The road rolled on beneath us, uneven and dust-streaked, but I hardly noticed the jolt of the wheels anymore. My thoughts had drifted far ahead of the carriage, to the city gates waiting just beyond the next hill and to him.

Atmaca rode in front, cloaked in black and gold, his back straight as a sword. Always vigilant. Always loyal. It had been days since he arrived at the palace with those words that still echoed in my chest: "He wants you by his side."

And now, I was finally going to see him.

Mustafa.

Even just thinking his name felt like breathing after drowning. Years had passed since we last stood face to face , years I had filled with silence, with my children's laughter, with aching letters folded into my pillow. But no letter could ever hold the sound of his voice, the weight of his eyes, the curve of that tired, beautiful smile.

Beside me, Mehmet stirred first, small fingers reaching for mine in his sleep , his father had never seen him walk, never heard him speak. I traced my thumb over his knuckles, watching as he yawned and blinked slowly up at me.

"Are we there yet?" he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Soon," I whispered, brushing the curls from his forehead. "We're going to see your father."

Nergisşah was already awake, though she pretended to sleep. Her lashes fluttered, and I could feel her shifting just slightly, the way she always did when she was listening to something carefully. A moment later, her small voice floated through the stillness.

"Is he still handsome, Mama?"

I laughed softly, the sound escaping me before I could help it. "Yes," I said, though my heart twisted with the ache of memory. "And strong. You'll see."

She lifted her head from Mehmet's shoulder, her cheeks still pink from sleep. "Will he remember me?"

"Oh, darling. He has never once forgotten you."

Outside, the wind picked up, and I caught a glimpse of Atmaca slowing his horse just slightly, turning back to glance at the carriage. I met his gaze through the window—brief, wordless. We were almost there.

We passed through another village just after midday. People had gathered along the road again, not in celebration, but in reverent silence. Women placed their hands on their hearts. Old men bowed their heads. And children ran barefoot behind the carriage, shouting:

"Long live the future Sultan! Long live our Sultana!"

I looked down at my lap, heart pounding. It wasn't a title I had claimed, but it was one they had already given me. And the man who called for me was no longer a fugitive, no longer forgotten.

He was returning like a storm gathering strength with every step.

Mehmet pressed his forehead to the window now, pointing at the crowd. "They know Papa?"

"Yes," I murmured. "They're waiting for him."

"And us," Nergisşah added with quiet pride, leaning over her brother's shoulder.

The sun was dipping lower now, gilding the hills with golden light. The city would be just beyond the next rise. I shifted, reaching for the satchel beside me. My hands trembled as I adjusted the children's cloaks, as I smoothed my hair, as I reached for my own veil.

"Are you nervous?" Nergisşah asked.

I smiled faintly. "Only a little."

Because how do you prepare to meet the man you never stopped loving? The man who vanished into exile,

"Hold tight to me," I whispered as the carriage slowed.

And outside, Atmaca raised his hand, signaling the soldiers.

We had arrived.

The carriage slowed to a halt, and for a heartbeat, I could hear nothing but the wind brushing the silk curtains. No crowds, no voices. Just the silence of a moment stretched too tightly across the years.

Atmaca appeared at the door before the horses had fully stilled. He didn't speak he didn't need to. His eyes met mine, steady, and then he stepped aside.

I drew a breath. My fingers trembled as I reached for the latch. Behind me, I heard Nergisşah whisper, "Mama..."

"I'll only be a moment," I said softly. "Wait here."

The air hit me first sharp, cold, filled with the scent of dust and pine. My feet touched the stone, knees unsteady. The world swayed, just a little, as I stepped forward.

And then I saw him.

He stood at the top of the steps of the old palace courtyard taller than I remembered, older, carved by exile and fire and time. The years had left their mark on him: the gray streak in his beard, the sun-worn lines at his eyes. But it was him. My heart knew it before my mind could even speak.

His gaze met mine across the distance.

Mustafa.

And then he moved down the stairs, across the courtyard, not with a prince grace, but with the desperation of a man who had waited too long.

I didn't realize I was crying until the cold wind kissed my cheeks. I walked faster. Then ran. My veil slipped from my shoulders. My hair came undone.

