My eyes slowly opened. A pale, bluish light filtered through the small iron-barred window, cutting through the darkness. Each time the sharp cold air filled my lungs, a thin white vapor rose from between my lips; even my breath felt foreign, as if it had become a shadowy, terrifying presence that didn't belong to me.
The straw beneath my head had dampened, spread thinly over the hard wooden boards. Dark cracks between the boards, carrying years of decay, seemed to stare at me. The cold iron chains brushing against my fingertips emitted a faint, mournful sound whenever I tried to move.
The walls carried the heavy scent of moisture; the wind sneaking through the stones struck my ears like distant, muffled cries. The breeze slipping through the small window cast trembling, cold shadows in this dark, candleless room, the only flicker of light in the void.
At that familiar voice from the window, I tried to force my eyelids open.
"Ayçil!"
I pressed my hand against the floor; the sharp cold of the stone bit into my palm. Slowly, I straightened, my body feeling as if it were chained to the ground. With a deep, resonant voice, I called out:
"Who's there?"
There was a moment of silence. Then, a whisper cut through the chill in my breath:
"It's me… İpek Kalfa."
I lifted my head. In the pale blue light filtering from the top of the small window, a silhouette appeared. The wind weaving through the cracked stones made the light tremble, casting a dancing shadow across the wall.
I stood, my body staggering from the knife-like pain. I pressed my lips tightly together and took a step forward, knees trembling. Raising my head, my voice escaped weakly, like a thin line:
"İpek… is that you?"
"Yes, Ayçil… it's me."
Her fingers reached through the narrow iron bars of the window. Thin, delicate fingers trembling in the cold. Seeing them, something inside me shattered. The long-held anger within me gave way to a warm, familiar sense of trust.
I looked around. In one corner, straw bales were stacked high. I moved toward them. Each step creaked against the wooden boards, breaking the room's silence.
I climbed onto the bales, moving slowly toward the window. And finally, I saw her face.
İpek's thick, chestnut hair shimmered in heavy waves under the pale light. The freckles scattered across her fair skin were more pronounced in the ghostly moonlight. Her nose had a gentle curve. Her brown eyes pierced me from behind the thin glass. Her lashes were so long they almost brushed her eyebrows.
She wore a plain dark brown dress. The fabric was worn but carried a quiet dignity. At that moment, she was not just a servant—she was a friend reaching out to me, perhaps the last glimmer of hope I had.
İpek turned to me. Her eyes quickly filled with tears, large droplets catching the pale light.
"Ayçil… they're going to execute you? Is that true?"
Just as I was about to take a step, the cold, merciless teeth of the iron gripping my wrist pinned me to the ground. The chain cuff around my left ankle tugged backward with the stubborn jingle of rusted links; a sharp pain spread through my bones. The sound echoed off the stone walls as if someone had struck my tombstone with a hammer.
I looked down at the deep marks around my ankle; my flesh bruised and scabbed from the chain's friction. With every step, the wound reopened, the rusted iron sinking deeper into me. My breath caught in my chest like a knife, and my face twisted involuntarily.
The sudden pull of my foot made me stagger unsteadily. I grasped at the wall for support; the coldness of the thick stones burned my palms. The musty smell of damp mold seeping between the stones filled my nose, making the suffocating weight in my chest even heavier.
In the darkness of the dungeon, the only sound I heard was the chain. It seemed to whisper to me: there is no escape. As the chain rattled, I imagined sparks flying from the stone floor but they were only a trick of my desperate mind.
I lifted my head and looked toward the small window; İpek's face was still there, her eyes shining with fear and tears. Seeing me chained like this, she wilted further; she reached her thin fingers through the bars, knowing she could never touch me.
And I remained, a prisoner nailed to the ground by the weight of iron. The hope that had stirred in me perhaps I could escape with just one more step died once more in the cruel cold of the metal.
I fixed my gaze on İpek; the chill in my eyes shone like a stone hardened by years of loneliness and pain. When my words left my lips, they echoed in the gloomy dungeon walls like the strike of a hammer; each syllable a sharp blade sinking into the darkness and despair.
"Stop crying!" I said, my voice as deep as I could make it, yet carrying a frosty distance. My lips were pressed tightly together; I did not tremble, but each word carried the silent eruption of all the pain inside me. "If I die… I die! Go away! Or the only one executed will not be me!"
My words hung in the air like a storm; the tears in İpek's eyes flickered like a tiny shard of light against my cold, unyielding gaze. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came; her voice trembled with fear and surprise. Her fingers pressed involuntarily against the wooden frame of the window, whitening under the strain, yet the desperation and terror in her eyes still tried to pierce through me.
