Midnight's veil covered the sky, and a crimson moon briefly stained the city the color of blood. The moon's sharp light scattered in flakes across the stone roads and the metal fittings of the wagons, tinting everything with a faint redness. The air was humid and bitterly cold; each breath I took rose behind me like smoke.
I approached the wagon. I pulled the filthy cloth covering aside; inside, sacks, chests and glinting metal parts trembled like little stars in the moonlight. I couldn't help the grin that tugged at my lips as I glanced at Attila; our eyes met in a brief, wordless bargain. "The taxes and the treasury money are here," I whispered my voice melted into the night, but the hush around us made even a whisper carry.
As we hauled the wagons toward the palace's secret room, the night sank into deeper shadow. The streets had thinned, but the cadence of our steps drew other footfalls from distant corners figures sliding through the dark like shadows. The horses' sweat, the wooden wheels grinding on stone, the creak of ropes each sound stitched together like frames of a film.
Just as we neared the hidden door, a harsh voice split the air; two men suddenly came to blows. The thud of fists and the clash of metal against metal reverberated off the stone walls. I took a step back; my heart sped but my voice stayed clear. I barked at the men reining the horses: "Move faster!"
My words were a command; after a beat of hesitation the men dug in and pulled the ropes at once the horses lunged forward. The wheeze of their breath and the creak of the wheels echoed; a few paces away the combatants' shadows danced and collided. Attila remained cool; with a single motion he signaled and the few men beside me moved swiftly to divert the scuffle's attention, using the darkness like curtains to hide us.
We reached the secret room: a narrow, old wooden door that scraped the stone as it opened. Moonlight slipped inside and traced the edges of the chests, drawing fine lines on the gold. The air there was heavier than outside scented of oiled leather, old paper, and money. Attila kept a hand on his sword's hilt; with the other, he gently lifted a chest lid to reveal gleaming surfaces.
I eased open a box carefully; the coins and pieces chimed as they rubbed one another, making a small symphony in the room. Each coin bore the smudges of hands and whispered a story: the people's toil braided with cunning. Attila's gaze waited for my silent nod. I inclined my head and scooped a handful of coins into my palm, feeling the cold weight of metal.
Then the door came crashing open splintered boards and the shriek of hinges cut through the corridor's darkness. New çeri entered, their armor flashing coldly; their boots stamped, setting the stones trembling. A sudden barrage of clashing steel, booming commands and a rising roar erupted between the prince's guards and the new çeri each blow rang off the walls, the room filling with a sharp metallic tang.
I looked at Attila anger and surprise sketched across his face. "You get out the second door, now!" I snapped. He nodded and moved toward the door, shouldering at the wood with his powerful frame, but the board stubbornly refused to give. I ran to him and planted my palm on the door; its cold surface numbed my hand. "Why won't it open?" I whispered, breath ragged.
Attila met my eyes; his answer was short and helpless: "I don't know." Those two words tightened the air. The crimson moonlight slanted across blades, sketching deathly shadows; each glint marked a threat, every dark corner a refuge. A new çeri's blow felled one of the prince's guards the sword flew from his hand and struck the cold stone.
The blade caught my eye dried blood dark and glossy along its edge, the hilt black and hard. I moved quickly, the stone's chill biting my palms, and gripped the metal. The rope that bound the door screamed under tension; the whole room seemed to hold its breath between the clamor of armor and the moon's red gleam. I hefted the sword, gathered my strength and struck the rope. The fibers screamed; a second later the rope snapped. With a ripping roar the plank came loose the door shuddered and crashed to the ground. The noise echoed like thunder. Attila lunged for the exit; his steps hammered across stone, breath short and sharp.
With the door toppled, Attila slipped through the opening and vanished into the dark; I was left facing the new çeri and their cold, unblinking stares. Their armors' clink closed around me, and the hardness in their eyes promised the attack to come. I still held the sword tight cold steel in my palm, both threat and pledge: fight or surrender. Moonlight bled through the window, deepening the room's shadows.