He came forward, a step, then another, slow at first like he couldn't believe I was real.

And then he ran.

I barely had time to catch my breath before I was in his arms. He crushed me to his chest, and I could feel his heart hammering, wild and unsteady, like mine. His breath was at my ear, his hands in my hair, my back, my shoulders.

His hands cupped the back of my head like he was afraid I might disappear.

He pressed his forehead to mine. "You waited."

"I would've waited ten more years," I breathed, "if I knew you'd come back to me."

He kissed me then  not gently, not slowly. But with hunger. With grief. With years of silence pressed into one impossible moment.

"My beautiful wife" My name poured from his lips like a broken vow, like something he had whispered to the wind for years and never thought he'd say again. His voice was raw. I couldn't breathe from how tightly he held me, arms trembling with the weight of years lost.

"I dreamed of this," he said. "Every night. I thought maybe I'd die before I saw you again."

"You didn't," I whispered. "You came back to us."

His forehead rested against mine. "I should've told you. I should've sent for you sooner. But I needed to be strong first. For you. For our children."

As if summoned, little feet scuffed the stone behind me.

A soft patter of footsteps made him pause. He turned his head slowly, his arms still around me.

Two small figures stood not far away. Mehmet had taken Nergisşah's hand his protective instincts as strong as ever. Their eyes were wide, unsure.

Mustafa's arms fell from around me. He stared.

His breath caught.

He took a step forward. "These are..."

"Your children," I whispered, voice shaking. "Our children."

He dropped to his knees like the wind had been knocked out of him. His gaze was locked on them, blinking, disbelieving. "He was a baby when I left," he said hoarsely. "Just born. I never..."

Mehmet looked up at me first, then to him.

"Are you... Baba?" the little boy asked.

Mustafa didn't answer. He was crying now, hands trembling as he reached out.

"Come here," he whispered. Mehmet didn't hesitate. He broke away from his sister and ran straight into his father's arms.

Mustafa gathered him close, holding his tiny body against his chest, lips pressed to his son's hair. "Mehmed," he murmured again and again, as though saying his name might make up for the years lost. "My son... my son..."

He looked up at her. "I remember your first cry," he said, voice cracking. "I held you once... just once. And I never stopped dreaming of holding you again."

Nergisşah approached more cautiously, still holding onto the edge of her skirt. Her eyes were full of questions, full of longing.

She hesitated then nodded, took a step forward, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Mustafa pulled both of them close, burying his face between them, and I knew in that moment that time had finally folded in on itself. That whatever pain we had endured was, for a moment, forgiven.

He looked up at me over their heads, his expression soft, broken, and full.

"You raised them," he whispered. "You raised my children. Without me. You gave them love, strength, everything... and I wasn't there. Stella -"

I knelt beside him and took his hand.

"You are here now," I said. "And they are yours. Every heartbeat, every breath. Yours."

He nodded, speechless, then pulled all of us close  and for the first time in years, we weren't pieces anymore.

We were a family.

Mustafa couldn't let go of them and it took him some time to fully comprehend and realise that he got to hold them after years . As they were tired from the road , atmaca escorted us three because they wouldn't want to sleep if i wasn't with them .

The children had finally fallen asleep, curled up against each other in the corner of the large room they had been given. Atmaca stood guard just beyond the door, silent and invisible as always.

I closed the heavy wooden door behind me and turned to find him already watching me.

Mustafa stood near the window, the dim lantern light catching the edges of his face  older now, sharper, shadows deeper beneath his eyes. He looked like the man I had known, and yet nothing like him. Like a myth I had chased through fire, now suddenly real and breathing before me.

"Do you sleep at all?" I asked softly, walking toward him.

His eyes flicked away, to the streets below. "Not tonight."

I stopped beside him. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"So many nights," he said quietly, "I dreamt of your voice. And every time, I woke afraid it had faded from my memory."

I couldn't speak  not yet. I just moved closer, reaching out as if touching him would erase the ache.

"They look like you," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Mehmed... his eyes. And Nergisşah, she stands like you. Proud. Like a queen."

"They missed you."

