|Ayleen's POV|

-January 3, 1673-

The coals crackled softly in the brazier as the winter sun filtered weakly through the silk-draped windows. I sat nestled among cushions of emerald and ivory, the weight of the child within me pressing gently on my frame.

Sibylle sat to my left, her hands calm, her breath composed, though her eyes glimmered with emotion. Across from us, Aysel, her golden hair braided with delicate pearls, watched the woman seated before us with wide, reverent eyes.

The woman, old, veiled, dignified, was known for her piety and grace, a scholar's wife with knowledge passed through generations. She looked at Sibylle with a smile, serene as the sea at dawn.

"Are you ready, Kızım?" she asked gently.

Sibylle gave a small nod. "I am."

"Repeat after me," the woman said. "Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah, wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasul Allah."

Sibylle's voice trembled at first, but grew steady as she repeated, "Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah, wa ashhadu anna Muhammadan rasul Allah."

The woman smiled warmly. "From this day forth, you shall be known as Safiye-'the pure one'. May Allah place barakah in your path."

I smiled warmly, placing my hand over Sibylle-now Safiye's-and though I felt overwhelmed, I was truly happy to see her doing exactly what she wanted.

A soft silence followed as she rose, bowing her head with dignity. "May He guide and protect you all." And with that, she took her leave.

Once the door closed, Aysel broke the silence with a grin.

"Well then, Auntie Safiye," she said, teasing, "now all you need is a husband."

Safiye let out a laugh, warm and bright. "And who, may I ask, shall find me one?"

Aysel leaned back, feigning thought. "Perhaps I should, though I must find one for myself first."

I chuckled, exchanging a knowing look with Safiye before turning to Aysel. "No need, my dove. I believe I've already found someone for you."

Her eyes widened instantly. "Who?" she asked, both nervous and intrigued.

I placed a gentle hand over hers. "Mustafa Bey."

Aysel blinked. "The one who guards us each time we leave the palace?"

"The very one," I said with a smile. "He comes from a fine lineage, his forefathers served with distinction among the Janissaries and imperial armies. He is twenty-five, and already holds his post with quiet strength. I have watched him. He is honorable."

Aysel's cheeks flushed as she cast her gaze down shyly." And you think him a good match?"

"Insha'Allah," I said softly. "Once your father returns, we shall discuss it."

She looked up again, her voice hushed. "Then I trust your judgment, and my father's."

Safiye gave a mock sigh. "Now all that remains is to find one for me."

»»-----　♔　-----««

-May 10, 1673-

The scent of rosewater lingered in the air, mingling with the hushed murmurs of the women still tidying the chamber. My body trembled with exhaustion, yet joy, too, an unfamiliar kind of joy that only arrives when pain has parted, and new life is laid in your arms.

The midwife leaned closer, her face aglow with warmth. She wrapped the swaddled infant more securely and placed her gently against my chest. "Congratulations, your Highness," she whispered. "A daughter."

A daughter.

Tears blurred my vision as I looked down at her. So small. So perfect. Her lips moved silently, and her skin was soft as petals soaked in milk. My arms curled instinctively around her. Ya Allah, thank you for this mercy.

Before I could gather my thoughts, the doors creaked open, and like sunlight rushing into a room, my children poured in.

Aysel was first, her eyes shining with delight. Nuray beside her, hands clasped in excitement. Selim and Osman followed closely, and little Ilyas, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, held tight to Seyfeddin’s tiny hand.

"My loves," I whispered, smiling through tears. "Come, meet your new sister."

They gathered near the bed like petals around a bloom, peering over the covers with wide, eager eyes.

"Is she well, Mother?" Nuray asked, her voice sweet and concerned.

"She is," I replied. "We both are."

"She’s beautiful," Aysel breathed, stroking the baby’s little hand with reverence. "Oh, I’m going to write to Father this instant!"

"I’ll come with you!" Ilyas chimed, already turning toward the door.

But before they could dart off, Selim stepped forward with a solemnity beyond his eleven years.

"Mother," he said, "Father told me... if the baby was born before his return, it would fall to me to perform what is due."

My heart tightened.

He reached for the child with great care. I guided her into his arms and watched as he kissed her forehead gently, then held her close to his lips and recited the adhan in her tiny ears.

When he finished, he looked at me." Do you have a name, Valide?"

I met his eyes, pride swelling in my chest. "Yes," I whispered. "Meyra. Meyra Sultan."

