Caterina spent her whole life being underlooked and misunderstood.
Hatice spent her whole teenage years chasing a man who loved another.
But Hüsniye became more than a pawn. She became a queen. She conquered the heart of the Ottoman Sultan, the hear...
The call to prayer drifted over the palace like smoke: slow, solemn, and cracked at the edges.
From the latticed windows, we could barely see the tail end of the funeral procession as it slipped through the courtyard. A flicker of green cloth. The glint of sunlight on swords. The silhouettes of my sons—tiny from up here, but heavy as mountains in my chest.
I did not cry. I could not.
I had cried until my eyes were raw, until my body ached, until my soul itself felt rung out. There were no tears left now, only the quiet, crushing weight of absence.
He was gone. My Selim.
He had been full of life just weeks ago—writing me letters, teasing his younger brothers, asking for more ink, more books, more figs. And then, suddenly, there was only silence.
A riding accident, they said.
But how could a horse steal away the light of my life?
‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙
We were gathered in the prayer hall of the harem, swathed in silence and sorrow. The room smelled of oud and rosewater, the faint scent of grief lingering in every fold of fabric, every flicker of candlelight.
I sat on the floor, shoulders bowed, the prayer beads in my fingers slipping uselessly between my knuckles. I murmured prayers with lips that barely moved. It had become a rhythm—a chant against despair. Against the truth.
My daughters surrounded me.
Mihrimah, my eldest, was beside me—still, silent, eyes glassy and swollen. Her face was pale beneath her veil. She had screamed like a banshee when she arrived in Manisa. I had never heard such a sound. They had to pull her from Selim's chamber. I had to hold her arms down so she wouldn't tear the sheets from his bed.
Rukiye had not left her side since.
My clever girl, always laughing, always turning the bitter into sweet—now she whispered comfort after comfort into Mihrimah's ear. "He would not want us like this," she repeated again and again. "He would hate to see you cry like this."
Mihrimah only nodded, unable to speak.
Hanzade was tending to the younger ones—rocking Neslihan in her lap, brushing Nefise's hair with a mother's patience. She moved like someone twice her age. She had barely wept, not out of strength, but necessity. She became the pillar I could not be.
Neslihan looked up at me at one point, wide-eyed and confused. "Is Abi sleeping?" she asked.
I did not answer.
We prayed together, all of us. Consorts, daughters, kalfas. Even Nazperver and Şah had removed their jewellery and wrapped their heads in dark scarves. Only Fakriye sat stiffly, a rosary in her hands.
Valide Nurbanu Sultan led the prayer, her voice quivering as she recited from memory. She had sat with me every night since I arrived, stroking my hair when I couldn't sleep, letting me cry without shame. "I do not know your pain," she whispered once, "but I know no mother should ever live to bury her child."
We sat in rows. Our heads bowed in unison. Hands cupped, then pressed against our faces. Over and over we recited:
"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un." To Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return.
Every word dug deeper into my chest
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