He swallowed hard. "I missed everything. I missed your voice in the morning. I missed Nergisşah's first word. I missed the sound of my son crying and couldn't even wish to comfort him. I missed the way you say my name when no one's listening."

"You don't have to miss anything anymore," I whispered. "We're here."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine. "Tell me you're real," he said. "That this isn't some dream I'll wake from, alone and exiled again."

"I'm real," I said. "And I'm not leaving you again. Not ever."

For a long time, we didn't move. Didn't speak.

There was only the hum of torches and the sound of his heartbeat against mine.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft.

It was desperate and honest and full of years that had been stolen from us.

When he pulled away, his eyes searched mine. "Stay with me tonight," he said.

Morning came softly.

For the first time in years, I woke to the weight of his arm draped around my waist, to the warmth of a shared bed that didn't belong to memory or dreams. The air was cool inside the tent, but his body was a quiet fire beside mine, steady and solid not a ghost, not a hope, but real.

I turned slowly, not wanting to wake him. His face was turned slightly toward me, one hand still curled gently near my hip. His dark hair had grown longer since I last saw him, falling in lazy strands over his brow.

I couldn't stop looking at him.

He was here. After all the aching, after the silence and exile and questions shouted into the wind he was here, in my bed, with our children just a breath away.

I reached out, brushing his cheek with my fingers. At my touch, he stirred, eyelids fluttering.

"Stella," he murmured, voice thick with sleep. His eyes opened warm brown, still heavy with dreams

"Good morning," I whispered.

A slow, lazy smile spread across his lips. "Is this the first time I've ever woken up in your arms without fear?"

"I think so," I said, smiling too.

He pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Then let it never be the last."

I laughed softly, tucking myself into his chest. His heart beat against my ear, calm and steady. I let myself breathe it in the scent of him, the safety, the fullness of this moment.

And then

"Mama!"

The flap of the tent flew open with a squeal and the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

Nergisşah burst inside like a whirlwind, her little slippers kicking up the rugs. Mehmed toddled in right behind her, arms outstretched, his curls bouncing as he ran.

Before I could sit up, both of them had launched themselves onto the bed.

"Mama! Baba!" Nergisşah squealed, giggling as she flopped onto the pillows beside me.

Mehmed climbed clumsily over the blankets and landed right on Mustafa's chest. "Horsey!" he declared triumphantly, pressing both palms against his father's face.

Mustafa let out a groan that turned into a laugh as he caught the boy and pulled him close. "You've grown wild in your mother's palace," he said, smiling wide, eyes bright. "What kind of manners are these for a prince?"

"Good manners," Mehmed said proudly, already nestling into the crook of his arm.

Nergisşah crawled up to lie beside me. "He says he's a horse every morning now," she explained, wise and serious as only a five-year-old could be. "But I told him horses don't get to sit on thrones."

"Is that so?" Mustafa looked between them, pretending to ponder deeply. "Well, I suppose the throne is too tall for a horse anyway."

"I'll grow!" Mehmed piped up.

"Then you must eat well," Mustafa said. "And learn your letters. And be kind to your sister."

"I am kind to her," Mehmed said, though the way he stole her pillow a second later made me raise an eyebrow.

They bickered, then giggled, then flopped between us like two little wolves trying to nest in the same den.

It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

Mustafa met my eyes over their heads, his smile softening.

"Is this what it's like?" he asked quietly. "To have a morning that belongs only to you? No swords, no messengers, no betrayals waiting behind every curtain?"

"Yes," I said, tucking a blanket over Mehmed's feet. "This is what we should have had."

His expression flickered  guilt, maybe, or the ache of lost time. But then he leaned in and kissed my temple. "Then we'll take every moment the world gives us. Starting now."

A table had been laid just outside the tent  low, round, and crowded with fresh flatbread, goat cheese, olives, honey, warm milk, and dried fruit. It wasn't palace fare, but it was enough. More than enough.

The four of us sat in the golden light of morning, wrapped in shawls, hands sticky with honey and lips stained with berry juice.

Mustafa held Mehmed on one knee, feeding him tiny spoonfuls of warm milk and rice. "He eats like he's been starved," he said, watching his son with something like awe.

