Chapter 35 · Chapter 35

The quiet in the majlis thickened, scented with the dark drift of oud from the brass mabkhara near the doorway. None of the men seated along the low perimeter couches moved. The elder cousins and the representatives of the branch families kept their eyes lowered, their fingers still upon their beads, sensing the finality that hung over the carpet.

The family notary, seated to the right of the sadr, dipped his steel-nibbed pen into the inkpot. His hand was steady, aged by decades of recording deeds, dowries, and settlements across Najd, yet he glanced toward Turki before the metal touched the parchment.

Turki did not nod, nor did he lean forward. He remained entirely still in his white thobe, his posture possessing that cold, unhurried heba that made protest impossible before it could even form. His silken bisht rested neatly across his shoulders, the gold trim catching the pale midday light filtering through the high arched windows.

"Record it," Turki said. His voice was neither raised nor strained; it was merely the law of the room.

The nib scratched across the heavy paper. The sound was dry and rhythmic in the vastness of the salon.