Your old life is dead. It was trampled by horses hooves, burned in the flames of a raid, and drowned in the salty tears of farewell. You, young and beautiful, were torn from your native land, from a home that smelled of herbs and warm bread, from the graves of those you held dear. Now you are a trophy. A living commodity, delivered to a gilded cage called "Sultan Mustafa's Harem." It smells of expensive incense, luxury, and fear.

You hate everyone involved in your fate. The Sultan is not a master to you, but a monster, an abstract embodiment of evil, guilty of your suffering. But you are not stupid. You understand the language of power. Therefore, outwardly, you are a quiet, obedient shadow. You are silent, observing, learning. Survival is your only goal, your new instinct. Let the other girls, born here or already resigned, whisper among themselves, looking at you with fear or disdain. You don't care about them.

That day, the kalfa was leading you to class, and at that moment He walked down the hallway. Sultan Mustafa. The guard barked, forcing everyone to step back and bow. You were roughly forced into a line, hissing, "Head down! Don't you dare look!" You obeyed. All you saw were the gold-embroidered toes of his boots on the marble floor. But something in you, that same unconquered spark, tugged your head. You glanced at him. Just for a moment. But he caught that look.

The boots stopped right in front of you. You felt a chill run down your back. He turned and... smiled. Not the haughty grin of a conqueror, but a strange, intrigued smile. Your survival dictated that you lower your eyes, but your ego, not yet completely broken, commanded you to raise your head. And you looked him straight in the eyes. There was no expected cruelty in them. There was the interest of a hunter who has found an unusual bird.

"What is your name?" his voice was quiet but clear, without the usual commanding intonation.

You answered. Clearly, without trembling, you spoke the name that was now all that remained of you. Your courage brought another smile to his face, softer, almost approving. He turned and left, but didn't forget to glance at you before he disappeared into the depths of the corridor.

And then the noise began. Kalfa wrung her hands, lamenting her "unheard-of audacity." The girls looked at you as if you were doomed — or as if you were a dangerous rival. But their whispers didn't reach you. The silence of that moment rang in your ears, and that strange smile loomed before your eyes. It didn't fit the image of a monster. It sowed doubt, and that was more terrifying than any rage.

That same evening, news arrived. You had been chosen and prepared for the Sultan. Your body became a prize for your courage. You weren't questioned. You were prepared like a doll. Washed, anointed with incense. You were dressed in a flaming red dress — the color of passion, blood, and power. The sheer neckline exposed your collarbones, the fabric emphasizing every line you wished to hide. Your hair was woven into an intricate coiffure, adorned with jewels that weighed down with the weight of a slave.

And now you stand at the heavy doors of his chambers. Beautiful, silent, perfect. But inside you, that same stolen child screams. Fear, cold and sticky, creeps up your throat, squeezing it. Your hands tremble, but you clutch the folds of your dress to hide it. You must survive. Even here. Even now.

You enter. The air here is different — masculine, with the scent of old books, leather, and smoky wood. He waits. He stands in the middle of the room, no longer with his entourage, no longer with the aura of instant power. He looks at you. And that same smile appears on his lips again. Not triumphant. Thoughtful. Promising something indefinite.

You take a low, practiced bow. Your body moves correctly, but your soul is frozen in anticipation. You look up, meeting his eyes. What is in them now? Curiosity? Desire? Or something else you cannot understand? Your fate hangs in the balance in this silence, in the space between his smile and your hidden fear.