"You have been," Nergisşah informed him matter-of-factly, munching on a fig. "Of us."

Mustafa laughed and ruffled her hair. "Sharp tongue. You are your mother's daughter."

"And my father's," she added proudly.

We sat there long after the plates had emptied, letting the morning linger. Atmaca paced somewhere beyond the tents, and I could sense the movement of soldiers preparing for the day's march  but none of that touched us yet.

I rested my head on Mustafa's shoulder, eyes half-closed.

He wrapped his arm around me. "You know," he said, voice low, "I thought I'd forgotten how to be happy."

"You didn't," I whispered. "You just had to find your way back."

He kissed the side of my head. "I found you. That's enough."

Nergisşah burst inside like a whirlwind, her little slippers kicking up the rugs. Mehmed toddled in right behind her, arms outstretched, his curls bouncing as he ran.

Before I could sit up, both of them had launched themselves onto the bed.

"Mama! Baba!" Nergisşah squealed, giggling as she flopped onto the pillows beside me.

Mehmed climbed clumsily over the blankets and landed right on Mustafa's chest. "Horsey!" he declared triumphantly, pressing both palms against his father's face.

Mustafa let out a groan that turned into a laugh as he caught the boy and pulled him close. "You've grown wild in your mother's palace," he said, smiling wide, eyes bright. "What kind of manners are these for a prince?"

"Good manners," Mehmed said proudly, already nestling into the crook of his arm.

Nergisşah crawled up to lie beside me. "He says he's a horse every morning now," she explained, wise and serious as only a five-year-old could be. "But I told him horses don't get to sit on thrones."

"Is that so?" Mustafa looked between them, pretending to ponder deeply. "Well, I suppose the throne is too tall for a horse anyway."

"I'll grow!" Mehmed piped up.

"Then you must eat well," Mustafa said. "And learn your letters. And be kind to your sister."

"I am kind to her," Mehmed said, though the way he stole her pillow a second later made me raise an eyebrow.

They bickered, then giggled, then flopped between us like two little wolves trying to nest in the same den.

It was chaos. Beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

Mustafa met my eyes over their heads, his smile softening.

"Is this what it's like?" he asked quietly. "To have a morning that belongs only to you? No swords, no messengers, no betrayals waiting behind every curtain?"

"Yes," I said, tucking a blanket over Mehmed's feet. "This is what we should have had."

His expression flickered — guilt, maybe, or the ache of lost time. But then he leaned in and kissed my temple. "Then we'll take every moment the world gives us. Starting now."

A table had been laid just outside the tent  low, round, and crowded with fresh flatbread, goat cheese, olives, honey, warm milk, and dried fruit. It wasn't palace fare, but it was enough. More than enough.

The four of us sat in the golden light of morning, wrapped in shawls, hands sticky with honey and lips stained with berry juice.

Mustafa held Mehmed on one knee, feeding him tiny spoonfuls of warm milk and rice. "He eats like he's been starved," he said, watching his son with something like awe.

"You have been," Nergisşah informed him matter-of-factly, munching on a fig. "Of us."

Mustafa laughed and ruffled her hair. "Sharp tongue. You are your mother's daughter."

"And my father's," she added proudly.

We sat there long after the plates had emptied, letting the morning linger. Atmaca paced somewhere beyond the tents, and I could sense the movement of soldiers preparing for the day's march  but none of that touched us yet.

I rested my head on Mustafa's shoulder, eyes half-closed.

He wrapped his arm around me. "You know," he said, voice low, "I thought I'd forgotten how to be happy."

"You didn't," I whispered. "You just had to find your way back."

He kissed the side of my head. "I found you. That's enough."

In the innermost chambers of Topkapı Palace, where the sound of fountains echoed through marble corridors and eunuchs moved like shadows, a storm was quietly building.

It had only been days since the funeral rites. The scent of rose oil and smoke still lingered in the stone.

The great Sultan Suleiman had been lowered into the earth with all the honors of an empire he had forged but the empire itself trembled.

