eye, his protection was deliberate and unbending—the calm posture of a man who had already drawn his perimeter, daring any man in the room to question the ground upon which I stood.

The steward approached with the dallah raised high, the pale amber gahwa perfumed with cardamom splashing into the shallow curve of a finjan.