When I reached the Sultan's door, I took a deep breath and knocked on the knocker. Silence lasted for a few moments; then, after a heavy sigh, I stepped inside.
The room was dark; thick curtains had swallowed the moonlight completely. My hands trembled as I lit the candlesticks on the table. One by one, the flames of the candles leapt like sparks; the yellow light cast dancing shadows on the walls. A dim glow spread through the room, but it could not erase the weight of the darkness. The strong scent of alcohol that filled the room hit my throat, its sharpness almost burning my lungs.
I looked at him with a cold expression.
"Drinking again?" I asked, my voice icy.
The Sultan sat on the edge of the bed. He slowly shook the glass bottle he was holding; a faint smile touched the corner of his lips, but his eyes were dark.
"I can't stop… When you're not here, there's only that," he said, his words thick and slurred with intoxication.
He was naked; his bare chest gleamed like marble in the candlelight. His broad, muscular shoulders were tense with strain. A black satin robe had fallen beside his knees, pooling on the floor in smooth, silk-like folds. Beneath it, he wore loose, heavy-looking black satin trousers of the same fabric.
He slowly lowered his head, bringing the bottle to his lips, and the Adam's apple moved up and down. With every sip, he let out a hoarse breath, and the candlelight fractured across the muscles of his chest, creating shifting shadows.
Ignoring his words, I tried to lift the bottle of alcohol; the Sultan snatched it from my hands in an instant and hurled it to the floor. The sound of the glass striking the ground lingered in the room; the shards scattered like tiny sparks, glittering in the candlelight.
Suddenly, he grabbed my chin with a harsh grip. His hand settled under my jaw like an iron weight; his face was rigid, his sharp features directed at me. The pressure of his fingers left a pain along my neck.
"Look at me," he said, his voice low but commanding. I had no choice but to lower my head; my chin was trapped under the firm grasp of his hand.
"I'm telling you for the last time, look at me!" he shouted; the sharpness of his drunkenness and the fracture of his anger gave weight to his words.
He paused for a moment, then twisted his lips and added in an even harsher tone:
"You are my concubine, do you understand?"
My lungs tightened. I fixed my gaze on him and replied with a trembling voice:
"I… don't love you…" I took heavy breaths and finished, looking at his face: "I only obey because I fear execution, otherwise…"
Before I could finish my sentence, he suddenly released my chin. Staggering, I stepped back; I felt as if I might lose my balance. Just as I was about to fall, he grabbed my arm firmly, the pressure of his fingers pulling me back. I saw a flash of violence, of obsession, in his eyes.
"Let me go! I drink to forget you, but you're still on my mind. I both want to kill you and can't bear to!" he shouted. His voice echoed in the room, a tangle of jealousy, pain and madness.
I looked at him in fear and a chill ran through me could he be obsessed? My heart pounded wildly in my chest, each beat seeming to hurt more. I took a few steps back; the cold of the stone floor bit at my feet.
"Y‑you…" I began, my voice broken, almost painful. "You're not yourself… I will" I tried to finish, but he tightened his hold on my arm; where his fingers pressed the blood seemed to stop for a moment.
His eyes filled with darkness, his breath short and cutting:
"You will stay here today. You will sleep with me."
Panic rose inside me; I searched for an excuse, but there was no way out. With trembling lips I tried to resist:
"You are the Sultan… this can't" I whispered, my words a fragile defense.
He murmured, more tired and commanding, his name heavy on his tongue:
"When I tell you to present your opinion, you will present it. Do you understand, Ayçil?"
The tightness of his fingers left a small, burning pain in my arm. As the candlelight flickered, the shadows in the room grew long and sharp; I searched helplessly for a way out, while he held me in place with obsessive intensity.
I continued gathering the bottles; each glass container I took from the shelf and replaced, I felt the weight of his gaze like a heavy hand pressing down on me. Ignoring him had tested his patience. Suddenly, he pushed me lightly and let his full weight fall upon me. My back pressed against the floor, my breath constricted; his hands pinned both my arms above my head, leaving me utterly immobile.