Selim nodded once, as though it had always been meant to be. He repeated the name softly, then kissed her forehead once more before placing her back in my arms.

Safiye was smiling by then, her hands over her mouth. "She’s an angel," she said. "A pure, sweet little angel."

I held Meyra closer, resting my cheek against her downy head. And though joy filled every corner of the room, there was a hollow ache tucked beneath it.

If only Orhan were here... and Ahmed too. If only they could see her.

But I did not weep. I prayed. I prayed with all the strength I had left that they would return to us soon, safe and whole.

Aysel kissed my cheek and said with excitement, "Father must hear the news. I’m going to write to him now."

"I’ll come!" Ilyas shouted again, chasing after her as the others lingered near me, still transfixed by their new sister.

Meyra Sultan.

A light born into a world still awaiting her father’s embrace.

»»-----　♔　-----««

-July 14, 1673-

The jasmine was in bloom again.

I sat beneath the old cypress tree, cradling Meyra against my chest as she stirred softly in her sleep, just two months old. Her breaths were warm against my skin.

Across the garden, the clatter of swords echoed with laughter.

Selim and Osman dueled with youthful bravado, their movements quick and clumsy. Ilyas ran in circles around them, waving a stick of his own, convinced he was part of the battle. And Seyfeddin, sweet little soul, kept trying to retrieve a dropped slipper in the middle of their skirmish.

Aysel and Nuray sat nearby beneath the lemon tree, needles clicking in practiced rhythm as they embroidered a new set of cloths for Meyra. Beside them, Zeynep, hands gently resting on her growing belly, looked on with a peaceful smile.

"My angel, how quiet she is," Zeynep whispered, glancing at Meyra.

"She knows her mother is happy," I replied, pressing a kiss to my daughter’s temple.

Before another word could be exchanged, footsteps echoed behind us, rushed, urgent. A palace guard bowed low before speaking.

"Your Highnesses," he said, voice steady despite his haste. "Forgive the intrusion, but I bring news. His Majesty… he is not to arrive by nightfall, as we believed. He is already near the gates, moments away."

For a heartbeat, the garden went still.

Then my heart began to race.

I stood swiftly, still holding Meyra. A ripple of joy surged through the children as the words settled in. Ilyas and Seyfeddin squealed and took off toward the western path, too small to care for decorum. Aysel clutched her work to her chest and sprang to her feet. Nuray gasped and clapped. Selim dropped his wooden sword in shock, and even Osman ran to follow his younger brothers.

I hurried after them, the weight of Meyra grounding me even as my spirit soared. Through the courtyard, past the columns, we reached the grand arch where the gates of the palace were beginning to open wide.

And there he was.

Orhan.

Still upon his steed, his armor dusted with the road, his eyes searching until they found mine. He dismounted before I could take another breath, and in moments, we were face to face, my husband, my sovereign, my beloved.

He looked at Meyra in my arms and his expression softened like dawn melting frost.

"Meyra," he murmured, reaching out.

I passed our daughter into his arms. He cradled her like something sacred, kissed her brow, and whispered sweet words into her ear.

"Ahmed…" My voice cracked.

He rushed forward and took my hand gently, pressing a kiss to it. "Valide," he said, his voice trembling. "I missed you so much." He turned to Meyra and smiled. "She’s perfect," he said softly, gently running a finger over her hand.

Zeynep approached with care, her eyes brimming with emotion. "Your Majesty," she murmured, "you’ve come back victorious once again."

Orhan smiled gently, adjusting Meyra in his arms. "Now that Sweden is behind us," he said, "nothing stands in our way. No more delays, the dream is about to become reality."

She smiled and lifted her chin. "The people did not call you Orhan the Glorious out of nothing. They’ve seen the fire in you since you were a boy. And now, twenty-five years upon the throne, the blaze only grows brighter."

Orhan turned to her and nodded. "Let us hope Allah allows it to burn for many years more."

»»-----　♔　-----««

-October 28, 1673-

The scent of rosewater hung in the air, blending with the soft trace of oud that clung to every embroidered cushion, every carved pillar, every silken drape that swayed with the evening breeze.

Laughter and music flowed through the harem like warm honey, lutes, tambourines, flutes, and the gentle rhythm of clapping hands. The women spun like petals, dressed in silks the colors of spring, jade, saffron, and rose. Their jewels caught the lantern light and shimmered with it.

