Magic | Magnificent Century

chapter one

The first thing I felt was cold.

Not the chill of an open window or winter air, but the kind of cold that clung to you—like the marble floor beneath me. My head throbbed as I blinked at the low flicker of oil lamps and the strange, unfamiliar shapes of the room around me. Where was I?

I sat up slowly, my heart pounding harder with every detail I noticed. The shimmering silk drapes, the heavy golden embroidery, the faint scent of rosewater in the air—it was all too real, too old, too... Ottoman.

And then I saw them.

Women, sitting or lounging around the room. They were dressed like something out of the history books—robes of emerald, crimson, and sapphire, with delicate veils framing their faces. Their jewellery sparkled in the dim light, but it was their expressions that held my attention. Cautious, quiet, and full of something I could only describe as calculated.

One of them noticed me staring. She looked young, barely out of her teens, her dark eyes wide with curiosity. Before I could open my mouth to ask her where I was—or when—she pressed a finger to her lips.

"You shouldn't speak," she whispered, her Turkish accented but clear.

I froze, my mouth going dry. I didn't have time to process what she meant because, suddenly, the heavy wooden doors swung open, and the air in the room seemed to be still.

Two men entered. No, not men—eunuchs. I knew this from their mannerisms, their sharp, emotionless gazes as they scanned the room. The women around me scrambled to their feet, heads bowed low. I stood too, my movements clumsy compared to theirs.

"You will rise," one of the eunuchs said, his voice smooth and commanding.

I had no idea what was happening, but the gravity in the room was unmistakable. I bowed my head, following the lead of the others. Every nerve in my body screamed for answers, but something told me this wasn't the moment to ask.

They led us down a series of corridors, their grandeur almost blinding. Intricate mosaics covered the walls, their patterns swirling like endless stories; domed ceilings glimmered with gold and blue, like frozen pieces of the sky. My sneakers—wait, where were my sneakers?—my feet padded softly across carpets that looked too precious to walk on.

The women around me moved with a kind of resigned grace, their silence deafening. I didn't dare break it, though my mind raced with a thousand questions. How had this happened? Why me? Was this some kind of vivid dream?

And then it hit me like a sledgehammer.

The clothes, the halls, the eunuchs, the tension in the air. I was in the harem.

Not just any harem. The Ottoman harem.

My throat tightened. No. No, this couldn't be real. This wasn't possible. But every sound, every scent, every detail screamed otherwise. This wasn't some romanticized version from a TV series. This was alive.

We finally stopped in a vast chamber, where the eunuchs gestured for us to form a line. My pulse quickened as I stepped into place, trying to disappear among the women. I didn't belong here.

The room fell silent as another figure entered—a woman, older, regal, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. I recognized her immediately from the paintings and documentaries. She was Valide Farya Sultan, the mother of the reigning sultan.

She studied us, her lips pursed, her expression impossible to read. "These are the new girls?" she asked, her voice low but commanding.

"Yes, Valide Sultan," one of the eunuchs replied, bowing his head.

I kept my eyes on the floor, my heart hammering so hard I was sure someone would hear it.

"You," she said suddenly, and I felt my chest tighten. Was she talking to me?

Her footsteps clicked closer. I risked a glance and saw her gaze fixed on me. "What is your name?"

My throat went dry. My name? What was my name? Do I give her my real name? A fake one? What did people here even name their daughters?

"D—Daphne," I stammered, my voice barely audible.

The Valide raised a brow. "Daphne? That is not a Turkish name."

"I—I am Greek," thank goodness for my nationality, since the Ottomans had plenty of Balkan slaves, therefore it didn't seem suspicious.

Her eyes narrowed, and for a terrifying moment, I thought she might call me out. But then she nodded. "You'll need to learn quickly if you are to be of use here."

She turned away, her attention moving to another girl. My knees nearly buckled with relief.

As we were dismissed and led to yet another room, my mind spiralled. How had I ended up here? Was this punishment? A test? Some kind of cosmic joke?

I didn't have any answers, but one thing was clear: I had to survive.

Whatever had brought me here, whatever cruel twist of fate had dropped me into the world of Sultan Hasan the Heartless, I wasn't going down without a fight.