He leaned close to my face; his breath was heavy and uneven. His eyes were deep, carrying both anger and an obsessive determination. Standing under that gaze was both terrifying and suffocating.
"Do you understand?" he said, his voice low but commanding; every word echoed through the room, striking my heart like a heavy blow.
"Let me go…!" I said, my voice full of anger and resistance. With every breath, I felt my body tense; the pressure on me made my skin prickle.
"Did I ask you a question?" he said, his eyes erasing my words; it was as if my protestations hung suspended in the air.
Trembling, I whispered:
"I understand…"
A moment of silence followed. He loosened his grip; the pressure on my arms eased, but the dominance in his eyes remained unbroken. The room felt heavy, tense, and suffocating; my heart was still racing, my hands still shaking.
Slowly, he wrapped his arms around my waist; the touch was both heavy and unexpected. He rested his head against my chest; his eyes slowly closed. His deep, uneven breaths echoed through the room, his muscles gradually relaxing. Drunkenness and fatigue pulled him into a sleep detached from consciousness.
I gazed up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. The flickering candlelight reflected across his face; the tension between his brows was still faintly visible, but the weight of his body had become passive enough to be barely noticeable. The room's silence and dim light amplified even the sound of my own breathing.
My heart was still racing; I couldn't stop thinking about my steps, my breath, and his presence.
Even though the sun had risen, the room remained dark, silent like a captive; the candles had melted down, their wicks nearly extinguished, leaving only faintly trembling flames to illuminate the space. Thick black curtains blocked the sunlight from entering, casting everything in heavy shadows. The coldness of the air clashed with the warmth of the candles, leaving a tension in my lungs with every breath.
My body was trapped under his weight. His mass pressed down like a force, his tense muscles preventing any movement. I involuntarily let out a small gasp of pain; the pressure on my chest seemed to crush my shoulders and lower back. I tried to push, but movement was impossible…
I drew a deep breath and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. I knew how to wield a sword hand movements, wrist twists, unbalancing an opponent but now I realized the gulf between me and the enormous man sleeping atop me. Against his physical strength, all my techniques were useless; there was no opening to use the sword's sharpness, speed, or skill.
My eyes stayed fixed on the cracks in the ceiling; even sunlight couldn't penetrate the thick curtains, only accentuating the room's gloom. The flickering candlelight fell across the Sultan's muscular shoulders and tense back, casting dancing shadows. His presence moved through the room like a weight, a silent, threatening force.
My body trembled under the pressure, but my mind had sharpened. Fear was strong, but not enough to break my resolve; I measured every breath, every subtle moment of relaxation. I carefully noted the rhythm of his muscles, the tension in his arms and shoulders, the weight pressing down on me. Every movement, every slight slackening, could be a possibility a chance for me.
I had left the Sultan's room with a cold, hard expression. Standing at the door, Hasodabaşı and Halit Paşa faced me; their conversation cut off abruptly when they saw me, and their gazes met mine with a brief mix of surprise and calculation.
"Ayçil, do you remember me?" Halit Paşa asked, a cunning grin stretching across his face.
I slowly turned my head toward him, meeting his eyes with a sharp, piercing stare. Despite his age, he still looked youthful; his olive-toned skin, neatly trimmed beard, and the heavy, exquisitely expensive kaftan he wore gave him a distinct grandeur. His cunning was evident in his eyes, but where had I known him from… no memory stirred in my mind.
"I don't remember you," I said, my voice cold and cutting. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm; his finger pressed firmly against my wrist.
"Not remembering is much better," he said, his voice deep, tinged with a dangerous flavor.
I quickly withdrew my hand and put some distance between us, scanning him with a cold gaze.
"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice icy, unwavering.
In that moment, tension vibrated in the air between us; silence was trapped in the space of our locked eyes. This man, filled with cunning and experience, stood before me like a ghost from the past, waiting for me to make a mistake. I remembered nothing, yet I focused solely on protecting myself and assessing the situation.
Halit Paşa fell silent, leaving a heavy, meaning-laden silence between us. Then he turned his head slightly, looking at me; his gaze felt both testing and like a reminder of some old memory. Without another word, he walked with quiet steps toward the Sultan's room. He paused at the doorway, lingered for a few seconds, and then entered.
