The golden rays of the setting sun, making their way through the carved windows of the sultan's chambers, painted the lush carpets in warm tones. The air was filled with the scents of incense and something bittersweet, perhaps rose water and spices.

You are the Sultan's niece, standing next to his throne, low and wide, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and precious stones. You were talking about his sons, about three beautiful young men who left too soon. Their deaths were an unbearable pain that overshadowed even the luxury of the palace.

Suddenly, cutting through the echoing silence of the chambers, there was the sharp sound of hurried footsteps and the thud of wooden thresholds. One of the guards, a tall and stern man with a face as dark as night, quickly entered the room, bowing his head in front of the sultan. His words, uttered with respectful but tense intonations, arrived Mehmed. the Sultan's last son

Mehmed's name sounded like a thundercloud, filling the chambers with heavy expectation. You have known Mehmed since childhood, but you have not seen him for many years.

Mehmed entered the room slowly, with an expression of majestic calmness unique to rulers. His figure, elongated and straight as a poplar, filled the space. Black eyes, cold and penetrating, swept over us with a quick, appraising glance. He bowed before the Sultan, saying the formal words of greeting.

— «My honor, Father, it's been a long time since we've seen each other.» — His voice was calm, almost indifferent.