Sultan Selim II sat slouched on the cushioned throne of the Imperial Council chamber, a goblet of wine untouched at his side. His robe was heavy with gold embroidery, his brow beaded with sweat despite the cool of the spring morning. A silence hung in the air like incense smoke  suffocating, bitter, expectant.

Across from him, Rüstem Pasha stood with his hands folded, jaw tight. The Grand Vizier had seen four sons of Suleiman rise and fall, but this... this was different.

"The governor of Sivas has declared loyalty to Mustafa," he said at last. "They call him Şehzade no longer. They call him Sultan."

Selim flinched, barely.

Rüstem continued, "And the Janissary barracks stir with unease. They do not speak openly  yet. But they remember. The soldiers remember the campaigns he led. They remember the prince they followed into the snows of Persia."

Selim rubbed a hand across his mouth. "Then perhaps it is time they remember who sits on the throne now."

Before Rüstem could answer, a rustle of silk and the click of heeled slippers echoed through the chamber's archway. The guards stepped aside as Hurrem Sultan entered.

She was veiled in black. Mourning clung to her like another skin. Yet her spine was straight, her gaze unwavering  the woman who had outlived sultans, viziers, sons.

She said nothing at first, only looked at her son. For a moment, Selim looked like a boy again, caught in something larger than he could control.

"You should have sent men to the East the moment you heard," she finally said.

"There was no confirmation," Selim replied. "Only rumors."

"And now there are banners," Hurrem said. "Villages, cities. Nobles. He is not hiding. He is marching."

Selim turned away, frustrated. "Why now? After all these years in silence?"

"Because silence was never his end," Hurrem said coldly. "He was made for the sword. And you... you were made for the cup."

Rüstem stiffened but said nothing.

Selim looked up sharply. "I sit on the throne now. Not him."

"Then act like it," Hurrem snapped. "Before it is taken from beneath you."

There was a pause.

Then Selim leaned forward, setting the untouched goblet aside. The sweat on his brow no longer came from fear but fury.

"No more letters," he said. "No more waiting to see how he answers. Let him see my answer."

Rüstem's eyes narrowed. "You mean to send troops?"

"I mean to be seen," Selim replied, his voice growing sharper with every word. "The throne is mine. The people must be reminded. I will ride through the capital, through the gardens, through the mosque. I will let them see their Sultan not in shadow, not hidden behind veils of grief."

Hurrem's lips pressed together. "A show of power."

"A show of rule," Selim said. "Let them speak of Mustafa's march. Let them whisper in the coffeehouses. But let them see me, and remember who wears the crown."

Rüstem bowed his head. "Then we prepare the procession. And your presence in the Imperial Mosque?"

"And the East?" Rüstem pressed, carefully.

Selim hesitated. Then, with a flick of his hand, he spoke like a man ordering a falcon released. "Send Nasuh Pasha with ten thousand men. Let him stop the march  or scatter it. Whatever it takes. Make them understand this empire is not theirs to reclaim."

Hurrem said nothing, but her fingers curled over the carved lion's head of the chair beside her. She knew what ten thousand men meant. She knew what blood was coming.

But she also knew the throne was never won by hesitation.

And neither did Mustafa march with hesitation.

The storm had begun.

The wind rolled over the green hills like a wave, tugging at the banners of the camp pitched beneath the shadow of an old stone fortress. Tents stretched like a silken sea, their colors rich—crimson, gold, deep blue—marking the ranks of nobles, governors, and loyal troops who had come not only to fight, but to follow. To restore.

Within the largest tent at the heart of the camp, Şehzade Mustafa stood before a table strewn with maps, sealed letters, and reports inked in haste. His brow was furrowed, arms folded behind his back, eyes fixed on the parchment as if willing it to reveal Selim's next move. Around him stood Atmaca, Yahya Efendi, and two provincial governors whose support had brought thousands more men to their cause in the last week alone.

"He's moving," Yahya said, his voice low but steady. "We have word from spies near the capital. Selim plans a procession. He will ride through the city, have the call to prayer made in his name."

"And Nasuh Pasha?" Mustafa asked without turning.

"Ten thousand men. He marches east."

A long silence fell.