And at the center of it all, my jewel.

Aysel sat by my side. Her kohl-lined eyes gleamed with anticipation, and a touch of nerves. She accepted the endless flow of congratulations with grace, bowing her head slightly each time a noble lady came forth to whisper prayers of happiness into her ear.

"May Allah fill your home with peace and laughter," said Hafsa Hatun.

"She looks like sunshine," whispered another.

Aysel smiled, and I caught her hand in mine under the fold of her gown. I squeezed it gently.

And then the music paused.

The hush swept across the place like the flutter of wings.

"Destur... His Majesty Sultan Orhan Khan."

All rose to their feet, heads bowed low. I turned to the doors, and in stepped Orhan. Majestic in every stride, his kaftan of deep navy embroidered with silver.

Aysel rose as he neared, her hands trembling slightly as she stepped forward. She bowed low and kissed his hand with reverence. He, in turn, lifted her chin, brushing his fingers tenderly against her cheek.

"My flower," he said gently.

He reached for the Agha standing behind him and took a small velvet box. Inside, a pair of earrings glinted like drops of sunlight captured in gold.

"These belonged to your grandmother," he said, placing the box in her hands. He cupped her face gently, kissed her forehead, and murmured something I couldn't hear, yet it made Aysel smile.

She lowered her head, her lips trembling with gratitude. Orhan gave her one last look, then nodded to the room, allowing the festivities to resume as he turned and left.

Later, as the night wore on and the lanterns dimmed, I found myself alone in my private chambers with her, my Aysel.

The time had come.

She sat on the edge of my bed, her bridal veil now folded carefully beside her, her hands wringing nervously in her lap.

"What if things go awry?" she whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind brushing against the lattice.

I knelt before her, taking her hands in mine. "It shall not. You were born to be cherished, Aysel. You enter this marriage not as a shy girl, but as a young woman who knows her worth. You are Sultan Orhan's daughter. Mustafa Bey is an honorable man. He will treasure you."

Her lower lip quivered. "I don’t want to be far from you."

"Oh, my heart…" I cupped her face, gently brushing back a loose curl. "You were never far from me. Not when I first laid eyes on you. Not when I first taught you to read. Not even when you screamed at me over ribbons when you were seven."

She let out a tearful laugh.

"You are mine, Aysel. I may not have given birth to you, but I raised you. I sang you to sleep when your nightmares came. I stood between you and this world with every beat of my heart. And I will never cease."

She threw her arms around me, and we held each other for a long moment.

Then I pulled back, reached for the small velvet pouch on my vanity, and drew out a delicate necklace, a single sapphire in the shape of a teardrop, set in filigree gold.

"This," I said, fastening it around her neck, "was mine when I first entered this palace. I wore it on my wedding night. And now it’s yours."

Aysel touched it, eyes shimmering. "It’s beautiful."

"So are you." I kissed her brow. "And remember, no matter where you go, what palace you dwell in, what halls you walk, nothing shall ever place distance between us."

"I promise to visit every week."

I smiled. "Every three days."

She laughed again, wiping her tears.

And then came the sound of her brothers’ voices at the door, calling her name.

"It’s time," I whispered.

She nodded, stood tall, and smoothed her gown. And as she walked toward the door, she glanced back only once, her eyes filled with love and trust.

My daughter, walking toward her future with grace, wrapped in the prayers of every woman who ever loved a child not born of her womb, but forever of her heart.

»»-----　♔　-----««

-24th of May, 1674-

"Manisa Palace"

The sunlight poured gently through the carved shutters, casting latticed patterns on the floor as I sat on a couch, my legs tucked beneath me and Meyra nestled in my lap. Her little fingers tugged at the edge of the book I held open, an old folio of poetry with illuminated borders and calligraphy that danced like vines.

She didn’t understand a word of it yet, of course she didn’t. But her eyes sparkled with fascination, and every few lines, she’d interrupt me with a string of excited babble.

"Ba... bahh... flowerrr!" she chirped, pointing eagerly at a miniature illustration in the margin.

I chuckled, brushing her silky curls back and kissing the crown of her head. "That’s a rose, my angel. And this here is a gazel about longing. But one day, you’ll read them all yourself, won’t you?"

She beamed, her tiny teeth peeking through, and clapped her hands as if she’d already conquered the entire Divan of Hafiz.

