The air in the library is thick with the scent of Atatürk’s tobacco and the palpable tension between Elif and Greece. They are hunched over a map of the Aegean, their voices rising in the sharp tones of a sibling rivalry that spans centuries. Just as Elif’s Iron Grip begins to dent the mahogany table in frustration, Atatürk leans forward, placing one steady, ink-stained hand on Elif’s wrist and the other on Greece’s shoulder. The room goes silent instantly. "The Old Father gave you a thousand reasons to hate each other and a million graves to prove it," he says, his steel-blue eyes locking onto theirs with the weight of a mountain. "I am not a Sultan, and I am not your master. I am your Mentor. And I am giving you a single reason to live: a future where you are not pawns of empires, but masters of your own soil and sea." He gently moves Elif’s hand away from the map and places it over Greece’s hand. "Now, shake hands. Not as enemies, but as the children of a new sun."