I'm barely dressed when the knock comes.
Mehmet left not too long ago, called away to some urgent council meeting, and I've been preparing myself mentally to return to the harem. To listen, to gather information, to be useful in a way that matters. My hands are still shaking slightly from the confrontation with Gülnar, but I force them steady.
The knock comes again, more insistent.
I open the door expecting a servant. Instead, Prince Selim stands there, dressed casually in deep blue robes, his expression bright with something that looks like mischief.
"Good morning, Leyla," he says, his smile easy and warm. "I was hoping to catch my brother, but it seems I've just missed him."
My stomach tightens with uncertainty. "He was summoned to council, Your Highness. I don't know when he'll return."
"Ah, well." Selim waves a hand dismissively. "It wasn't urgent. Actually—" He pauses, tilting his head in a way that makes him seem younger, less princely. "—I was hoping you might join me for breakfast instead. Since we're both apparently at loose ends this morning."
The request catches me completely off-guard. "I—Your Highness, I don't think—"
"Call me Selim, please. And before you refuse because you think my brother will murder me—" His grin widens. "—he already warned me quite thoroughly about boundaries. But that doesn't mean I can't enjoy intelligent conversation over breakfast, does it? You fascinated me yesterday with your thoughts on poetry. I'd like to hear more."
How do you say no to a prince? Especially one who's asking so genuinely, whose interest seems more intellectual than predatory?
"I suppose breakfast would be acceptable," I hear myself saying.
"Excellent!" He offers his arm with courtly flourish that's somehow playful rather than formal. "Come. I promise the food is better than whatever they're serving in the harem."
He leads me through corridors I haven't explored yet, talking easily about the palace gardens, about a new translation of Greek philosophy that arrived yesterday, about everything and nothing.
His chambers are smaller than Mehmet's but somehow warmer—books scattered across tables, musical instruments resting in corners, windows thrown open to morning light.
The breakfast spread is already waiting—fruit and pastries and delicacies that make my mouth water. He settles onto cushions and gestures for me to join him.
"So," he says, serving me with his own hands in a gesture that feels oddly intimate. "Tell me what you really think about palace life. Not the polite version everyone performs—the actual truth."
I hesitate, picking at honeyed figs. "That's a dangerous question to ask, Your Highness."
"Selim," he corrects gently. "And I wouldn't ask if I wanted safe answers. Safe is boring. You, Leyla, are decidedly not boring."
Something in his sincerity makes me relax incrementally. "It's suffocating. Everyone performs constantly—saying what they think others want to hear, calculating every gesture. It's exhausting trying to remember who's pretending versus who's genuine."
"And which am I?" He leans forward slightly, genuinely curious. "Pretending or genuine?"
"I don't know yet," I admit. "You seem genuine. But I've been wrong about people before."
His laugh is surprised and delighted. "Honest to the point of rudeness. My brother chose well."
We fall into easy conversation after that—debating whether poetry should be accessible or deliberately obscure, discussing the merits of various provinces we've visited or heard about, sharing observations about palace politics that make us both laugh.
He's witty without being cruel, intelligent without being condescending. The time passes without my noticing.
"You know what strikes me most about you?" Selim says suddenly, refilling my tea. "You think before you speak. Most people here just say whatever will gain advantage. But you actually consider your words, choose them deliberately. It's refreshing."
"It's self-preservation," I counter. "When everything you say can be used against you, you learn to be careful."
"That's depressing." He grimaces. "And probably accurate. But still—there's intelligence behind the caution. You're not just careful, you're strategic. That's different."
The compliment warms something in my chest. He leans closer then, reaching past me for the fruit platter, and I reflexively pull back. The movement is instinctive, protective—too much proximity, too much risk.
Selim notices immediately and sits back, chuckling softly. "Don't worry. My brother was very clear about what would happen if I overstepped. Something involving my hands and a very dull blade, if I remember correctly."
His expression sobers slightly. "That doesn't mean I don't find your company interesting, Leyla. Your mind is fascinating. But I understand boundaries."
The sincerity in his voice surprises me. "Thank you for understanding."
"Besides—" His grin returns. "—I value my hands. I'm quite good with the lute, and I'd hate to lose that skill."
Before I can respond, a sharp knock interrupts us. A servant enters, bowing low.
"Your Highness, the training master is waiting. You're already late for morning practice."
Selim sighs dramatically. "Tell him I'll be there shortly." When the servant leaves, he turns back to me. "Duty calls, unfortunately. But this was enjoyable, Leyla. Let's do it again sometime—proper conversation without my brother glowering protectively in the background."
"I'd like that," I say, and realize I mean it.
He walks me to the door, and I leave feeling lighter somehow. Selim seems genuinely nice. Friendly without agenda. That's rare here—maybe everywhere. But that doesn’t mean I can relax.
The harem is already awake when I arrive, women clustered in their usual groups. I find Esma near the fountain and settle beside her, keeping my voice low.
"Good morning. How are you today?"
She smiles, but there's worry in her eyes. "Well enough. Though I'm concerned about my family. The latest letter from home wasn't encouraging."
We talk about small things—the weather, the upcoming festival, nothing that matters. But I'm listening to the conversations around us, tracking voices and topics with practiced attention. The girls I overheard before are nearby, their voices carrying clearly.
"I don't know what Father will do," one says, her tone strained. "With the previous Pasha, business was booming. He was fair, reasonable. But after his death—"
She shakes her head. "Everything changed. It's getting harder and harder to earn money honestly. I pray Father won't have to stoop to bribes or worse just to keep the shop running."
My pulse quickens. This is it—the opening I need.
I turn to Esma, pitching my voice just loud enough. "That reminds me of Diyarbekir Eyalet. The views are outstanding."
The girls nearby pause. One turns toward me. "You've been to Diyarbekir?"
I arrange my expression into something casual, nostalgic. "Years ago, when the previous Pasha was still alive. The province was thriving then—merchants from across the Empire came to trade there. The markets were incredible."
"That was before everything fell apart," the girl says bitterly. She moves closer, drawn by shared experience. "My family is from there. And now—" She stops, shaking her head.
"What happened?" I ask gently. "Who replaced the previous Pasha? I've been so isolated, I haven't heard the details."
She exchanges glances with her companion, then says the name that makes my blood run cold.
"Lord Kemal."
The world tilts sideways. I force myself to keep breathing, to keep my expression merely curious rather than devastated. But inside, everything is screaming.
Kemal. My former betrothed. The man who rejected me publicly. The man who married my sister instead. He's the Pasha of Diyarbekir.
He's the one systematically destroying innocent families for profit.
And Mehmet didn't tell me.