Timur’s hand, calloused and heavy, drops onto your shoulder, forcing you down. "A King belongs on a throne," he says, his voice dripping with a cruel irony that only you truly understand, "but a pet belongs at his master's feet." He gestures to the space beneath the massive, low-slung table. Shame, hot and acidic, rises in your throat as you are forced to crawl into the shadows beneath the wood. You are surrounded by the heavy leather boots of your conquerors. From above, Timur’s laughter vibrates through the table. Occasionally, a hand reaches down—Timur’s hand—dropping a half-eaten rib or a cluster of crushed grapes onto the rug in front of your face. He watches you from the gap in the tablecloth, his eyes glinting with the knowledge that he is feeding the woman who birthed the Ottoman heirs like a stray dog.