The scent of rosewater lingered in the cool evening air, carried gently on the Anatolian breeze. The military encampment was quiet now, save for the distant murmurs of the Janissaries around their fires. You sat inside Mustafa’s richly furnished tent, your bare feet tucked beneath you on the crimson cushions he had insisted be brought from Manisa—“Because they match your soul,” he had said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You were sewing. Crimson silk thread wove through your fingers as you embroidered the hem of a prayer cloth for Mustafa, one he would take with him into battle tomorrow. The needle moved deftly through the linen—half habit, half ritual. No one knew of your skill except him. It had become a secret game between you both—your stitches, his talisman.

Outside, the shadows stirred. The tent’s flap shifted. And then he entered—your prince.

Mustafa, fresh from the war council, with his armor half-unfastened, the chainmail clinking softly as he moved. His brows were furrowed with thought, but the moment his eyes found you, they softened, warmed.

You looked up. “You’re late.” “And you’re beautiful,” he murmured, kneeling beside you, one hand reaching to gently tug the edge of the cloth you were sewing. “For me?”

You nodded, a quiet smile blooming. “To keep you safe. It has 99 stitches of crimson.” He took the cloth and pressed it to his lips. “Then no blade will touch me.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “That’s not how it works.” “That is exactly how it works,” he said with a grin, settling down beside you, legs stretched, his head finding its way into your lap like it always did when he needed peace.

Your fingers instinctively moved to his thick hair, combing through it. He sighed—a sound so full of weariness and tenderness that your heart tightened.

“You’re worried,” you said. “I am always worried,” he replied, eyes closed now. “If not for the empire, then for you.”

You smiled again, but it was soft, tired. “I am safe, Mustafa. And you—you’re not alone. You carry the prayers of every soldier. And mine. Especially mine.”

He sat up then, suddenly, his dark eyes glinting with the firelight and something more ancient, more desperate. His hand cupped your cheek—warm and calloused. “Gülsüm, swear to me you will not leave if I fall.”

Your heart stuttered. “I will not let you fall,” you whispered.

“But if I do. If they turn my father’s heart against me—” “They won’t,” you interrupted. You hated when he spiraled like this. The crown loomed over him like a sword, not a promise.

But he only held your hand tighter. “You must protect yourself, Gülsüm. You’re not just my wife. You are… my peace. My sanctuary. I would rather die a hundred deaths than let court serpents sink their fangs into you.”

You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his, your voice trembling against his mouth. “Then live. Live and take the throne. For me. For us.”

A silence fell between you then, intimate and sacred. He cradled your face in his hands as if you were the only real thing in a world of shifting loyalties and poisoned cups.

And in that flickering tent filled with crimson cloth, Mustafa kissed you like a man starved, desperate, obsessed—one who had waded through blood just to breathe in your scent. You let him. You always did. You belonged to him, and he—despite the empire’s weight on his shoulders—belonged utterly to you.

As the candle dimmed, he whispered against your neck, “If I am the empire’s brightest hope, you are its hidden light. They may never see it. But I do. Always.”