Conqueror | Murad III

chapter sixty-one

𝔐𝔢𝔥𝔪𝔢𝔡

Hümaşah was right.
Mother had been right all along.

That woman—Hatice Hüsniye—had wrapped herself around my father like a serpent coiling around its prey. At first, it had seemed harmless. A gentle influence. A mother to my siblings, a consort to the sultan. But now her ambitions had cracked through the delicate surface like a dagger splitting silk.

She bewitched him, Mother had said with trembling lips, and she will not stop until she has devoured all that stands in her way.

I hadn't believed it. Not truly.
But how could I now ignore the truth?

Hümaşah married to her Catholic brother. Manisa, the most coveted province for a crown prince, ripped from my hands and gifted to her golden son, Selim.

My name, slowly fading from the courtly whispers, replaced by his.

This would be her downfall.
This would be the end.

"Aunt Hümaşah," I said, my voice steady but low, like a blade sliding from its sheath. She lifted her gaze from the old manuscript in her hands, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

We were inside a velvet-draped carriage, its ornate interior dimly lit by lanternlight. The wheels groaned beneath us as we rolled over the winding forest path to Amasya. Outside, snow had begun to fall lightly, dusting the pines with silver.

"You may begin," I said.

She smirked, folding the book shut with a soft snap. "What about Mahmud? Your little sisters? They are not pawns, Mehmed—they will bleed too."

I met her gaze. Cold. Resolved. "They are acceptable losses. We are already bleeding."

She paused, then reached into her sleeve with gloved fingers and drew forth a sealed parchment. Her expression was unreadable as she knocked on the side window, passing it to a guard riding beside us.

The horse's hooves faded into the dark woods as the man vanished into the night with the letter.

"You were prepared," I murmured, a flicker of dark admiration in my chest.

"I always am," Hümaşah replied smoothly. "You must concern yourself with your own affairs now. What of your harem? That girl—Handan. She is quite the beauty."

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

𝔖𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔪

The scent of warm wax and ink surrounded me as I unfolded the first letter. My mother's handwriting curled across the parchment like vines around a garden wall.

Dearest Selim,

I am proud of you, my son. I know you will make us proud, as your father has always hoped. Listen to your Daye, Raziye, for she is wise. She loves you like her own.

Abdullah is taking his eldest-brother-duties seriously—at least in theory. Süleyman does most of the real work, as usual.

I miss you. I ache to hold you again.

Be brave. Be patient.

I will come soon.

With all my heart,

Your mother, Hüsniye.

I lingered on the last line, pressing the parchment against my chest. Her perfume clung to the letter—jasmine and cinnamon. The scent of home. Of safety. But beneath her gentle encouragement, I could read what she did not write: her anxiety, her longing, her fear of losing another son to the ambition that ran through the blood of our house like a curse.