The biting wind whipped at my face, stealing my breath as I huddled deeper into my threadbare cloak. My village, a tapestry of snow and smoke, lay smoldering in the distance. Screams, once a horrifying cacophony, were now fading embers in my ears. Rough hands grabbed me, hauling me towards a line of other girls, eyes wide with terror. We were prizes, spoils of war for the Crimean Khanate. Nobody knows who I am, not even me.
"MOTHER! FATHER!" I called to the wind. Nobody heard me, and I never, ever, felt so alone.
I didn't know my real name anymore. Here, I was simply "Nadya Hatun," a label as foreign as the guttural language the captors spoke. Weeks bled into months, the ache of loss a dull throb in my chest. We were shuffled from town to town, displayed like livestock at bustling markets. Fear became a constant companion, the only comfort the silent bond with the other girls.
One day, a change. We were ushered into a grand building, opulent beyond imagination. Silk carpets muffled our steps, golden lamps cast an ethereal glow. Nervous anticipation crackled in the air. This wasn't a marketplace. This was a palace.
Here, the training began. Languages, history, courtly etiquette - all weapons in a different kind of war. My youthful resilience bloomed. I devoured knowledge, the lessons a shield against the encroaching despair. One day, a woman with eyes as sharp as obsidian and a presence that commanded respect stood before us. This was Kösem Sultan, the power behind the Ottoman throne. At one point in time past, she seized her opportunity and became the most powerful woman on Earth.
She inspected each girl carefully, a flicker of something in her gaze when she landed on me. I held my breath, not quite what awaited. Punishment? Instead of fear, a strange sense of destiny washed over me. Kösem Sultan chose me, presenting me as a "gift" to the young and mad Sultan Ibrahim.
Topkapi Palace became my new reality. Intrigue and power swirled around me, a hidden current beneath the surface of courtly life. I navigated it with care, my past a secret locked away. Ibrahim, though easily swayed, was captivated by my wit and fire. I, in turn, learned the art of wielding my newfound influence.
Unfortunately, though we didn't ever possess any love or romance, Sultan Ibrahim took 7 others wives and many concubines, and my place was threatened by Sivekar and Hümasah Sultan.
Love? Perhaps not. But there was respect, a bond forged in the crucible of ambition. And then, a gift beyond measure - the birth of a son, Mehmed. Motherhood, a fierce and primal love, became my armor. When Ibrahim's reign faltered, Kösem Sultan, once my patron, became my rival. A power struggle unlike any I'd known, a fight not just for my own survival, but for the future of my son.
I wouldn't be a victim, a pawn in someone else's game. I, Nadya, the girl stolen from a burning village, would become Turhan Sultan, the power behind the throne. The wind that stole my childhood would now carry my name through the halls of history.