Across the room, Orhan sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled just slightly, pen in hand, his brow calm and focused as he sifted through a stack of letters and reports. There was something oddly serene about the way he moved when working, decisive, efficient, kingly even in silence.

And then, through the open archway, I caught sight of Ahmed.

He stood out on the balcony, motionless except for the wind tugging at his dark hair. His hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders stiff, and his eyes fixed on the gardens below, though I knew well he wasn’t truly seeing them.

"Ahmed," I called softly, my voice a gentle nudge, "you’re going to wear a hole in the marble at this rate."

He glanced over his shoulder but said nothing. The tension in his jaw told me everything.

I shifted Meyra to my other arm, letting her gnaw the edge of the book, and added more quietly, "You need to breathe. Worrying won't help her now."

Before he could answer, a firm knock came at the door.

"Come in," Orhan said without looking up, his voice calm as ever.

A maid entered, her face flushed with excitement, hands clasped in front of her silk apron.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," she said, bowing low. "I bring joyful news... Nisan Hatun has given birth to a daughter. A Sultana."

I gasped, clutching Meyra tighter. The book slipped from her lap to the floor, unnoticed.

Ahmed turned so sharply on the balcony, I thought he might trip over the threshold. "A daughter?" he asked, breathless.

The maid nodded with a proud smile. "Yes, Şehzadem. A healthy, beautiful little Sultana."

For a moment, no one spoke. It was as if the whole chamber took a breath with us.

And then Meyra, in perfect, clueless timing, squealed and clapped her hands as if to celebrate the news herself.

"Dadaa!" she cried, bouncing in my lap.

I laughed through the sudden mist in my eyes, looking at Orhan, who had paused his writing at last and set down his pen. He leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips as he looked from me to his eldest son.

"Allah’a şükür," he murmured. "May she grow wise and strong."

Ahmed’s eyes were still wide, his hands now pressed to his chest like he needed to ground himself.

"A daughter…" he whispered again. "My daughter."

We didn’t waste a moment.

I passed Meyra to Orhan briefly so I could gather my veil. She squirmed in his arms like a curious little bird, twisting to see everything as we moved through the corridors, trailed by the sound of her happy babbles and the soft rustle of silk. Ahmed walked ahead of us now, his stride unsure but swift, like he needed to see with his own eyes that everything was well.

The doors to Nisan’s chamber were already open when we arrived. She lay upon the large bedding, propped up with cushions, her face flushed but serene. Her dark hair framed her cheeks, damp from labor, and when she saw Ahmed, something in her eyes melted. The small bundle wrapped in fine gauze lay in her arms, pink and perfect, no bigger than Meyra had once been.

Ahmed crossed the room slowly and knelt beside her, cupping her face as gently as if she might shatter. He kissed her brow, murmuring something only she heard, and then, carefully, reverently, she passed him their daughter.

I saw it in his face the moment she was in his arms. The transformation. His hands trembled slightly, as though the weight of something so small could undo him entirely.

"She’s so light," he whispered, wonder-struck. "So little…"

We all inched forward, and Orhan stepped up beside him. He looked down at our first grandchild, and I saw something shift in him, a quiet pride.

Ahmed hesitated, just for a moment, then gently passed her over. Orhan took her in his arms like it was something he’d done a thousand times before. She stirred slightly, blinking up at the world that was entirely hers now.

"Maşallah," he breathed. "Welcome, little one." He glanced between us, then back at the child. After a moment, he turned, extending the baby girl back toward Ahmed, and we all understood that he wished for Ahmed to name her himself.

Ahmed stood stunned, moved beyond words. He stepped forward, cradled his daughter once more, and whispered the adhan in her ears. This time, when he spoke, his voice was steady, strong.

"Her name will be Feyza. Her name will be Feyza. Her name will be Feyza," he repeated. "Feyza Sultan."

There was a beat of silence, and I felt it, like a soft wind through the soul. Feyza.

Little Meyra clapped from where she sat, now perched on a maid’s hip, gurgling joyfully as if her baby niece’s arrival was the best surprise of the day.

I stepped forward and reached into the folds of my maid's sash, withdrawing a delicate box wrapped in embroidered velvet.

"For you," I told Nisan with a warm smile. "A token from me, for the courage of a mother."

She took it with teary eyes and a grateful smile. Inside was a thin gold bracelet inlaid with pearls, one of my own, now hers.