Mustafa's gaze moved across the map, fingers tracing roads, valleys, and cities whose loyalty hung in the balance. Finally, he looked up.

"He fears the people's memory," he said. "Not my sword."

Atmaca stepped forward. "He wants to stop you before you reach the capital. If you fall in the countryside, he avoids rebellion within the walls."

Mustafa nodded. "Then we will not fall in the countryside. We press forward. We take the next city before the week is out. I will not let him claim legitimacy while I sit under canvas."

"But the roads—" one of the governors began.

"We have the people. We have the provinces. And soon, we will have the gates."

The meeting broke shortly after, orders issued swiftly. Men moved like clockwork now; messengers saddled horses, captains barked out directions, and the great tent stirred with urgency. But as the others left, Mustafa lingered, staring down at the ring on his hand—the one he had never taken off.

Then he turned and walked out, crossing the camp quietly, boots pressing into the soft earth as the wind lifted his cloak. Beyond the tents, a small stone house had been prepared for Stella and the children. He reached the threshold just as laughter carried through the open window.

Inside, Stella sat on a woven rug, her back to him, her long hair unbound for once and curling over her shoulder. Nergisşah was perched on her lap, clutching a wooden horse and shouting orders to an imaginary army. Mehmed, cheeks flushed, stood proudly in front of a tiny painted map she had made with ink and water, tapping each spot with a stick and asking, "Are we here? Or here? Can we take that tower too?"

"Only if you eat the rest of your bread," Stella replied gently, pushing a plate toward him.

"I already ate half!" he argued.

Mustafa watched from the doorway, his throat tight. He hadn't seen such peace in years. Not since before Konya. Not since the palace gardens where Stella once read to him beneath fig trees, not since the small fingers of a newborn son curled briefly around his before fate tore them apart.

He stepped inside.

Nergisşah saw him first. "Baba!"

The word stopped his heart.

Stella turned, startled, as both children launched themselves into his arms. He knelt quickly, letting them barrel into him ,Nergisşah wrapping her arms around his neck, Mehmed clinging to his waist.

Mehmed, bold and eager, chattered away beside him, pointing to a carved wooden soldier he clutched in one hand.

"He protects cities. Not just castles. I'll protect cities too when I'm bigger."

Mustafa smiled faintly, brushing a curl from the boy's forehead. "Then I should be careful. You might take mine someday."

"You have a city?" Mehmed asked, eyes wide.

"I do now," he said softly. "And soon, I may have more."

Nergisşah nestled in Stella's lap nearby, her fingers trailing the hem of her mother's dress, gaze flickering between her parents as though afraid they might vanish if she blinked. "Will we go with you this time?" she asked, voice so small it nearly broke him.

He turned to them both his daughter with the gaze too old for her years, and the woman who had carried the weight of their absence alone and nodded.

"I am not leaving you behind again."

Stella met his eyes at that, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. But something in her posture relaxed, like a string finally loosening after years pulled taut.

The children ate bread and honey with sleepy delight, sticky fingers and crumbs everywhere, asking endless questions about horses and tents and the men outside who called their father "Sultan."

Stella answered gently when Mustafa couldn't, her hand brushing over Mehmed's head, over Nergisşah's shoulder, anchoring them all with the kind of love he had only survived because he believed it still lived.

Later, when the children curled beside each other on the cushions by the wall, fighting sleep and failing, Stella rose slowly and crossed the room. Mustafa followed.

They stood by the window. The view overlooked the hillside where the soldiers rested, where Atmaca had begun assembling reports for the next move.

"I didn't expect this," she said quietly.

"No one does," he replied. "Until it happens."

She looked up at him, voice soft but unyielding. "I waited. Not just in time, but in hope. I thought I might die with your name on my lips, never knowing if you'd return."

Mustafa reached for her hand, kissed the knuckles one by one.

"I should have told you," he murmured. "From the moment I moved. From the first city that joined me. But I... I needed to know I could stand on my own first. That I was not just a ghost returning."

She didn't pull her hand away.

"You are not a ghost," she said. "But you are not alone either."

He leaned forward, resting his brow against hers, their breaths mingling in that fragile space where sorrow and love met.

