Conqueror | Murad III

chapter seventy-two

I had grown accustomed to the coughing.

The realisation alone felt shameful.

Weeks ago, every cough had sent servants scrambling for physicians and every fever had been met with panic. Now the sounds blended together into a dreadful chorus that echoed through the harem from dawn until long after sunset. The sick coughed. The dying coughed. Even those who remained healthy found themselves glancing nervously at every throat cleared and every sniffle heard in passing.

The plague had become part of daily life.

The great hall where most of the infected had been gathered no longer resembled a chamber of the imperial palace. Rows of beds stretched from one end of the room to the other. Physicians moved constantly between them carrying bowls of vinegar, herbs, and remedies whose effectiveness seemed increasingly uncertain. Servants replaced blood-stained linens, refreshed water basins, and whispered prayers beneath their breath as though speaking too loudly might invite death closer.

The air smelled of sickness.

I had stopped noticing it.

Or perhaps I had simply forced myself to.

What frightened me most was not how many people were dying.

It was how quickly I had adapted to watching it happen.

I moved through the room carrying fresh cloths and cups of water, stopping wherever I was needed. At some point during these terrible weeks, the distinction between my children and everyone else's had begun to disappear. Neslihan was my daughter, yes. But so was little Ayşe in many ways. So was Beyhan. So was Fahriye.

And Mahmud.

Especially Mahmud.

The boy had always possessed a sweetness that reminded me painfully of Selim when he was younger. Even now, burning with fever and struggling to remain awake, he still thanked every physician who approached his bed.

"Mama," I heard a boy cry. Mahmud.

Before I could reach him, his sister was already there.

Hümaşah sat carefully beside him and took his hand between her own. The poor girl looked exhausted. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and there was a fragility to her movements that had not been there when she first arrived at the palace.

"Our mother is not here, Mahmud," she said softly. "But I am."

The boy's lower lip trembled. "It hurts." His voice cracked. "It hurts so much."

I watched helplessly as Hümaşah struggled for an answer. There were no comforting words left in this room. Every promise felt dishonest. Every reassurance sounded hollow.

Before she could respond, her expression suddenly changed.

The colour drained from her face.

For a moment she seemed confused, as though she had forgotten where she was.

"Hümaşah?" I called.

She swayed.

A physician looked up immediately.

Then she collapsed.

Gasps echoed through the hall as her body struck the marble floor. Servants rushed forward while physicians abandoned their current patients to reach her. Orders were shouted across the room. Someone knocked over a basin of water.

The hall descended into chaos.

Mahmud watched all of it happen. "Abla... where did you go?" Cried the poor child.