The Janissary commander could almost taste safety: a nearby fortress, once a supply hub for the local beys, rose three meters high and should hold any pursuing Rumelian cavalry for a while. He pictured riding through its gate, announcing their rank, swapping mounts, and pressing on with his small handful and his sovereign tucked safely inside.
They had already removed the gag and untied the Sultan's hands. The ruler had said nothing since they fled—he walked beside his men like a shadow, hollow-eyed, trusting them with his life.
Then the commander noticed something wrong: no banners flew above the citadel. No standard. Protocol demanded the Sultan's insignia hang from every loyal hold, yet the walls were bare.