The weight of the chain on my foot reminded me of the pain, but the harsh warning I had spoken rose between us like a cold, impenetrable wall. Somewhere deep inside, sparks still glimmered in my eyes; those sparks carried a stubborn fire of anger and a will to survive, standing upright even in the shadow of suffering.
İpek stepped back, taking a small, hesitant step, averting her gaze but even then, she could not stay away. I watched her closely; her lips quivered slightly, her shoulders tensed. There was a strange contradiction in her fragile, small body and her large, resolute eyes: fear on one hand, an unyielding hope on the other.
The silence at that moment was filled with the cold breath of the walls. Only the sharp sound of my own breathing and the faint scrape of the chain against the stone floor could be heard.
İpek slipped quickly away from the window, her small footsteps blending with the chill of the dungeon stones. Each step rang in my ears like an echo bouncing off the walls. As she retreated, my eyes involuntarily dropped to the ground; I sank onto the straw, curling my body slightly, feeling the coolness between the strands with my fingertips.
İpek… her sensitivity, her quickness to attach herself to others, revealed itself in every small movement. For a year, we had tried to act like friends, yet her deep attachment weighed heavily on my heart each time. A long, quiet sigh rose from within me, blending with the cold air of the dungeon, leaving behind a faint trace of confusion and a subtle ache.
I muttered under my breath, "Stupid İpek…" The words hung in the air like a curse spoken only to myself, with no one to hear them. I slowly brought my hand to my hair, pressing down hard with the tips of my fingers; the mix of anger and helplessness gave a tiny, almost cruel sense of relief. In my mind, her tear-filled eyes, trembling breath, and tiny hands reaching toward me replayed over and over both a smile-inducing and searing memory that refused to fade.
Alone amidst the cold straw beneath me, the harsh stones under my feet, and the gloomy shadows of the walls, İpek's retreating silhouette left a hollow in my chest. No matter how quickly she ran, that fragile yet loyal spirit lingered in my thoughts and in my heart.
Her quivering voice struck the walls like a hammer chipping at stone. Her lips quivered, childlike and helpless, on the verge of tears. Her words collided with my knotted breath, tightening in my throat.
Behind the iron bars, seeing the fear in her eyes sent a sharp pang through my chest. Time seemed to slow, and the cold fell between us like a frozen curtain.
For a moment, I couldn't answer. İpek's trembling voice echoed off the stone walls, reading aloud my death sentence again and again.
"Come on… you're going," said the man, his voice deep and cold; each word echoed across the dark stones of the dungeon. The heavy door creaked open slowly; the rusted hinges groaned, sending chills down my spine in the empty corridor. A faint light trickled in from outside, barely illuminating the damp, cold air trapped between the stone walls.
He unlocked the chain around my ankle; the clinking of metal rang sharply in my ears. My heart raced with a mix of relief and tension. But it was short-lived; immediately, two men flanked me. Each grasped my arms tightly, their muscular strength a brutal reminder of my helplessness. I had no choice but to remain still, knowing that resistance would only bring more pain.
As we moved down the dungeon corridor, the cold, damp texture of the stone floors pressed into the soles of my feet. Each step echoed, stretching time into a slow, heavy flow. At the end of the corridor, we stopped before the massive palace doors. The sheer size of the entrance was awe-inspiring yet intimidating; the iron knocker and intricate carvings reminded me instantly of the palace's power and ruthlessness.
I drew a deep breath, feeling a storm of fear and anger churning in my chest. The men at my sides still held my arms tightly; their cold, sharp stares left no room for escape. I took another step forward and inhaled the air of the palace courtyard grand, yet chilling. Every detail hinted at a decisive moment, the beginning of a test I had no choice but to face.
"Our Sultan summons you; Prince Attila and you, Ayçil Hatun," said the harem agha, his voice heavy and commanding, reverberating through the vast space. I turned my head, and my eyes caught the prince. My heart pounded violently as I swallowed hard.
His presence was indescribable majestic and commanding. His skin was a warm golden-brown, and his hair, light chestnut, fell in thick, gentle waves over his shoulders. Every movement, every breath he took, radiated gravity and authority.
A subtle, woody-lavender scent clung to him, filling the air as if each step caused the atmosphere itself to tremble. His broad shoulders, tall stature, and burgundy robe combined to make him even more imposing, almost overshadowing the grandeur of the palace around him. His frame conveyed strength, power, and an intimidating presence all at once.
My eyes scanned every detail: the sharp line of his jaw, the well-muscled arms, the slightly curved lips, and those piercing, profound eyes. My heart raced with a mix of awe and fear. The weight of the moment was almost unbearable; even my breath seemed insufficient against the gravity and majesty standing before me.
