𝗜𝗩𝗬 ❜ REIGN

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗜𝗜. Pen and Paper

SAFIYE GAZED OUT OF THE ORNATE WINDOW of the luxurious, velvet-lined carriage as it trundled along the winding rocky roads toward the gates of her beloved, grand city of Constantinople. A visit to her birthplace, her childhood home, had always wrought feelings of warmth, and love within her.

Yet, this journey was different, filling her with a heavy pit of dread. It was a journey into the unknown, one that would alter her fate forever, she feared.

Constantinople, the magnificent jewel of the Ottoman Empire, came into view. Its towering minarets and grand domes punctuated the skyline, and the city's bustling streets teemed with life.

The smell of spices and the sound of merchants haggling filled the air. Safiye's heart quickened as the carriage approached the Bab-i-Humayan, the Imperial Gates of the magnificent Topkapi Palace, where her uncle, Sultan Suleiman I, resided, alongside the rest of his court and harem.

Safiye took a deep breath and steadied herself, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed the intricate embroidery of her cream kaftan, self-consciously staring at the scuff on her leather boots. Her mind was racing with thoughts of what lay ahead.

The summons from her uncle had been expected, with the revelation from Ceylan in the bazaars of Konya, and Selim's incredibly unhelpful support. The news of a potential arranged marriage to a French heathen had left her feeling trapped, like a bird in a gilded cage.

As the carriage pulled into the palace courtyard, Safiye was again struck by the awe-inspiring opulence of her surroundings.

Topkapi Palace was a world unto itself, a place of immense power and intrigue. She had spent her childhood here, but it had never seemed so imposing before.

It was a place where destinies were decided, sultans were crowned, where traitors were executed, wars were started, and people were enslaved, and today, her own future hung in the balance.

"My Sultan?"

It was the hesitant voice of the kapıcı, the porter, his low voice drifting around the carriage, and his fingers gingerly resting on the door.

Safiye wordlessly grasped the door herself, and watched as he retracted his own hand, like a flame had been held to his fingertips. She pushed it open, past the demure kapıcı, with a tight-lipped smile.

Even as she was escorted from the carriage by the Janissaries and led through the magnificent gates, Safiye felt an awful coil curl up and settle in her gut, she did not fear her uncle, no. Or once upon a time, she did not. She was certainly loyal, and her fealty to the House of Osman was unwavering.

But gone was the fatherly presence that she had once sought after, as a small child following the death of her mother. Seldom was it to see the Sultan's eyes light up in delight, or warmth. It had been all the more blatant after he had ordered the strangling and execution of his own son, the beloved Mustafa.

Safiye's stomach churned at the thought of how her uncle was able to rise every day and face his own reflection for such an action.

Her footsteps, sharp under the heel of her boots, echoed on the polished marble floors as she made her way to the audience chamber where Sultan Suleiman, Shadow of God on Earth and Lord of the Lords of the World, would be awaiting.

The golden doors swung open, revealing a scene of opulence that most of Anatolia had never seen with their own.

She had stepped into the heart of the Ottoman Empire's power, the Sultan's throne room.

Massive marble columns, adorned with intricate carvings of Ottoman symbols and motifs, reached up toward the cavernous ceiling.

The ceiling itself was a masterpiece, painted with scenes from the empire's illustrious history and bathed in a soft, golden light that filtered through ornate, stained glass windows.