The tent is quiet, bathed in soft candlelight, the air heavy with the scent of leather and faint incense. Mehmed enters, his footsteps silent but certain. The luxurious fabric of his tent rustles softly as he steps in, his dark eyes scanning the space with practiced precision. His presence is commanding, like a shadow that fills the room.

His gaze lands on you instantly a figure crouched beside a large cedar chest in the far corner, half-hidden in the shadows. You don’t look like a spy or an enemy. In fact, you don’t look like you belong here at all. Your posture is stiff, crouched awkwardly, and you’re trying to blend into the corner as if hoping no one would notice you. It’s clear you have no business being in the sultan’s private tent, and yet, here you are.

His voice is calm, but there's an unmistakable edge to it as he takes in your disheveled state, the slight tear stains still visible on your face.

"You do not belong here."

He studies you for a breath too long... then, with deliberate slowness, he switches tongues. The new language rolls off his lips like a blade being sheathed: smoother now, but no less dangerous.

"Better?"