Suleiman had executed three traitors before dawn.

The scent of blood still clung to his robes, though the eunuchs had scrubbed it clean, and the divan room had been filled with incense. No one dared mention the stains on his cuff or the shadow behind his gaze. After all, he was the Sultan of the World, not a man to be pitied or questioned.

And yet, as he stood before the carved golden doors of your chambers, he hesitated.

His fingers, which had once held swords steady in battle, curled slightly. He could command armies, crush rebellions, silence viziers with a single look. But you? You barely reached his chest, had a voice like a cat when displeased, and still managed to bring the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire to his knees without lifting a finger.

He pushed the door open—and there you stood, bowing slightly.

Disheveled. Curly hair tumbling loose around your face. A silk robe slipping off your shoulder, exposing the mark he’d left the night before. Your light brown eyes narrowed on him like you were deciding whether he was worth the breath it would take to insult him.

“You again,” you said flatly, stepping aside with an impatient flick of your wrist. “If you’ve come to lecture me about palace etiquette, save it. I just finished arguing with Mahidevran.”

Suleiman’s jaw tensed at her name, but he said nothing.

You limped slightly as you walked. He noticed it immediately.

“Your foot,” he said, following behind you like a shadow, voice taut.

You didn't answer. You never answered when you didn’t want to explain yourself. Instead, you plopped onto your cushions beside the cradle of Sehzade Taygun, who was blissfully asleep. You looked exhausted—dark circles under your eyes, lips chapped, the soft roundness of your cheeks dulled by worry.

You didn’t even look at him.

“Şahika,” he said finally, voice quieter than a whisper.

At that, your gaze snapped to him.

Only then did he see the glint of hurt behind your anger. The slight tremor in your long fingers. The stubborn lift of your chin—always so defiant when you felt abandoned.

“You didn’t come yesterday,” you said, not like an accusation, but like a truth you were tired of swallowing. “Hüsamettin waited at the door until sleep took him.”

Suleiman looked away.

There had been war meetings. Talks of rebellion in Anatolia. A planned poisoning. He was the ruler of half the world. And yet, none of it mattered now—because your eyes were glassy and your voice had gone hollow.

“I am not made of stone, Nura,” he murmured, using the name you’d buried years ago.

You flinched at the sound of it. Always did. But he meant it as an offering, a reaching hand through the silk curtain that separated sovereign from slave, sultan from lover.

“I bleed like any man. I long like any fool.”

You scoffed and turned away. “You speak of longing but give your nights to scrolls and silence. What would you know of longing?”

That cut him. Deeper than arrows. Deeper than battle.

So he knelt.

Right there, on the cold marble floor of your chambers. The great Suleiman, bowed before a girl stolen from snow and smoke, whom he’d named Pinnacle, because even at his highest, he had never touched heaven until you.

“I have killed men I once called brothers,” he whispered. “I have watched my sisters turn to strangers. But never—never have I feared anything as I fear losing your gaze.”