Four years later

There is a strange silence that comes with time , not the silence of stillness, but the silence of forgetting.

The palace I lived in now was not the same one I had arrived at, four winters ago with a baby in my arms and another clinging to my skirts. That woman, desperate and trembling, no longer existed. She had been buried somewhere along the passing of the days  slowly, gently, like a candle that burns itself out long after the room has adjusted to the darkness.

The walls around me were familiar now. The gardens bloomed under my orders, the halls echoed with my children's laughter, not my footsteps alone.

But still, in quiet moments, the air felt hollow. As though something once vast had shrunk to fit inside a manageable shape. As though love .. the kind that had once burned in my veins had been tucked away behind too many locked doors.

I sat by the window that morning, watching as Mehmet and Nergisşah chased one another across the courtyard.

He was no longer a baby. His legs were long and quick, his dark hair fell into his eyes, and when he laughed, it wasn't the soft giggle of a toddler but the full, bright voice of a boy learning the shape of the world.

Nergisşah had become all grace and quiet fire. She had grown into her mother's spine and her father's gaze. She still clung to my hand when she was afraid but now, she rarely was.

Four years.

It didn't feel real.

Sometimes I still woke up expecting to hear Mustafa's voice outside the door. I dreamed of him more than I prayed. And in those dreams, he wore no crown, bore no title only a smile. That same soft smile that used to belong to me.

But the empire had kept turning. Even in his absence, the world found ways to move on. And death, ever hungry, did not wait for peace to fall before it took what it wanted.

Cihangir had died two winters after Mustafa's exile.

They said it was his disease. But everyone whispered the same thing behind closed doors: that grief had done what pain never could. He had never truly recovered from losing his brother. From watching his mother destroy the one person who had once protected them all.

He died with Mustafa's name on his lips.

Bayezid followed two years later.

Accused of treason, hunted down by his own father after seeking refuge among the Persians.

Two sons dead. One buried by sorrow, the other by the sword.

Hurrem's legacy had come at a price. And the ghosts of her choices walked heavier each year.

Now, only Selim remained.

And even he was beginning to smell of rot and fear.

The Sultan's health was failing. Whispers in the streets called for change. The people remembered. They always remembered.

And some of them had not forgotten Mustafa.

Not entirely.

"Mother!"

Nergisşah's voice rang like a bell through the gardens. I turned just in time to see her rushing toward me, her arms stretched wide. Her dark curls were pulled into two messy braids, her face flushed from the chase. Right behind her, Mehmed followed, still slightly clumsy on his feet despite insisting he was a warrior now. He clutched a wooden sword in one hand and a rock in the other for balance, he claimed.

I knelt, arms open wide. They both barreled into me, giggling breathlessly.

"You're out of breath," I teased, running my fingers through Nergisşah's long curls.

"I was faster than him," she declared proudly.

"I let you win," Mehmed said stubbornly, puffing out his chest.

I pulled him close, brushing dust from his cheek. "You're both growing too fast," I murmured. "I won't be able to catch you soon."

They beamed at the compliment, settling beside me on the bench beneath the flowering tree. Nergisşah leaned her head on my leg , and Mehmed always fidgeting played with the hem of my sleeve.

The sunlight filtered through the trees above us, painting gold into their skin, reminding me of the man whose blood ran in their veins.

They both had his eyes.

"Do you remember him?" I asked softly, not entirely sure why I did.

Nergisşah nodded without hesitation. "I remember his voice," she said. "He used to call me güzel kızım."

My breath caught. She said it so easily, so confidently, and yet the words were like a stone in my chest.

"He did," I whispered, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "You were his beautiful girl."

Mehmed, still fiddling with the hem of my sleeve, looked up at me with thoughtful eyes. "Did he ever hold me?"

My heart twisted. He had been so small  barely a few days old when everything fell apart.

"He did," I said. "The night you were born, he held you in his arms. He was so proud, so happy."

"But I don't remember," he mumbled, gaze dropping.

"You were very little," I said gently. "But that doesn't mean he didn't love you. He loved you more than words, Mehmed. He still does."

Nergisşah reached over and took her brother's hand. "Mother says he'll come back one day."

"He will," I said, the certainty in my voice surprising even me. "When the time is right, he will return. And when he does, he'll see how strong you've become. How kind. How brave."

Mehmed's lips curved into a small smile. "Will he teach me how to use a real sword?"

