Conqueror | Murad III

chapter sixty-eight

"You have got to be kidding me."

The words left my mouth before I could temper them, though my voice remained steady. Across from me, Gülbahar did not meet my eyes immediately. She folded her hands in her lap, her silence already confirming what I did not wish to believe.

"I wish I were," she said at last, her tone solemn. "But it is true. The name of Mehmed's heir is Selim."

For a moment I simply stared at her. The name did not feel real; it felt like an echo dragged out of a grave. My fingers tightened around the porcelain cup of tea I held, and the heat pressed uncomfortably into my skin, though I barely noticed it.

"He dares," I said slowly, carefully placing the cup back onto its saucer, though it rattled despite my control. "He dares to name his firstborn after mine? After the brother whose life he took?" The restraint in my voice was deliberate; fury spoken too loudly loses its precision.

Gülbahar shifted slightly. "Perhaps," she ventured cautiously, "he believes it a gesture of reconciliation. A sign that he wishes to put the past behind him."

I rose from my seat, unable to remain still. The marble floor felt cold beneath my steps as I paced, my veil trailing behind me like a restless shadow. "Reconciliation," I repeated, the word bitter on my tongue. "He speaks my son's name as though it were a gift he may unwrap and present to the world, expecting gratitude in return. Does he imagine that repetition will cleanse blood from memory?"

I stopped at the lattice window, looking out at the courtyard below. Children were playing there, their laughter floating upward without care or understanding of the weight adults carried. "He forgets," I said more quietly, "that a mother's memory does not fade. A lioness does not forget the scent of her slain cub."

Gülbahar's voice softened. "Then what will you do?"

I turned back to her, and by then the fire had settled into something far colder and more deliberate. "We will do nothing. Not yet. Let him celebrate his heir. Let Hümaşah savour the name as if it were a triumph. There is strength in patience, and I have learned that haste serves only the foolish."

I thought then of Ayşe Güneş, sleeping peacefully in her cradle, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of silk as if already grasping her place in this world. "Selim's blood continues," I murmured. "That is what matters. Names alone do not build legacy."

From the courtyard came a burst of laughter—high and unrestrained. It drifted through the corridors like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. I stood very still, listening to it, and felt something unfamiliar stir within me.

The game was not ending. It was shifting.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Laughter erupted from the harem later that afternoon, echoing through tiled halls and painted ceilings. It was bright and full-bodied, the kind that belonged to children chasing one another between pillars, to young concubines gossiping over sherbet, to women who dared, at least for a moment, to forget sorrow.

The celebrations over the birth of my granddaughter had brought warmth back into the palace walls. For days, the kitchens worked without rest. Honey-drenched pastries were stacked in shining pyramids, sugared almonds poured into embroidered pouches, and musicians filled the courtyards with gentle melodies meant to carry blessings into every corner of the residence.

After so much mourning, the palace clung to joy desperately. Women debated the exact shade of Ayşe Güneş's hair, already glinting copper beneath her swaddling cloths. Some insisted she bore Selim's brow and steady gaze; others swore her mouth curved like Ümmügülsüm's had when she laughed.