Menekşe Sultan stood there; her deep blue, deer-like eyes almost sparkled in the light of the room. Her skin was so flawlessly pale that even the golden gilded columns in the hall seemed dull in comparison.
She wore a purple outfit. The fabric had a soft yet heavy texture, reminiscent of velvet; as light fell on it, the shades of purple shifted, creating a wave of color with every movement. Embroideries starting from the shoulders and extending across her chest were adorned with motifs stitched in fine golden threads; the floral patterns intertwined gracefully, each detail a symbol of luxury and power.
The sleeves were long and fitted, with embroidery resembling tiny golden bracelets around the wrists. The hems of the fabric nearly brushed the floor, producing a soft rustle with each step. The waist was slightly cinched, accentuated by a delicate belt, whose end was studded with tiny purple stones that glimmered with every flicker of light.
The skirt consisted of multiple layered fabrics; each layer's edge was embroidered with golden thread, gently undulating. As Menekşe Sultan moved, the layers of her skirt seemed to float momentarily in the air before gracefully falling back to the floor.
"Menekşe?" the Sultan said, his voice slow, husky, carrying a tipsy undertone. He leaned back against the headboard of the bed; the shadowed contours of his face appeared harsher, more fatigued in the candlelight. As Menekşe Sultan stepped into the hall, the atmosphere seemed to shift. The folds of her purple velvet dress swayed slightly as they brushed the floor, and she walked toward the bed like a silent storm.
The Sultan gazed at her with a blurred desire and drew Menekşe Sultan's body toward himself. Without hesitation, Menekşe Sultan sat on the edge of the bed, settling into the Sultan's lap.
I, hidden behind the curtain, could not control my breathing. For a moment, I realized that the deep exhale escaping my chest might be heard; I quickly pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to trap the air suffocating my lungs silently. My fingers trembled. My heart was pounding so fast that it seemed to echo in my own ears.
After a while, the room was filled with a suffocating rhythm. Menekşe Sultan's thin, suppressed moans… blended with the rhythmic sound of the bed's headboard banging harshly against the wall in quick succession. The sound reverberated, stirring anger inside me along with a deep sense of shame.
Unable to bear it any longer, I slowly crouched to the floor. In the darkness, I wrapped my arms around my legs, pulling my knees to my chest. I wanted to pull the curtain closer, to make my hiding spot tighter; yet the rustle of the velvet echoed in the room's deathly silence.
"Was that a sound?" Menekşe Sultan suddenly said, her tone suspicious.
The Sultan paused briefly, then took a deep breath. "No… I didn't hear anything," he replied, in a distracted, indifferent manner.
At that moment, I turned my head and pressed against the cold wall. The chill of the stone sent shivers across my forehead, while the air trapped behind the curtain began to burn within me. The suffocating heat, the rhythmic sounds, and the heavy scent of the room… my eyes grew heavy, my will weakening.
"What am I going to do?" I whispered inwardly, though no sound came from my lips. Desperately, I closed my eyes. The only way to avoid hearing those sounds, to forget this moment… was to sleep. And that is exactly what I did. As I surrendered myself to the deep darkness, the sounds that still shook the walls lingered behind me.
"My Sultan, don't forget… if it weren't for me, your people would lynch you," said Halit Pasha, his voice deep and sharp, each word echoing throughout the room.
When that familiar voice reached my ears, I slowly opened my eyes. I peeked slightly from behind the curtain, scanning the hall carefully. My gaze fell on the Sultan; he was still seated in his chair, fine beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
"But I don't think they'll lynch me," said the Sultan, his voice low and tired. There was a faint hint of condescension in his eyes, and an almost imperceptible smile on his lips.
Suddenly, Halit Pasha raised his voice, and it reverberated in the corners of the room:
"What can anyone do to someone as ignorant as you! Remember… you sit on the throne thanks to me! You don't read! You don't write!"
The sharpness of his words cut through the air like ice. The Sultan wiped his forehead and lowered his gaze. Sweat trickled down his neck, and his hands pressed involuntarily against the edge of the table.
At that moment, Hasodabaşı interjected:
"My Pasha, don't forget about my matter either!"
Halit Pasha responded with a smile, tinged with mockery:
"I almost forgot… You will apologize to Hasodabaşı in front of everyone. Otherwise, revolts will begin."
The Sultan swallowed, cold sweat covering him, his eyes moist. He lifted his head slightly, trying to look at the Pasha, but the words seemed stuck in his throat.
I remained behind the curtain, barely blinking, watching. Sleepiness still clung to me, but my full attention was on this discussion. The conversation between the Sultan and the Pashas… was strange, harsh, and equally intimidating.