I laughed, blinking away the burn in my eyes. "Yes. And I'm sure he'll tell you all about the great battles he won and the adventures he's been on."

"And I'll tell him I protected Nergisşah while he was gone," Mehmed said proudly, puffing up again.

"You did," she grinned. "Except when I had to save you from the bee."

"That bee was huge!" he defended, making us both laugh.

Third person POV

The scent of incense lingered in the corridors of the harem, mixing with the whisper of silk slippers and secrets. Time had not been kind to Hurrem Sultan. Her beauty had not withered, no it clung to her like the final petal of a wilting rose but the sharpness in her eyes had dulled. Not from weakness, no. But from weariness.

She stood at the latticed window of her private chambers, fingers trembling just slightly as she toyed with the heavy ring on her hand. Below, the courtyard buzzed with activity  but none of it could touch her now. Not as it once did.

"Cihangir is gone," she said, her voice tight with the grief that never left her. "And now Bayezid killed by Selim."

Behind her, Nurbanu stood poised, silent, her hands clasped neatly before her. She was no longer the ambitious girl brought from Venice. She was now the consort of a prince and the mother of a future sultan. Her silence was never empty. It was calculated.

Hurrem turned slowly, her green eyes piercing as she met Nurbanu's gaze.

"I never wanted this." Hurrem's voice cracked, the facade breaking just enough to show the rawness beneath. "I never wanted to see my sons fighting each other. But they're like wolves, Nurbanu. Hungry for the throne. They've always been hungry."

There was a long silence. Nurbanu's gaze softened just slightly as she moved closer, standing just a few steps from Hurrem.

"Your bloodline is secure. Selim will be sultan soon enough. He's ready for it."

Hurrem's lips pressed into a thin line. "Selim is ambitious, yes. But he is also weak. And the court knows it. They whisper about Mustafa and about what might have been."

"The people don't forget easily," Nurbanu said softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "And they still speak of him. They believe in him. Some still say he's alive. Some still hope he'll come back."

Nurbanu's voice dropped lower, her tone more measured. "The revolt is growing, Valide Sultan. The rebellion won't stop, and Selim's reign will not be without its challenges."

Hurrem's gaze hardened as she stood straighter, her posture regal despite the years that had passed. "Let them rebel. Let them burn the streets. My son will be sultan, and nothing  not even this foolishness will stop that."

Nurbanu nodded but said nothing more. Instead, her mind was focused on the future. On her own son, and the power he would wield.

"Do you ever wonder " Hurrem's voice trailed off, and for a moment, she seemed lost in her own thoughts. "What would have happened if Mustafa had lived? If he had taken the throne?"

Nurbanu hesitated before answering, the weight of Hurrem's question hanging heavily in the air. "You've always said Mustafa was a threat to your power. But now, he's nothing. You've ensured that."

Hurrem met her gaze with steely resolve. "I've ensured that. And I'll make sure no one forgets what happened. No one will ever forget what I've done for this empire."

There was a tense pause before Nurbanu finally spoke again.

"Your legacy is secure, Valide Sultan. And Selim will take the throne soon. There is nothing more to fear."

Hurrem nodded, but the doubt lingered in her eyes, a flicker of uncertainty that she could not shake. "Nothing more to fear .. For now."

Outside, the court continued to buzz, unaware of the quiet power struggle that was unfolding within these walls. The empire was fragile, held together by the thinnest of threads.

And the storm was only just beginning.

Nurbanu's footsteps echoed down the hallowed halls of the harem as she made her way to the private chambers she now shared with Selim.

The weight of the palace was heavier than usual tonight, and as always, the tension that filled the air seemed to linger in every corner. But she had grown used to it. The palace had become a place of quiet war, where no alliances were ever truly secure, and no victory was ever permanent. Not with Hurrem still pulling the strings in the shadows.

When she entered their room, Selim was waiting, as usual but his gaze was distant, caught somewhere between the present and the future that seemed ever out of reach.

Nurbanu closed the door behind her, locking it quietly, and approached him.

Selim looked up as she approached, his dark eyes heavy with the burdens of his future.

"You will take it, Selim. I will make sure of it," she said with quiet certainty. "You are Hurrem Sultan's son . the empire was shaped for you."

His lips curved faintly, but his gaze remained distant. "She gave everything for this," he murmured. "Everything. Sometimes I wonder if she regrets it all the blood spilled, the sons lost."