As we stepped into the room, my breath caught in my throat. The Sultan sat at the highest point, upon a massive black throne. The throne's presence was commanding not only because of the cold, hard black wood but also due to the white crystals that adorned its edges, shimmering faintly. Each crystal caught the dim light, scattering tiny beams across the room; it was as if small stars were dancing around the throne.
I bowed slightly, standing silently; the hush of my footsteps combined with the room's grandeur, making even my breathing echo sharply in my ears. The Sultan's black hair was swept back, though a few strands fell across his eyes a subtle disorder that only heightened the intensity of his majesty and sternness.
His attire carried the weight of deep blacks and dark purples, balancing shadow and light as though his presence itself commanded equilibrium. The fabric glimmered faintly with every movement, a quiet testament to luxury and authority. His broad shoulders and commanding posture blended perfectly with the throne's magnificence; every glance, every breath radiated control.
The room's atmosphere was a paradox: cold and distant, yet charged with an almost magnetic tension. The crystals surrounding the throne shone so brightly that it was nearly impossible to look away from him. Inside me, fear and awe intertwined, and I held my breath, waiting for his next move. In this room, every detail even the smallest could determine life or death.
"Why have you come? …You must not abandon your exile," the Sultan said, turning his gaze directly to me. His eyes were sharp, his voice cold as ice. He didn't glance at the prince even once; his full attention was fixed on me.
"For a few days… after all, I was born and raised in this palace," the prince said, avoiding the Sultan's gaze. His words hung in the air, striking the cold walls and echoing back, weightless yet tense.
The Sultan slowly turned his gaze toward the prince, his face twisted in disgust. It was as if the mere presence of the prince sullied the room; an oppressive weight hung in the air.
"You are right. Stay for a few months, then leave. You've even earned the nickname 'the exiled prince,'" the Sultan said, rolling his eyes and looking away. His voice echoed sharply, as if it had bounced off cold stone.
The prince glanced at me quietly, a mixture of emotions perhaps anger, perhaps resentment flickering across his eyes. He said nothing. Bowing slightly before the Sultan, he turned his back and walked toward the door with heavy, measured steps. When the door closed, only the echoing silence remained; my breath was caught in my chest, my heart constricted.
"You'll send me back home, won't you?" My voice trembled, yet carried determination. My gaze met the Sultan's.
The Sultan fixed his piercing eyes on me. "Do you think that village still stands?" he asked, cold and commanding.
I raised my eyebrows, confused. "What do you mean?"
He paused, a faint expression settling on his face calm, controlled. "I believe you understand…"
I pressed my lips together, showing no expression. "Did you destroy the village?" My words were soft, but edged with steel.
"Not I… but others have," he replied casually, as if revealing this fact was nothing of consequence.
"Who destroyed it?" I squinted, my face tightening as I tried to hide the surge of anger.
The Sultan brought a hand to his chin, pausing briefly in thought. "A group of rebels… they may have destroyed it."
Silence descended over the room; the pale light reflected from the crystals danced across my face, casting shadows of both shock and the anger that had been building inside me. My chest tightened, each breath heavy and labored.
I bent forward swiftly, drawing deep, deliberate breaths, and lifted my head, stepping toward the Sultan's throne. He fixed his gaze on me, struggling to hide his surprise. Each step made my heart pound as if it would burst from my chest. Summoning all my courage, I approached him and met his eyes.
"Make me your servant, my Sultan… I don't want to be executed," I said, my words nearly choking as they left my throat. A plan spun in my mind within seconds; this was the only path to save my life.
The Sultan furrowed his brows and slightly inclined his head, his gaze still locked onto me. "No need for revenge, Ayçil," he said in a low but firm voice. He paused for a moment, then gave a faint, almost teasing smile, adding: "But the idea of becoming a servant… isn't bad."
From that moment, the air in the room carried both tension and the sweet, sharp scent of an unexpected opportunity.
"If you won't help me, then say so," I said, my voice cold and sharp, my gaze as unyielding as iron. I pushed down the fear within me, letting my determination take the forefront; a single wrong move could cost me my life.
The Sultan paused for a moment. His eyes locked onto mine with a strange light part curiosity, part surprise. "Very well… whatever you wish, I will place you among the concubines. I'll arrange a separate room for you. Is that acceptable?" His voice emerged deeper and more compelling than usual, carrying an undeniable weight.
I nodded slightly, words failing me; a single gesture was enough to convey my agreement. In that instant, the room was filled with both an unspoken pact and a quiet tension; our breaths mingled in the air, and the silence stretched to every corner, heavy and palpable...