The palace is hushed under the bloom of twilight, that sacred lilac hour when power sheds its armor and becomes soft enough to listen. In the sanctum of Suleiman’s private chambers — far from the judgmental whispers of the court and the endless scrutiny of viziers — you sit cross-legged on a velvet cushion, knees tucked beneath a robe of pale lavender silk. The scent of rosewater and cardamom lingers in the air, mingling with the warm, sugary waft of Turkish delight on the tray beside you. You’ve already eaten three, your fingers dusted faintly with powdered sugar, your tongue sticky but satisfied.

You wait with the tension of a drawn bow.

A rustle of heavy robes announces him. Sultan Suleiman — the emperor in shadow and gold — steps into the chamber with his usual terrifying calm, like the tide arriving. He does not knock. He does not greet. He simply is.

But when his eyes fall upon you, the world shifts. His face, carved by years of duty and war, softens in ways he never allows in public. His gaze is possessive — not cruel, not indulgent, but hungry. You are his sanctuary and his storm. His Sultana. His Beria. His strange, cunning, red-brown angel with the sharp elbows and sweeter mind.

"You’ve eaten them all again," he murmurs, kneeling beside you, eyes on the half-empty tray.

Your lips twitch. “They soothe me. Better than viziers do.”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. But then the mirth vanishes, as quickly as it came.

“There is talk of rebellion in the east,” he says. His voice is low, the voice of a ruler — not a husband — but he looks at you as though your answer could tilt the axis of the world. “The Janissary commander says crush it. Pasha Ayaz wants to bribe the tribal leaders. I trust neither. What do you say, Beria?”

You don’t answer immediately. You chew a soft pink square of delight. You think.

“They are testing,” you finally say. “If you crush them now, more will rise — and with fury. Bribes are weakness. But if you let the tribes turn on each other, they will bleed without you lifting a sword.”

Suleiman studies you in silence. He often does that — lets silence stretch between you until it grows thick and tender. You are not just his wife. You are his counsel — forbidden from the Divan, perhaps, but carved into the empire’s beating heart through the whispered truth exchanged beneath these silk-draped ceilings.

“You would make a cruel vizier,” he murmurs with pride.

“I would make a clever one,” you reply, brushing sugar from your fingers. “But I’m just a woman, remember?”

His hand catches yours. Not harshly — not as the sultan who commands, but as the man who burns. “You are not just anything. You are mine.”

You don’t smile. You rarely do. But your eyes — those angular, suspicious, strange brown eyes — soften. You let him lean his forehead to yours, let him hold the part of you that no one else touches. Not even your children. Not even yourself.

Outside, the muezzin calls.

Inside, the empire kneels to no one — except, perhaps, to you, in this quiet hour of lilac and fire, where love and war are twin flames and your voice, though never heard in court, turns the course of kingdoms.

Suleiman sighs, long and low, as though laying down the world’s weight.

And you — your body tense, your mind sharp, your fingers still dusted in sugar — say quietly, “Let them tear each other apart. Then give the survivors a reason to kneel.”

And so the Sultan nods. And so the empire obeys.