He paused.

"She mourns Bayezid, though she will never show it fully. And Cihangir " His voice caught. "We don't speak of him."

Nurbanu remained silent. Even she knew better than to touch that wound.

"I owe her everything," Selim said, more firmly now. "I will not fail her."

He turned from the window, and in that moment, he was no longer just a son, or a prince but a man standing on the edge of sovereignty. "But there are whispers," he added, his voice tightening. "Still they speak of Mustafa. Of a return. They speak of rebellion."

"And they will keep speaking," Nurbanu said smoothly, "until we silence them."

Selim looked at her then, the flicker of something dark and cold in his eyes.

"They will remember whose blood runs through my veins."

The silence lingered in the room after Selim's last words, heavy and palpable like a storm waiting to break. Nurbanu studied him her husband, her prince, her gamble. He had never burned as bright as his brothers, but he had endured. And endurance was what ruled empires.

She stepped closer, slipping her arms gently around him from behind, her cheek brushing his shoulder. "They forget who rules now," she whispered. "Mustafa is a ghost. Bayezid is gone. Cihangir " Her voice softened, careful, "was never meant for the throne. Only you remain."

Selim didn't respond, but she could feel the way his shoulders eased beneath her hands.

Nurbanu continued, her voice velvet. "You do not need to be beloved. You need only be feared. And you are. Even now, with your father still breathing, they turn to you. Advisors, viziers, soldiers they wait. They know the tide is shifting."

Selim turned to face her fully, his hands coming to rest lightly on her waist. His eyes searched hers, not for comfort, but for certainty. Nurbanu had long since stopped being his comfort she had become his compass.

"And when the Sultan dies?" he asked, the question finally falling from his lips.

She didn't blink. "You will rise. And I will stand beside you."

There was silence for a moment more, and then Selim exhaled, his breath long, weary, perhaps even afraid. Nurbanu pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"We must begin to cleanse the palace of whispers," she murmured, her words low and pointed. "There are still those who speak of the exiled prince. Still those who look east with hope."

Selim's jaw tensed.

"They will look west soon enough," he said. "Toward me."

And Nurbanu smiled, a slow, calculating smile as she stepped away and adjusted her silk sleeves.

Hurrem Sultan was weakening. Grief had hollowed her out after Bayezid's death, and the palace knew it. Whispers echoed from every corner: she rarely left her chambers, her face had grown pale, her voice trembled.

The mighty Hurrem, once the sun of Suleyman's court, now flickered like a dying flame.

When she dies no one will stand in my way is what she thought

She did not need to say the words aloud. They pulsed through her veins like a secret anthem. Şehzade Murad, her son, was growing strong clever, sharp-eyed, quiet like her. The throne would be his. No matter what came.

And Selim? He would sit upon it first, yes. But it would not be his rule that shaped the empire.

It would be hers.

Mustafa sat alone in the dimly lit room . He had chosen this life—this quiet existence where no one knew his name, and no one knew what he was planning. He had abandoned the crown, the palace, everything he once was. But even in this solitude, his thoughts never strayed too far from the kingdom he once ruled, from the family he had left behind.

The knock on the door was loud, sharp, pulling him out of his reverie. He didn't move at first, unsure whether to answer. He hadn't expected company, and his mind instantly raced to dangerous possibilities. But as the knock came again, louder this time, something inside him stirred. He stood and walked to the door, opening it cautiously.

And there they were Atmaca and Yahya, standing side by side as if time had not passed, as if they had never been apart.

Atmaca's eyes were steady, intense, like always. Yahya stood beside him, a slight tension in his posture. When their gazes locked with Mustafa's, neither man moved.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. Mustafa's breath caught in his throat, and his heart raced, though it wasn't from fear. It was something else .. something familiar and comforting. These were the men who had once been his brothers, the ones he had fought with, shared his hopes with, and endured the worst with.

Without a word, Atmaca stepped forward first. He moved with a quiet strength, wrapping his arms around Mustafa in a gesture that spoke volumes. It was the kind of hug reserved for old friends, for those who had endured the worst and somehow survived. Mustafa stood frozen for a heartbeat before wrapping his arms around Atmaca, holding on tight as if letting go meant losing everything.

"I thought you were gone," Mustafa muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought you would forget me."

Atmaca's grip tightened, his voice low, "You think we could forget you? After everything? We knew you would come back. You can't run from who you are, Mustafa."