They threw me to the ground; the wooden floor was cold and damp, and my knees struck hard, sending a brief shower of stars across my vision. They quickly pressed down on me; the black fabric covering my face clung with every breath, and as I felt its heat, sweat began to form. The smooth yet suffocating texture of the cloth lightly constricted my lungs; the scents of metal and leather around me filled my nose.
The black, wide-cut, straight-lined garment I wore was loose enough to camouflage my body's contours; the weight of the fabric deepened my immobility. A hand gripped my arm harshly; the pressure of the fingers bruised my skin, but it wasn't strong enough to break my resistance it was more to corner me, to trap me in place.
"Shall we uncover her face, my Sultan?!" a harsh voice asked; one of the new janissaries stepped forward as if awaiting an order. Their breaths were ragged, eyes alert. In the dark, the edges of their armor glinted where the light struck; a pitiless curiosity sparkled in their gaze.
Though the Sultan stood back among the onlookers, a cold command came from his mouth:
"No. Throw her into the dungeon. Don't touch her I will open it myself. The others… kill them."
His words were cold, absolute, beyond humane. He didn't even look at my face; he turned his back and walked away with heavy, decisive steps. After that sentence the tension that filled the room deepened; the new janissaries squared their shoulders, some exchanging quick looks.
When a new janissary shoved me and my body hit the floor, the hard cold of the stone crushed any remaining hope. I slammed my palm onto the stone; even that first strike sent a jolt of pain through my fingertips. My breath came in ragged pulls as rage and adrenaline filled my lungs. Pain became a living fuel in that moment; with each blow something of body and mind tore away, yet it also kept me alive.
As I kept pounding my fist into the floor, a burning ache rose through my wrist and arm; the tension gathering in my muscles was both searing and oddly pleasurable a kind of proof of existence. Watching the ceiling, I breathed in and out; the cold face of the stones and the arid air struck my chest. Pushing up to my knees, I rose to my feet; amid the vast loneliness around me, a flash of determination ignited inside.
I quickly strode toward the metal bucket I had grabbed; its surface was rusty, cold, and rough. Stepping back a few paces, I slammed my full weight against it, and the sharp, piercing clang reverberated off the stone walls of the cell. The sound was both a warning and a challenge, a rhythm that simultaneously calmed and spurred me into action. My fingers trembled, but my gaze stayed fixed; the darkness around me seemed to crack for a moment under the bucket's vibrations.
At that moment, the door creaked open and the Sultan stepped inside. Behind him stood the new janissaries and the chief of the palace guards, lined up with cold, stone-like expressions. The Sultan's footsteps made the air heavier; the rhythm of his boots striking the stone cast sharp shadows across the dim cell.
He paused at the doorway, surveying the room for a moment, then issued a command in a cold tone:
"You… all of you, leave. No one stays!"
The chill in his words wrapped around the room like a shell. The janissaries' armor clinked together as they moved with silent coordination to exit. As their footsteps faded, the cell was once again swallowed by solitude. The door slammed shut behind them, the hinge's squeal leaving a lingering hum.
The Sultan remained. The flickering light highlighted the lines of his face, deepening their severity. For a moment, he looked at me, his eyes cold and calculating neither wrath nor mercy, only measured attention. The silence that filled the room carried the cold echo of stone and metal. As I tried to return to my usual composure, something inside me had broken.
He stepped closer; I immediately pulled off the black cloth, revealing my face. My deep red hair fell over my shoulders, glowing like a fire that had been hidden throughout the night. I fixed my gaze on him, waiting; the cold stone walls of the cell seemed to close in slightly as our breaths fogged the air between us.
The Sultan moved a step forward, his shadow stretching across the wall; his voice began to travel slowly over the stone, each word sharpening like a blade:
"Why are you working behind my back?! People will demand the bodies of those who steal the treasury and the taxes."
The weight in his words was as cold as the air in the room; the emphasis in his lips conveyed the gravity of the accusation. For a brief moment, his eyes softened, a flicker of hurt crossing his face, but it was quickly replaced by a harsh anger. The flickering candlelight made the sweat on his forehead sparkle like sparks.
