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vi - fatma sultan

"Fat who?" I asked. The men muttered something in a foreign language, and now I desperately wished I could speak Arabic or Turkish or whatever language they spoke in. These men seemed to know decent Italian.

"Fatma Sultan, you idiot. Not fat," one of them snapped, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. The harshness in his voice was a stark reminder of the peril I was in.

I blinked, trying to process the name. Fatma Sultan. The name carried weight, a foreboding sense of power and menace. The realization hit me like a cold wind: I was caught in the conspiracies and plots of one of the most powerful women in the empire.

Azra from Italy would've joked and said "cool". But now that I'm here...

The journey continued through the winding streets of Istanbul, the city's grandeur and mystique lost on me as fear clouded my thoughts. Every sound, every shadow seemed to whisper danger, and my heart pounded in my chest, a constant drumbeat of dread.

We finally arrived at a grand palace, its imposing gates guarded by stern-faced soldiers. The men who had brought me here spoke briefly with the guards, and I was roughly pulled from the carriage, my wrists still bound. 

We stopped before a pair of elaborately carved doors, and one of the men rapped sharply. The doors swung open to reveal a room bathed in soft, golden light. At its center, seated on a low divan surrounded by cushions, was a woman whose presence commanded immediate respect and fear.

Fatma Sultan.

Right?

She was a vision of regal authority, her eyes sharp and calculating as they appraised me. Her attire, a rich blend of silks and jewels, only served to accentuate the aura of power that surrounded her. 

Even wealthier than the richest in Europe, I assume.

She gestured for me to be brought closer, and I was pushed forward, stumbling slightly but managing to keep my balance.

"So, this is the girl," she said, her voice smooth and cold, like silk over steel. "The one I've heard so much about. Azra."

I stood there, trembling but defiant, my eyes meeting hers with a mixture of fear and curiosity. What did this formidable woman want with me? Why had I been torn from my home and brought to this foreign land?

And I heard the change in tone when she pronounced my name. Innocent.

Fatma Sultan rose gracefully from her seat, her movements deliberate and commanding. She approached me, her eyes never leaving mine. "You must be wondering why you are here," she said, her tone almost conversational, as if we were discussing the weather and not my abduction.

I nodded, my throat too dry to speak.

"You have been brought here for a purpose," she continued. "A purpose that, should you succeed, will elevate you to a position of great power and influence. But should you fail..." She let the sentence hang in the air, the unspoken threat chilling me to the bone.

"What do you want from me?" I managed to croak out, my voice barely above a whisper.

A slow, calculating smile spread across her face. "I want you to do something that will change the course of history. I want you to kill Sultan Murad."