I remained frozen at the door, my eyes absent-mindedly following him. My mind was shrouded in a dense fog; every step, every glance stirred fragments of old memories. Where did I know this man from? My brain strained painfully, trying to piece it together; his face felt familiar, his posture familiar, his voice echoing faintly in my ears.
As my gaze drifted into the empty corridor, my memory scrambled fragments of the past, stacking them atop one another but nothing aligned completely. My heart raced involuntarily; the sense of familiarity was both unsettling and disquieting. I was on the verge of remembering something, yet it remained blurred like a foggy morning only shadows, sounds, and half-formed recollections lingered.
The silence of the room, the dim flickering of the melting candlelight, and the lingering presence of the man who had vanished beyond the door made everything feel heavier, more ominous. My mind continued struggling to assemble the pieces, but the mystery of that old, familiar face remained unsolved.
Then İpek Kalfa approached me; her steps were silent, her breath trembling slightly. I turned my head toward her; the shadows of the dim corridor half-covered her face. She leaned close, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet the weight of her news was immediate:
"Ayçil… Menekşe Sultan has been secretly bringing gold into the palace. She's taking everything the people have… and the Sultan doesn't know!"
Her words hit the air like a stone dropped into still water. My absent, dazed gaze trembled for a moment. I continued to stare at the slightly ajar doorway, but my thoughts raced. İpek's face showed worry and a hint of guilt; her eyes darted nervously, as if one ear was still listening for movement elsewhere in the corridor. She lifted a finger lightly to her lips, signaling silence.
My reply was a low, controlled murmur, my voice kept as quiet as possible:
"Alright… this news is very useful. You go; no one must see us."
İpek nodded slightly, a brief sense of relief flashing across her eyes, though her steps remained cautious. She quietly retreated, blending into the darkness; her footsteps vanished almost imperceptibly on the wooden floor. The empty space she left behind deepened the shadows in the room.
Outside, the night had turned the palace's rear garden into a silent shadow; only the distant clatter of horse hooves and the rustling of leaves in the wind broke the stillness. The garden was deserted; the stone paths were damp and cold.
When I stepped out of my room, my breath mingled with the cold air, my heart beating in a slow but powerful rhythm. My narrow white nightgown clung to my body, outlining the curves of my waist and shoulders; the wind stirred the thin fabric lightly with each passing breeze, playing with the shadows.
The carriages, made of old wood and iron, stood silently in the darkness; the corners of the piled-up goods inside reflected faint glimmers of light, creating tiny sparks in the shadows. Every movement I made broke the night's silence, and each sound between the stone paths and metal carriages felt like a warning.
As I was about to pass by the carriages, a man's voice cut through the night, making me catch my breath:
"Has Menekşe Sultan arrived yet? The gold is among the belongings…" His voice carried a nervous anticipation, yet it was loud and clear enough to echo like a shadow among the stones.
Another man suddenly snapped, his voice sharp like a scream tearing through the darkness:
"Are you an idiot?! Why are you saying that out loud?!"
The words shattered the silence of the night; my heart raced instantly. The angry man's hands were tense, his face flushed; he clenched his teeth, filled with rage and ready to attack. The first man immediately stepped back, bowing slightly in apology:
"I'm sorry, master…"
But just as the angry man was about to strike, the others intervened; they grabbed his arms, bracing themselves together, creating a brief yet intense moment of tension. In the dark garden, between the stones and wooden carriages, the silence hung suspended for an instant; everyone held their breath, eyes fixed and unblinking.
I stood hidden among the shadows, slightly crouched; my white nightgown made me appear almost like a ghost in the darkness.
The first rays of morning barely filtered through the thick curtains. I pulled the blanket off and stood up, splashing my face with icy water. The cold burned my skin, sharpening my drowsy mind instantly. As I put on my black dress, every detail of it commanded attention: it clung tightly to my waist, tracing the curves from my hips to my shoulders, elegant yet severe in its silhouette. The sleeves were voluminous and layered; with every movement, they swayed lightly, creating a mysterious dance in the shadows. The fabric had a subtle sheen, satiny and shifting with the interplay of dark tones, mesmerizing to the eye; each step I took radiated a quiet yet imposing presence.