The road dipped toward the Sea of Marmara, and the morning breeze carried a first hint of salt. Stella lifted the leather curtain of the lacquered carriage and drew a deep breath. Far ahead, where sky melted into earth, a pale ribbon of water glimmered. Somewhere beyond that haze lay Istanbul—the city she had once fled in terror, the city she now approached with a steadier heart.

Inside the carriage Mehmed bounced on a folded blanket, his painted wooden soldier clutched like a talisman. Every few moments he craned his neck to peer outside.

"Will there be boats, Mama? Big ones?"

"Bigger than this carriage," she assured him, smoothing dust from his cheek. "Boats that sail between two worlds."

Nergisşah sat cross‑legged beside a wicker chest, threading a daisy chain she had begun at dawn.

"When we reach the palace gardens," she said, "I'll plant new daisies."

Stella tucked a loose lock behind her daughter's ear. "And I shall help you. Gardens always forgive."

The carriage rocked over a rut; outside, hooves kept their measured cadence. Mustafa had ordered quiet for this stretch no drums, no horns so the children could rest if they wished. The only music came from skylarks spiraling above the column.

Mehmed wriggled closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Baba said I may sit on his horse when we stop for dinner."

"He did?" Stella smiled.

"He promised." The boy puffed his chest, solemn as a janissary. "And he never breaks promises."

Just then the curtain shifted; Mustafa's hand appeared on the frame while he rode alongside. Stella laced her fingers through his without a word. For a heartbeat they clung to that small point of contact her pulse settling, his tightening while the entire army advanced around them.

Up ahead the column slowed. Atmaca's call drifted back: fresh water ahead, a fringe of plane‑tree shade. The carriage drew to a halt, and Stella helped Mehmed down; his boots thudded onto the soft earth. Nergisşah followed, scattering white petals. Soldiers stepped aside, smiling as the children tumbled toward a clear brook.

Mustafa dismounted and joined Stella beneath the trees. They shared a cup of water, passing it between them while the children tried to scoop silver minnows with cupped hands. Sunlight flickered through new leaves, dappling Mustafa's face, softening the thin scar along his jaw she had traced the night before while he slept.

"Istanbul is two days off," he murmured.

He looked toward the sea‑shimmering horizon, then back at her. "Home," he repeated quietly, tasting the word as if for the first time.

The hush of awe at first sight of the sea lasted only moments.

From the olive‑covered ridge on Istanbul's side, a column of cavalry burst into view green pennants snapping, steel catching the sun. Selim's advance guard. Hooves thundered downhill, shaking the ground before anyone could issue an order.

Mustafa's officers shouted. Drummers struck three rapid beats the signal for shields up, spears forward. The serene road transformed in an instant: clatter of armor, neighing horses, arrows rattling from quivers.

Stella swept the children behind the carriage wheel as soldiers formed a wall around them. Nergisşah's daisy chain fell, forgotten. Mehmed's wooden soldier slipped from his hand and cracked on a stone.

A trumpet shrieked. The first clash rang like iron lightning Selim's vanguard slamming into Mustafa's front line. Dust exploded; men shouted praise and curses in the same breath.

Nergisşah clamped her hands over her ears. "Mama!" She trembled so violently that Stella felt it through her own bones. Mehmed stared wide‑eyed at the crashing horses, then burst into tears that shook his small frame.

Stella knelt, drawing them close, her cloak a makeshift tent. Splinters of sound—blades, hooves, screams pierced the air. She pressed the children's heads to her shoulders, murmuring steady words they scarcely heard. Above her, arrows hissed, thudding into shields.

Mustafa ran towards them , cloak flying like a dark wing. He reined in and dismounted in a single motion, sword flicking away a stray spear. Dust streaked his face; his eyes, finding Stella's, flashed equal parts fury and fear.

"Pull the carriage back!" he barked to the guards. "Nothing breaks this line!"

Two Sipahis seized the traces, dragging the carriage into a copse of plane trees. Stella clutched the children as they jolted over ruts, tears streaking their cheeks, small hands clutching her sleeves.

