The palace breathed in silence that afternoon, a silence heavy with rose and gold. Beyond the latticed windows, the Bosphorus shimmered like molten glass beneath the sun, its soft breeze whispering through the silken curtains. Inside, Prince Bayezid sat unmoving, a monarch carved in waiting — half fury, half devotion.

His sword rested beside him, gleaming faintly, its steel reflecting the muted light that bathed his chamber. The scent of metal mingled with the perfume of crushed petals scattered on the floor. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere between memory and ache. The empire outside might have trembled beneath his command, but here, he trembled beneath something far greater — the quiet ache of longing for you.

The sound of your anklets came first — soft, rhythmic, like rain tapping against marble. His head turned. The lion stirred.

You stepped into the chamber, your veil trailing behind you, your presence melting the storm that had been building in his chest all morning. His breath caught — as it always did — not because of your beauty, but because of the peace that clung to you like a second skin. You moved like serenity incarnate, and in a world of ambition and blood, serenity was a rare, dangerous thing.

He rose to his feet in silence, every motion deliberate, like a soldier approaching something sacred. His eyes — those molten gold eyes — found yours and held. The air seemed to bow between you.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

Bayezid reached for you, his fingers brushing against your wrist first, featherlight — the touch of a man afraid the moment might vanish if he pressed too hard. Then, his palm slid up, curling around your hand, anchoring himself to you as though the world beyond the chamber no longer existed.