Chapter 37 · Untitled Chapter

The silence that settled across the majlis was heavy with the scent of smoldering agarwood from the brass mabkhara. For months, I had surveyed this hall only through the carved geometric screens of the upper gallery, assigning quiet dignities and measured peace to the men and women who crossed its threshold.

From that height, every gesture had appeared deliberate and noble, framed by tradition and polished by distance. I had built a sanctuary of names out of shadows and distance.

Now, standing on the perimeter of the woven wool carpets, I felt the cool marble under the hem of my black abaya. I did not retreat toward the arched corridor. Instead, I took three measured paces into the exact center of the floor, directly beneath the high timber ceiling.

Mansour did not move from the sadr. He sat with his spine upright against the crimson cushions, a spotless white thobe falling in crisp lines, one hand resting motionless upon his knee. He did not signal the attendants to withdraw, nor did he raise a hand to shield me from the room’s unforgiving space.