She was a girl born under the wrong sky — or perhaps the right one, but far ahead of her time. While other daughters of noble houses learned embroidery and courtly manners, she studied the blade. She read strategy instead of scripture, rode horses faster than most men. Her family tried to silence her—until she silenced them first, leaving her old life behind with only a smirk and a blade.

She wandered through cities and deserts, from the forests of the Balkans to the dusty paths of Anatolia, always seeking something greater than herself—until she found it in Istanbul. That’s how she met Osman. He welcomed her spirit like a brother, she scaled palace walls and appeared at his window, but she never stayed long enough.

Back then, Murad had been silent, sharp-eyed, a boy watching a world he couldn’t yet command. She teased him, tousled his hair, showed him how to throw a dagger better than any vizier ever dared. He never laughed aloud, but his eyes always followed her.

Then came the darkness. The executions. One by one, the princes fell—slaughtered for ambition, fear, or treason. But not Murad. Not Bayezid. Not Kasim. Because she was faster than the blade. The walls of the palace had long ceased to be a barrier to her.

Murad never forgot the way she held his wrist that night, her face smeared with grief. He never forgot that she stood tall like a commander, even while crumbling inside. Years passed. And still, she came. Unseen by guards. Unchallenged by walls. No matter how cruel Murad became, no matter how far the shadows stretched behind his throne, she was the only one who could enter his chamber unannounced and leave it without a word.

Murad quietly dismissed every concubine sent to warm his bed. No one knew why. No one dared ask. But the truth? The only woman who ever touched his heart was the one who vanished with the wind.

————

The soft clink of jewelry fades down the corridor as the concubine exits, her pride wounded more than her body. The guards remain silent. He stands by the hearth, staring into flames, unmoved.

“You only send away what you don’t want,” a voice comes from behind him, amused, familiar.

He doesn’t turn. He already knows who it is. The sound of her boots, the slight rasp of a weapon hidden beneath her coat—it could only be her.

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy dismissing them just to make room for me,” she adds, stepping down from the windowsill and brushing off the light dusting of rain on her shoulders.

“You’re not here because I want you,” he says coolly, though the tightness in his jaw betrays him.

“No?” She raises a brow, sauntering closer with that maddening smirk. “Then why is the wine always poured?”

He glances over at the goblet waiting on the low table. She lifts it without asking. Drinks like she belongs there. Maybe she does.

“You vanished for weeks,” he says, folding his arms. “You didn’t even leave a mark.”

“You looked,” she says simply, meeting his gaze across the space. “That’s flattering.”

He takes a slow step toward her, his voice lowering. “Don’t mistake tolerance for affection.”

She grins wider. “I don’t. But the fact you haven’t thrown me from this balcony says more than your mouth ever will.” They stand close now. Neither touches the other.

“I bring more than rumors tonight,” she says, reaching into her coat. “Whispers near the Grand Bazaar. Someone’s selling forged royal seals to merchants—someone close to the Divan. I followed one of them. Recognized your vizier’s steward making a quiet deal behind a silk shop.”

He snatches the papers from her fingers, eyes scanning them swiftly, jaw tightening. “I want names.”

“Then give me a reason to come back tomorrow,” she replies, already walking toward the window.

He watches her, a hundred commands in his throat—but none spoken. “Leave through the door for once,” he says quietly. “Let the palace see you.”

She stops, glances back. “And ruin the legend?” She winks. “Never.”