Yahya joined the embrace, his presence steady and grounding. "Atmaca's right," he said, his voice rarely breaking, but when it did, it carried the weight of years of separation. "You've been with us in our hearts all this time. We never gave up. Never thought we would see this day, but... here you are."

They stood there for a long time, the three of them holding each other, the past unraveling in their touch. The air was thick with the unspoken understanding of what they had lost and what they still had.

Mustafa pulled away first, blinking hard to clear the dust of time from his eyes. "I missed you both," he said, his voice quieter now, raw with the vulnerability that only old friends could elicit. "You don't know what it's been like. Being here, alone. Wondering if you were still out there."

Atmaca sighed, a deep, sorrowful sound. "We all have our battles, Mustafa. Yours was just... different. But you don't have to carry it alone anymore. We're here now."

The words settled between them, a quiet promise that spoke louder than anything else. They were a team again. And maybe, just maybe, they could fix the broken pieces of their world.

Mustafa finally broke the silence, his brow furrowed with curiosity. "How did you find me?" His voice was laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief. "How did you know where I was? It's been years. I thought I had vanished from everyone's memory."

Atmaca stepped forward, his gaze steady. "It wasn't easy," he said, the weight of the journey clear in his tone. "But we didn't forget you. We never did."

Yahya, standing a little behind, nodded in agreement. "We followed the trail," he said quietly. "It was a matter of patience. But when I received word, I knew it was you. We've been searching for you ever since."

Mustafa's eyes softened as he took in their words, a mix of relief and disbelief washing over him. "I didn't think anyone would come for me. After all this time..."

"What of my wife? And the children?" His words trembled slightly, as if he hadn't allowed himself to think of them for so long. "How are they? Are they safe?"

Atmaca's expression softened at the mention of Stella and the children. He exchanged a quick glance with Yahya before stepping closer to Mustafa.

"They're alive, Mustafa. They're well. Stella , she's been strong. Stronger than you could ever imagine. Nergisşah is growing into a beautiful young girl, and little Mehmed..." Atmaca paused for a moment, letting the weight of the years settle between them. "He's a boy now. A little warrior, just like his father would've been."

Yahya, his voice quieter, added, "They've missed you. Every day, there's been a part of them hoping you'd return."

Mustafa closed his eyes, a rush of emotions flooding him. It felt like a lifetime since he had seen them since he had held his children in his arms or heard Stella's voice.

Mustafa looked down at the floor, his mind heavy with the burden of the years that had passed. "What has happened? Is everything... worse now?" He was afraid to ask, but he needed to know. He had heard whispers, rumors and many lies and too many truths.

Atmaca's face hardened, and Yahya shifted uneasily. "A lot has happened, Mustafa," Atmaca began, his voice low. "Selim's rise to power is inevitable. The Sultan... he's on his deathbed. The court is in turmoil. But what you need to know is that Hurrem—she's been orchestrating everything. And the people... the people are rebelling. They want you back, Mustafa."

Yahya's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment. "Beyazid is dead," he said, each word weighing heavily. "Selim killed him. Orders from the Sultan, but we know the truth. Beyazid... he tried to stand against the sultan . He wanted to rebel, but Selim finished it."

Mustafa's heart clenched. He had loved Beyazid like a brother. The news of his death hit him harder than he'd expected. "Beyazid... dead?" he repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "But he was... he was loyal. To the end."

"He was," Atmaca said quietly. "But loyalty means nothing in the court anymore. Not when power is all that matters."

The three of them sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of the past pressing down on them. Mustafa's mind raced with the implications of everything Atmaca had said. Hurrem's machinations, Selim's ambition, Beyazid's death it was all too much, and yet, he couldn't turn away from it.

But as the silence stretched on, Mustafa could feel something stirring inside him. A fire that had long been extinguished was slowly coming back to life. The fight was not over. Not for him, not for his family.

"I'm not done yet," he said softly, the words carrying a promise. "I'm not finished with this fight. Not by a long shot."

Yahya and Atmaca exchanged looks, a silent understanding passing between them. They didn't need to say anything more. They all knew what was coming. It was time for them to return.

Yahya's voice was steady, unwavering. "We've waited long enough."

They had all changed, but they were still the same in the ways that mattered most. Together, they would face whatever came next.

And this time, they wouldn't lose.