The neckline of my dress was adorned with delicate lace that wrapped around my neck, catching the first rays of sunlight and creating an elegant glimmer; the sleeves tapered slightly, hugging my wrists. The puffed, layered shoulders added both strength and aesthetic appeal. The fitted waist and form-hugging structure caused a subtle tension with each movement, making every step appear deliberate and precise.
My dark crimson hair flowed straight from my shoulders, contrasting sharply with the black tones of the dress. With every step, the heavy yet graceful rustle of the fabric whispered across the stone floor.
My goal was clear: to reach Prince Attila. My heart pounded wildly, each step swelling with both excitement and apprehension. The corridor was silent; only the faint tapping of my shoes on the wooden floor and the distant crackle of candle flames punctuated the stillness.
Just as I rounded the corner, an unexpected shadow appeared. The Sultan stood there, the dim silhouette of his chamber spilling into the corridor with the morning light. I narrowed my eyes and held my breath, straining to keep him from noticing me. I knew every muscle, every posture; if he spotted the shadow beneath my eyes, my silent, swift plan could unravel.
I quickly adjusted my steps; my heart felt as if it might leap from my chest. I weaved through the shadows along the corridor, trying to keep my movements both quiet and quick.
Prince Attila stood on the balcony, with the city sprawling behind him. His fingers traced the lines of a small black book, eyes tracking the words like an arrow; as he read, he seemed to dive into the twists of thought behind each line. Strands of hair fell across his forehead, stirred gently by the breeze, giving him a disheveled yet captivating aura both rebellious and fragile.
He wore a deep navy blue kaftan; the rich fabric cast shadows across his chest and shoulders, while the piece of armor draped over him whispered the stance of a noble warrior. In his right hand, he held a sword firmly but loosely gripped while in his left, a book seemed to feed his mind, like a private crusade.
The delicate click of my steps against the stone floor drew his attention as I reached the balcony. His gaze swept over me first, then lingered on my face, examining me as if weighing something on the scales of judgment.
"Your Highness, isn't it difficult? Both the book and the sword; managing the two at once seems quite a challenge," I said, my voice sliding into a teasing curve without losing its firmness.
Attila let out a deep sigh and slowly closed the book with one hand; the soft thud echoed quietly in the night's stillness. He turned toward me; his eyes carried a mix of admission and subtle suggestion:
"Ah, yes," he said in a low, contemplative tone. A spark appeared at the corner of his eye: "The sword… I don't love it. I train with it, but I enjoy reading. It's more real, harsher than most things."
His words hung sharply in the cold balcony air, a sentence both precise and revealing. Between the rough reality of action with the sword and the bitter reality of thought with the book, his preference was clear: he valued insight over action, the cruelty of words over the cruelty of blood.
A reluctant smile appeared on my face, tinged with the slight mockery born from my awkwardness. I slid to the side and settled onto the cold stone; my knees close together, my posture resolute.
"Your Highness, I need a group of men," I said, my words offered like a quiet but clear command.
His eyes sharpened at once; he looked at me with probing curiosity. "What will you do?" he asked, voice calm but alert.
I went straight into the plan, my words tight and measured:
"Menekşe Sultan is secretly bringing the people's taxes and gold and money stolen from the royal treasury into the palace. The Sultan doesn't know about it."
Attila paused for a moment; a faint, cold smile lifted one corner of his mouth. He inclined his head toward me; the shadows of his dark-blue kaftan partially hid his face, and for an instant the cool composure of a strategist spread from him. His voice was smooth, almost mathematically cold:
"If we seize that money, we distribute half to the people; we keep the other half for ourselves. And the men in the middle… we remove them."
There was a chill, calculated finality to the way he delivered the last words the birth of a plan, the closing of a calculation. For a moment the balcony wind stilled; the weight of our words settled on the night.
I nodded slowly in agreement. Inside me, alongside the risks this opportunity carried, a new spark kindled: if used cleverly, this move could win the people's trust and lower the paşas' guard. Attila's calm, ruthless logic gave me confidence.