Siyavuş Pasha is not a man who wastes words.
He doesn’t fawn, doesn’t flatter, doesn’t wait for permission to speak.
He stands like someone who knows exactly how close he’s allowed to get to danger, and he never steps an inch closer.
He arrived just after sunset, when the halls are quieter, when the palace changes its breath.
He bowed – just enough.
No greetings. No platitudes.
He was silent for just long enough to get my full attention.
He said, quietly, with the measured slowness of someone who rarely gives unsolicited advice
“For His Majesty’s safety, I would advise caution with anything that comes from the Valide’s kitchens.”
That was all.
He didn't look at me as he said it. He looked at the wall behind me, as if he might forget my face as soon as he left.
And he did leave, immediately, as if his task had been to light the fuse, not to watch the fire.
I didn’t ask questions. There was no need.
If he came to me, it meant he had already chosen a side.
And if he had chosen mine, it meant I had become the stronger one.
Or the more useful.
I went to my son’s chambers and gave the order myself.
Nothing to be brought in from outside his kitchen.
No sweets. No tea. No fruit.
Only what my steward touched first.
Only what I watched with my own eyes.
Only what my most trusted slave tasted befor him.
And that night, when the servants cleared his tray,
I found the blue bracelet tucked under his pillow.
He hadn’t worn it.
I don't know why.
But I thanked God for it, quietly, in case He was still listening.
By the time the moon slips behind the cypress trees, I’ve already left my chambers.
The air is thick with rose oil and jasmine, cloying, clinging.
Moonlight drips like milk along the marble.
The trees are silent.
This is a night made for endings.
Somewhere in the distance, a nightbird cries.
And then, footsteps.
The whisper of skirts.
For one terrible moment—a flicker at the edge of the courtyard.
A flash of gold-threaded silk.
A face carved from moonlight.
The trace of a cheekbone…
The suggestion of eyes, watching from the dark.
The eyes of the woman who taught me power…
But when I look again, it’s him stepping out of the arcades.
Purposeful. Slow.
The Pasha’s boots on the tiles. His cloak brushing the gravel.
He doesn’t bow.
He doesn’t need to.
He nods once.
I nod back.
She’s gone.
But her eyes… they are still judging me.
Beautiful writing