Conqueror | Murad III

chapter sixty-seven

I could hear her screams through the door.

They came and went in waves—breaking, gasping, fading—only to rise again with greater force. The sound clawed at my chest. Midwives rushed in and out, their skirts brushing against the marble, carrying steaming bowls of water, stained cloths, bundles of herbs. The smell of iron and sweat lingered in the corridor.

Murad stood beside me, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, pacing the length of the hall. His usual calm was gone—each scream that pierced the air made him flinch. I had never seen him so restless. My calm was gone as well, and it manifested in the vicious attack I was inflicting on my fingernails.

"Is everything all right, Hüsniyem?" he asked finally as he took my hands in his, his voice low, uncertain.

I shook my head, unable to lie. "There is too much blood." My voice trembled as I said it. "In all my labours, in all the births I have witnessed, I have never seen this much blood."

He fell silent. His prayer beads clicked between his fingers, the rhythm uneven. "Allah will guide her," he said at last, though his voice carried no conviction.

The door opened, and a medic emerged, her apron soaked and her face pale as marble. I intercepted her immediately.

"Please," I said, gripping her wrist before she could slip away. "Tell me—how is Ümmügülsüm?"

The woman's gaze darted between Murad and me before falling to the floor. "We are doing all that can be done, Haseki Sultan. But the Hatun has lost a lot of blood. Her fever grows worse. If Allah wills it..." She trailed off, bowed, and hurried back through the curtain.

Murad ran a hand over his face. "She is young," he said hoarsely, as if youth itself could ward off death. "She will survive this. She must."

But the screams were growing weaker.

A long, tense silence followed—too long. My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear over it.

Then came a cry—sharp, shrill, alive. A baby's cry.

Murad exhaled, the tension leaving him in a rush. "It is over," he murmured, taking my hand. "She did it."

The door opened again. The midwife entered slowly, cradling a small, swaddled bundle in her arms. She bowed low before us.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty. Haseki Sultan," she said, her voice shaking. "It is a girl—healthy and strong."

Murad's face softened as he reached for the child. Her tuft of fiery red hair glinted under the oil lamps. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Selim's hair. My son's blood made flesh again.

I took her into my arms. Her skin was warm, soft as rose petals, her cries fading into little whimpers as I rocked her gently.

Murad turned to the midwife. "And her mother?"

The woman's eyes filled with tears. "May Allah grant her peace, Hünkârım."

Murad froze. His lips parted, but no words came. His beads slipped from his hand and scattered across the floor, the soft clatter echoing through the empty corridor.

He whispered a prayer, his voice breaking on the final word.

I looked down at the child—so alive, so red, her tiny fingers curling around mine—and tears blurred my vision. "My poor little one," I whispered. "Born into a world that keeps stealing."

Murad's hand came to rest on my shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice was rough but steady. "She deserves a name, Hüsniyem."

I looked at him—my husband, my sultan, my partner in grief—and nodded. The name came to me like light breaking through clouds.