Selim didn’t turn. He knew what "done" meant. In the third act of his reign, he had been forced to choose between his blood and his empire. A rebellion, whispered in the markets and funded by old rivals, had been traced back to his own brother’s household. "Did he speak?" Selim asked, his voice a low rasp.
The marble corridors of the palace were cold, even with the midday sun beating down on the domed roofs of the capital. Sultan Selim stood by the arched window of his private chambers, his gaze fixed on the Bosphorus. In the file of his mind—much like the data in —the events of the past few months were organized into sharp, painful clarity. SultanP01E0320221080pmkv
"Only to say your name, Sultan. He carried your childhood wooden sword to the end." Selim didn’t turn
"It is done, my Lord," a voice whispered from the shadows. It was Rustem, his most trusted advisor. A rebellion, whispered in the markets and funded
A flicker of emotion crossed the Sultan's face, a brief "glitch" in his iron facade. He remembered the gardens, the laughter of two boys who never thought they would one day be playthings of destiny. But the crown demanded a singular focus. To rule was to be alone; to lead was to delete the parts of oneself that felt mercy.