Why were they speaking to the Sultan this way? My eyes followed them from behind the curtain, and I felt both curiosity and a timid fear. I was trying to understand this game of power, but it eluded me. Every word seemed to heighten the tension in the room even further.
The Sultan knelt slowly, pressing his knees to the ground. His eyes were a mix of helplessness and shame. His voice trembled, yet carried the weight of his heart:
"I can't do it in front of everyone… please, Pasha."
At those words, my lips parted involuntarily; my eyes widened in shock. The silence in the hall was filled only with the echo of the Sultan's breath and the rapid pounding of my heart.
Halit Pasha narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and shot a stern look; then, grinding his teeth, he continued:
"My Sultan, if that's the case…"
Before the words could end, his voice reverberated throughout the room. He shouted:
"Then why are you insulting?"
After a brief pause, the Sultan replied in a softer, fragile tone, his voice subdued:
"It won't happen again…"
They hesitated for a moment, then, still surrounded by a tense silence, turned their backs to each other and left the room with heavy steps.
The Sultan remained in the room, enveloped by silence, and ran his hands through his hair. As his fingers passed through the strands, he wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. He breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling deeply. In a low, hoarse, slightly drunken tone, he murmured:
"Ayçil… how long have you been here?"
I cleared my throat, my heart still pounding rapidly. My eyes were fixed on the curtain; I slowly stood up, trying to shake off the tension that had built up from hiding behind it for so long.
"Not long ago," I murmured in a low voice.
The fabric of the curtain was still in my hand. I slid my feet silently across the floor, the warmth of the room and the Sultan's proximity making me slightly uneasy, yet my steps were deliberate. Now all eyes were entirely on me; my breath mingled with his, slightly breaking the silence that hung heavily in the room.
He rose, and in that moment, his shadow fell over me. It was as if he had swallowed the light in the room, casting everything into darkness. His heavy steps, combined with a slight stumble, emphasized his fatigue and intoxication. The bottle of alcohol he held was clutched tightly in his fingers; every movement reflected the struggle between power and loss of control.
He brought the bottle to his lips and took a long sip. Silently, the scent of liquor mixed with his breath, filling the air. With every sip, the muscles around his Adam's apple tensed, his chest rising and falling slightly. His black, raven-like hair fell across his eyes, messy and heavy, partially shading his forehead; his gaze alternated between a hazy blur and piercing focus as it locked onto me.
"You may step back, Ayçil," he said, his voice thick and wavering.
I bent quickly, holding my breath as I stepped back. My feet tapped lightly against the stone floor as I drew the curtain aside; shadows still loomed over me. I moved silently out of the room, my heart racing, ears still catching the faint ringing from the bottle's presence.
As I distanced myself step by step, the shadow I left behind and the Sultan's disheveled hair danced before my eyes; a mixture of fear and curiosity left a sharp tension deep inside me.
Two wooden doors closed slowly, as if time itself had slowed. Every movement intensified the silence; the creak of the hinges echoed, lingering in my ears.
At that moment, the Sultan sat at the edge of the bed. The dim light swallowed the corners of the room in shadow, illuminating only his eyes and messy hair. His deep, intense gaze was locked directly on me.
The sharp sound of the door closing sent a shiver through me. The Sultan remained there, silent yet dominating in the dark room; his gaze seemed to cut through the very air, pressing on my chest. I didn't dare turn back or take a step, holding my breath as I froze for a moment.
The silence I had left behind at the door fell over me like a heavy shadow, intensified by the Sultan's presence. Every breath I drew felt like a small, insignificant tremor beneath his piercing stare.
I stepped backward, my breathing still fast and my heart pounding in my chest. Suddenly, I bumped into someone; the slight jolt of my body made me flinch. I immediately turned around, my eyes narrowing into a cautious, wary expression.
He was standing there… Prince Attila. At the threshold of the Sultan's room, just beside the door, a silent figure wrapped in shadows. His face seemed expressionless, yet the sharpness and focus in his eyes showed that he had noticed every move I had made.
Light from the dim corner of the room reflected off his forehead and strong jawline, illuminating him slightly. His hair was neatly combed back, though a few strands had fallen onto his forehead, giving him a youthful yet slightly rebellious air.
Prince Attila studied me for several seconds without a word. It was as if he were measuring the rhythm of my heartbeat, noting every tremble. That brief eye contact between us pressed down on me like a whirlpool of silence. While the shadow of the Sultan lingered behind the door, Attila's silent presence added a new weight to the room.
I took a step back, holding my breath, trying to pass by quietly, but I realized my eyes couldn't escape his sharp gaze.