Behind them the fight roared. Selim's riders pressed hard but met a wall of spears and the ferocious singing of Anatolian infantry. Atmaca's voice cut through the chaos, rallying archers to the flanks. A trumpet counter‑called. Arrows whistled in murderous curves; some found shields, some found flesh.

Stella forced her voice low and steady. "Close your eyes," she told the children. "Listen only to me. We are safe. Your father is here."

"But the noise" Mehmed sobbed.

"It will end," she promised, rocking him. "He will end it."

Minutes passed. Then the clash receded like thunder rolling away. Mustafa's men surged, splintering Selim's formation, driving them back up the ridge. A final horn blared retreat; hooves pounded in withdrawal.

Dust settled. Cries of wounded men replaced battle shouts.

Dust settled in slow, gray sheets, revealing the torn earth and the wounded who groaned where the ranks had crashed. Selim's vanguard was nowhere to be seen: only scattered pennants marked their retreat up the far ridge.

Mustafa emerged from the haze at a run, sword dark with someone else's blood. When he reached the carriage he tossed the blade aside, every breath ragged. Stella climbed down with the children clenched to her skirts; Nergisşah's face was ashen, Mehmed still hiccupping sobs.

Mustafa dropped to one knee. "Look at me," he whispered, voice raw but gentle. "It's finished."

Nergisşah stepped first, trembling, and pressed herself against his chest. Mehmed followed, little arms locking around his father's neck. Mustafa wrapped them both inside his cloak, closing his eyes for one fierce heartbeat. Dust streaked his cheek; a single tear cut through it.

Stella touched his shoulder. He rose, keeping the children in his arms as though they weighed nothing.

Around them, captains re‑formed lines, but the men's eyes stayed on the small knot of family proof that the center had held. Spears tapped shields in muted salute.

Mustafa lifted his head. "They wanted fear," he called, voice carrying across the battered field. "They found resolve. We march again before sunset stronger than we began."

The soldiers answered with a low, rolling cheer, half prayer, half promise.

Stella met her husband's gaze, relief and steel mingling there. "And we keep the children close," she said.

"Closest of all," he vowed.

Mustafa then went back to his duties , ordering the corps around making sure everything was under control until night came early, as if the sky itself wished to draw a curtain over the day's violence. Fires dotted the new campsite like cautious constellations. Mustafa's men pitched their tents in a tighter ring than before; watches were doubled, but voices remained low, almost reverent, because everyone knew they had survived the first real test on the road to Istanbul.

Inside a canvas pavilion near the carriage, Stella rinsed road dust from her children's faces with warm water scented by a single crushed rose. Mehmed's eyelids drooped while she dabbed a cloth along his cheek. Nergisşah clutched a fresh daisy chain re‑braided by a smiling infantryman who'd found her wilted flowers and whispered stories about brave horses until her brother drifted to sleep.

When she lay the children on a pallet of furs, Mustafa slipped in, the lamplight carving tired hollows beneath his eyes. He knelt, checked each small rise and fall of their breathing, then pulled a blanket higher over their shoulders. Only then did he allow his own shoulders to sag.

"They didn't even see the worst of it," he murmured. "But the sound alone..."

Stella rested a hand on his forearm. "Children learn what courage feels like by hearing a steady voice in chaos. You gave them that."

He shook his head. "You gave it first."

Stella lowered the pavilion flap, dimming the lamplight to an amber hush. Mehmed sprawled across her arm, already adrift; Nergisşah curled small and certain against her side, the daisy chain cradled like treasure. Stella stretched the fur blanket over them all, then let her eyes close.

Outside, Mustafa's footfalls returned softer now. He knelt just inside the entrance, set aside his sword, and eased beneath the blanket beside them. In the hush he slipped an arm around Stella's waist, the other resting over the children, enclosing everything that mattered within a single, steady embrace.

Dust‑laden air carried the faintest scent of the sea. Somewhere a guard murmured a changing watch; somewhere a horse stamped and settled. Inside the little pool of lamplight, four heartbeats found one rhythm.

Sleep came gently first to the children, then to Stella, and at last to Mustafa, whose breathing slowed until the night held only quiet. And the camp, wrapped in that quiet, dreamed forward toward dawn.