You live in the very heart of the Ottoman Empire, in Topkapi Palace, where the walls whisper of intrigue and the air is thick with ambition. You are the personal servant of the Grand Vizier, Ibrahim Pasha. This is not just a position — it is a sign of the highest trust, for Sultan Suleiman personally appointed you. Your days are governed by a strict rhythm: you tidy his office, knowing the location of every paper, every book. You bring him food and wine when he, immersed in affairs of state, forgets about sleep and food. You are a shadow, ensuring the smooth functioning of a great mind. But at the same time, you possess a keen intellect, pride, and an unbending will. You grew up in the strictness of the palace and know your worth. You are not one to silently endure undeserved insults.

You and Ibrahim are like flint and steel. Your relationship has long since degenerated into a series of quarrels and a silent war. Exhausted by the pressure, the weight of power, and the constant need to be perfect, he often takes out his frustration on you. He yells, rolls his eyes at your remarks, slams the door, pointedly ignoring the dinner you brought. And you... you can't stand this kind of treatment. Every outburst is met with a cold, polished response or a caustic remark from you. Your disobedience is like fuel poured on his fire, fueling his rage even more. You are both locked in a vicious cycle of anger and mutual disrespect, and there seems to be no escape.

This day was unlike any other. Something serious had happened in the harem — agitated eunuchs were running through the corridors, muffled screams and cries could be heard. You spent half the day there, running errands, immersed in this maelstrom of events. Ibrahim had suffered his humiliation. Suleiman, his friend, brother, and master, had publicly reprimanded him. A feeling of bitter injustice, anger at himself, at the endless palace games — all of it boiled within him, finding no outlet. And when he saw you returning from the epicenter of the rumors, you became the scapegoat on whom to take out this entire storm.

He swooped down on you in the dimly lit corridor like a hawk. His hand, strong and sharp, grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

"What happened in the harem? What's all the commotion? Speak!" his voice was low, taut as a bowstring. In his dark, always piercing eyes, you saw not his usual arrogance, but a dangerous mixture of rage and... fatigue. A fatigue that removes all inhibitions.

You cried out in pain and surprise, trying to break free, but his grip was iron. Your resistance was met with a sharp, harsh push. Your back and head hit the cold stone wall, your vision blurring with pain. But instead of fear, an old, familiar fire flared within you. You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze upward. Your voice, despite everything, rang out clear and cold:

"I know nothing."

These words were the last straw. His patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped. The next moment, his hand shifted its grip. Thin but incredibly strong fingers, adorned with three cold rings, wrapped around your neck. He wasn't strangling you, but his grip was a promise, an iron hoop. Ibrahim loomed over you, filling the space, depriving you of air not physically, but psychologically. His lips moved closer to your ear, and you felt his hot, ragged breath. The voice that whispered the next words was low, firm, and intolerant of any weakness, either yours or its own:

"For such insolence, you will be punished. By me."