I bent quickly, holding my breath. My heart was racing wildly in my chest; each step deepened the silence around me.
Prince Attila slowly, deliberately inclined his head. His eyes locked onto my face with a deep and compelling intensity. That look… it seemed sharp and precise enough to read all my movements, thoughts, and emotions.
"I'm glad you escaped execution," he said. His voice carried an unexpected softness and a captivating tone, almost whispering directly into my ear. A ripple of mild surprise spread through my mind.
My lips parted slightly. I swallowed and replied in a low whisper,
"Yes… may I speak with you privately?"
He paused for a moment, and from the depth in his eyes, I sensed a subtle approval. Then he nodded slightly:
"Very well… go ahead."
He extended his hand, his fingertips brushing lightly against my waist. The touch was gentle, yet firm; as if it carried both an invitation and a warning. My chest quickened slightly, a mix of shiver and curiosity rising within me.
We moved together toward the library, a place rarely visited by anyone, where the silence seemed to suspend time itself. Stepping inside, a heavy, dusty air greeted us; the smell of earth and old books mingled, filling the room with a muted stillness.
The shelves were coated with dust, as if untouched for many years. Each book carried the weight of its own history, and even the faintest breeze sent clouds of dust dancing through the air. The potted plants and flowers had dried up, wilted long ago.
The floors were made of dark brown wood; each step creaked softly, the only sound breaking the stillness. The shelves, the door, the window frames even the spots where sunlight hit were all in deep, dusty tones, heavy with the weight of the past.
The silence in the library was only interrupted by the faint rustling of pages. Attila slowly scanned the books tucked away in the dusty shelves, speaking in a measured voice:
"Yes, I'm listening."
I fixed my eyes on him, my voice low but determined:
"Can you help me? There are rebels outside."
Attila lifted his head slightly, his expression calm. A faint smile curved his lips as he said:
"That's possible… It's only natural. After all, a sultan has many enemies."
I frowned; my voice hardened without meaning to.
"How is this normal? The pashas run the country!"
Attila turned to me slowly, patience and a hint of mockery in his eyes. He smiled as he met my gaze.
"You're far too weak for that."
A spark ignited inside me. I shot back angrily,
"Weren't the powerful once weak too?"
In his eyes there was a faint sorrow and resolve as he replied,
"Yes, that's true… But you will remain the same."
Rage welled up in me. Fixing my eyes on him, I said in a harsh tone,
"Look at me! I am not weak. Do you belittle me because I'm a woman?"
My words echoed in the heavy air of the library. Between the dusty shelves silence tightened into a moment of tension; we stared at each other like challengers in an arena. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes and a sly smile at his lips. Inside me anger and defiance blended as if this quiet library were testing both our strengths.
"No of course there are weak men too. Fine, I'll help you," Attila said, his voice carrying a calm certainty. The smile on his face curved just a little; his eyes weighed the offer like a scale.
"Why the sudden change of heart?" I asked, still suspicious.
Attila narrowed his eyes and regarded me with a mischievous expression.
"Would you rather I didn't?" he asked.
Something warmed in my chest; to show my resolve I asked,
"Yes. What's the first plan?"
Attila paused for a moment, then laughed a laugh that seemed to stir even the dust in the shelves. The light striking the books caught the mocking glint in his eyes.
"There is no plan; are we going to assassinate someone?" he said, half-joking, half-serious.
"Why not?!" I answered decisively, a hidden spark in my voice.
Attila looked at me in surprise for a moment, then grew serious; he steepled his fingers and nodded as if thinking.
"Alright… your first job is to strike them to bring someone down," he said, his words cold and exact. There was the coolness of a strategist in his eyes; as the plan began to form his shoulders relaxed slightly.
We talked a little longer; our words turned into whispers, the outlines of the plan sharpening: who would be used and how, what gaps to exploit, observation and timing… As we spoke among the dusty shelves, each idea fell like a leaf to the floor.
At that moment the door cracked open and İpek the Kalf entered. Her simple work dress was like a bright spot in the library's heavy atmosphere. Her steps were careful; her face showed both respect and worry. In a low, polite voice she said,
"Ayçil, our sultan is calling you."
Just as I was about to stand, Attila turned his head to me. His eyes softened and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"Don't forget what I said, Ayçil," he said.
I nodded faintly; a knot inside me loosened even as the weight of a new responsibility settled in. Attila's gaze remained on me in the library's shadows our agreement hung there like a secret.
I planted my feet, the dusty floor whispering beneath them, and slipped silently from between the shelves. As I headed for the door, Attila's words echoed in my ears; the first move of the plan had already taken shape in my mind.
If you were Ayçil, who would you choose: the Sultan or Prince Attila?