I drew a steady breath and replied in a firm voice:
"Menekşe Sultan took the taxes."
My words fell like stone; instantly, the silence in the cell deepened. The Sultan's eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing the weight of a secret whispered into my ear. His lips twisted for a moment, then stiffened; he took a few deliberate steps and stopped directly in front of me.
"The Menekşe knows nothing!" the Sultan said, his voice harsh but carrying a trace of defense.
I shot him an angry look; the cold stone walls of the cell surrounded us and my voice came out firm: "Then kill me, if Menekşe Sultan is innocent."
The Sultan's face hardened for a moment more; his eyes fixed on me as if his patience had run out. He snapped back: "This has nothing to do with Menekşe, understand that already, Ayçil!"
I pressed the weight of my words, speaking quickly: "Your Majesty, they set a trap for me" I tried to continue, but he cut me off; his voice hit like a slap.
"I don't want to hear you. I don't want to see your face either. Better… go to your room and don't come out again!" he ordered; his shout echoed through the room and his lips were as cold as the command.
I only looked at him; my eyes were wounded but icy. He stepped forward, drawing close; his breath trembled my face. His voice was low, but threaded with the turns of obsession: "As I told you I want to both kill you and I cannot bear to."
Beneath those words lay both possession and annihilation, two colliding feelings. I answered sharply, hiding nothing of my intent: "Then what will you do if the people demand my body?" I asked, locking my gaze on his and trying to corner him with words.
He hesitated for a moment; then came a cold, calculating reply: "If necessary, I'll kill Prince Attila and send his corpse." His words were heavy as stone.
Before I could finish, he cut me off again; his voice left a hard echo on the stone walls. "Do you think I don't know you sent him?" he demanded, harshly.
My breathing grew ragged and my knees trembled as I sank to the floor. The cold stone and the cell's darkness lay before my face; with all my weight I begged: "Your Majesty, he has no guilt this is because of me!"
My words became a plea, colliding at my lips. In that instant the Sultan suddenly seized my chin with a brutal grip; the pressure of his fingers felt like iron and pain spread through me. He held so tightly that I felt a burning mark along my neck and jaw. My eyelids squeezed shut and my breath cut off; the pain lodged like a short scream in my throat.
His eyes flashed like embers; his gaze burned with anger and disappointment. For a moment I thought his hold was an odd embrace, then a shout tore from his lips: "Are you begging me for him?!"
I fell silent; my voice was caught in my throat, my words withdrawn. In that moment we were trapped in a small sliver of time between the cell's stones, the chill of iron, and the Sultan's stance. The silence was heavy only the rhythm of our breathing remained.
A moment later, he raised his voice even more, hurling a sharp command:
"I asked you a question!"
The words tumbled from my mouth in an instant, as if my heart demanded it; yet they stuck in my throat, silenced:
"I always say this… I never loved you, only feared execution, but-" I began.
"Shut up! Silence yourself! What audacity is this!" he roared, his voice shaking the stone walls. With that command, it was as if he had placed a mark of prohibition over the very air.
Immediately after, he gave another harsh order: "Aghas! Bring me wine at once!"
He turned his face toward me, sliding his hands back slightly. I took a step back and sank to the floor; resting on my knees, I watched as the Sultan lifted the goblet in one hand and slowly took a sip of wine. The liquid trickled over the edge, its color contrasting sharply with the cold shadow cast on his face; there was no smile, only the harshness lingering at the corners of his eyes. He stared at me obliquely; his gaze was both distant and testing, as if he had already decided but was savoring the moment.
As the flickering light of the candles danced along the cell walls, I remained seated, pressed into the cold stone beneath my knees. His sipping and the chill, unpleasant patience in his face felt like a prelude to the words and deeds yet to come. The silence grew heavier; only the distant footsteps echoing down the corridors and the faint clink of the goblet could be heard.