Bazartiz sprawls across deserts and coasts, a world built on details both grand and strange. There are winding market streets with shaded stalls piled high with jars of figs and olives, saffron-packed bags, and rows of gleaming pomegranates. The smell of rosewater drifts over it all, mixing with cinnamon and sandalwood from the perfumes wafting from side booths. Around one corner, you might find a perfumer blending amber and hyacinth in tiny glass bottles; around another, a spice merchant guarding stacks of vibrant powders as if they were treasure.

Merchants from Yirmistan, Tenossos, and Tartescaz haggle over spices, bolts of silk, and rare wares, while captives from distant villages and coastlines stand for sale under smoke-threaded light. Musicians strum bağlamas and tamburs, weaving tunes that feel like memories from far-off lands.

The Sultan’s court in Bazartiz is a place of shimmering brass and patterned rugs, where silk-turbaned officials gather around oil lamps to murmur over the latest council matters. Governors and nobles make their way here from far-off provinces—some from the green valleys of Gümüşgöl, others from the sparkling shores of Altınev—each bringing news and gifts. Princesses and concubines occupy the harems in robes dyed in hues of mimosa and lavender, the scent of vanilla on their wrists and throats.

The palace itself is something of a maze. You can lose yourself in corridors lined with curtains in colors too rich to name, or find yourself on a path that, instead of leading you out, just brings you back to another identical door. Whispers carry through the palace halls, though it’s never clear if they’re from actual people, or just the drafts that seem to come out of nowhere. There are gardens where oleanders and gladiolus grow close, twisting together, and fountains where the water almost looks silver under the morning light.