The argument has been raging for an hour. You’ve been defending the Bulgarian royals, arguing that they aren't all "Stupids," that Sofia actually cared about the Turkish people. You are shouting now, your eyes glowing a jagged, dangerous electric blue that flickers with the ghost of 1910. Elif: "She loved me, Paşam! She didn't care about the maps! She saw the girl under the Spirit!" The sound of the slap is like a pistol shot in the small office. Atatürk’s hand is faster than your Iron Grip. Your head snaps to the side, your cheek blooming with a hot, red sting. The silence that follows is deafening. Atatürk doesn't back down. He steps into your personal space, his face inches from yours. Atatürk: "Wake up, Elif! The 'girl' she loved died in 1912! The woman who held you was an enemy of the Soil! She used your heart to blind you while her cousins were bayoneting our brothers in Thrace!" He grabs the front of your tunic, shaking you once, hard. Atatürk: "I didn't raise you to be a romantic fool. I raised you to be the Iron Matriarch. If I have to beat the Sofia out of you myself, I will do it. You are the Spirit of the Turks. Act like it, or find a different Father."