Prompt: Foreign Magical Regions (Settings outside of Britain)

The Sultan and the Dreamweaver

The Sultan was dead.

In the still-cool hour before dawn, awareness of the dangerously unstable situation gripped everyone in the palace. Hulya, a student attending Enderûn-i Hümâyûn Mektebi, perched in the tower she often claimed as her own, curled her long, thin fingers around her wand as she surveyed the scene below.

The servants scurried like little mice across the courtyards, heads down while the Janissaries paced two-by-two, wands out and shouting at anyone who laundered.

As dawn broke, the sea wind having long since died to a breath, most of the city of Constantinople woke to buzzing in their ears and a darkening sky.

The Grounding had begun.

A heaviness crept over the world. In the North, Istanbul thrived in vibrant chaos, the sky blazing with the hues of dawn. But around the palace, the light dimmed, as if daybreak had been halted. Even the clouds, once thick and swollen with rain, transformed into a muted, wintry grey. Hulya watched as the dullness spread, sapping the brilliance from all it touched.

The brooms and carpets in the sky sputtered. One-by-one, the sky, filled with travellers, emptied while the Great Fireplaces of Enderûn died. Hulya knew it would be the same at the Central Floo Station.

Below her, the gates of the Palace locked, tied shut with magic at the expense of the Janissaries' lives who cast the spells.

In times of crisis, only the underwater path to Constantinople would remain open and the palace would remain locked until the Sultan's command.

The Sultan who was now dead.

The Sultan's whose sons had been fighting for the throne since they were nothing more than children, proxies to their mothers' plans.

The Grounding buzzed unpleasantly in her ears, as she watched the wands of the people light up the sky, honouring the departed Sultan.

Outside the tower, Hulya paused in the small garden of the Third Courtyard only long enough to watch the sea of birds rise from the Second Courtyard's stables; eagles for the princes, doves for the women and owls for the pashas at the far edges of the empire. They all carried the same message: Sultan Hüseyin Khan had ascended. The great game had begun.

She walked away from the flowers under the changing trees, passed a jumble of palaces, civil service buildings, her classrooms, the three small mosques, and the royal kitchens, towards the Harem and the large silver gates that led to them.

Hulya didn't know why her feet brought her here, perhaps it was to see if their nightmares she saw matched the truth.

There were many people kneeling, praying to the various Gods they believed in. Over the wailing of the women, the servants ran back and forth for their masters, carrying jewellery, money and other valuables, as if that would help them once the new Sultan arrived.

The passages, charmed with paintings of the outside world, felt dark and claustrophobic, as if they, too, knew the pain that was to come. They took her past the dormitories of whispering servants, the long abandoned rooms of the deceased Sultan's mother and coiled upwards to the hidden rooftop courtyards where the Sultan's women gossiped, schemed and ran an empire.

Their fear and pain made Hulya remember the day she entered the palace.

The air that spring morning had been much like it was today, at the beginning of fall, with thick plump clouds resting high in the sky, promising rain, as the flying carriage broke through the grey curtain and revealed the city.

The walls of the carriage were blue and gold, colours of the Sultan's court. She knew that now, she hadn't known it then. She hadn't even known where she was. Back then, she had never even seen a globe before.

From the windows of the carriage, Hulya had looked down beyond the bustling market to gaze at the majesty of the palace they were fast approaching. The Janissaries had not disturbed her silence. Once she had been given to the Janissaries, and boarded the carriage, they'd been kind to her. Muggleborns thought to have a real chance at attending Enderun were always treated well, as it was from these children that made up the Janissaries. It was always fortunate to have more connections to the palace.

Standing now on the Western rooftop courtyard of the harem, looking in, Hulya watched the women panic, and she remembered her own panic and fear as the Janissaries escorted her in more than twelve years ago. She remembered looking from woman to woman in fancy robes that changed colours and spoke a language she did not know. She remembered the fear gnawing at her heart as they spoke about her, in words she had yet to learn.

Twelve years ago and more. She had only been five years old, but was already nursing her hatred like a coiled serpent.

Then she had been chosen.

She had hoped she wouldn't be chosen. That she would be dismissed and sent back to her home - a small village in the mountains of Ethiopia. The place they stole her from; just because she had been born of magic. Where her papa danced with her around the fire, and fed her candies whenever they had a spare coin. In that moment, that instance she released that magic; walls, screens and pain closed around her that would define the rest of her days. She had her hatred, and her secrets, and guarding the two of them left little room for everything else.

Twelve years and more this summer, when they tied her down and she experienced pain beyond the words of mortals. When they battered and burned her soul as they infused a thing of nightmares, a Mære, into her very core. They took away part of what she was, and made her into a monster.

She was Hulya, and she was an abomination to most those who saw her. Half human, Half Mære. Tolerated by some, but hated by most. Her spirit had been snapped like a water reed and infused with that spirit of nightmares. She awoke to a runed covered body, the power over dreams, and Sehzade Bayezid holding her hand in his ringed-covered hands with concern in his eyes.

“Hulya, is that you?”

It was Ayla Hanım, the most recent Ikbal concubine, and the mother of the departed Sultan's youngest son who interrupted her thoughts.

The concubine's eyes never left the floor, after that first naked stare. Hulya realised she hadn't spoken to anyone all day. It wasn't odd, as most wanted nothing to do with her.

“It's so nice to see you,” said Ayla Hanım, clasping at Hulya's shoulders and pulling her close. She felt something heavy drop into her pocket as Ayla Hanım's mouth glazed her ear. “Please help us Hulya.”

Hulya pulled away.

“I am sorry.” The words were like stones in her mouth. “But I cannot help you, Ayla Hanımefendi.”

“But you— you and Şehzade Bayezid—”

“I cannot.”

“Please. We need you. He needs you.”

“It's not that simple! Why would anyone listen to me? Do you not remember Şehzade Feridun Sultan? No one trusts me.”

“That's not true! We have all heard the stories of what you are, what you can do. I know he might listen to you.”

“Stop,” commanded Hulya. “We don't know who will be the one who breaches the gates. Save your treasures Ayla Hanımefendi, as I am not your saviour.”

The babe, once silent in the concubine's arms, giggled at the sight of the colourful lights in the sky.

“It's not for me, Hulya. Please. It's for my child. You know what they will do.”

The child continued to giggle. She couldn't tear her eyes from the sight. Her only memory of her parents were of their blurry faces laughing with her as they sat by a small stream. Soon after, they took her. She couldn't help but twist the small gem ring on her finger.

“I cannot,” she managed to say. “There's nothing I can do.”

She fled, Ayla Hanım's crumbling body haunting her thoughts.

That night she stripped her fingers of the few rings she owned, and started sewing them into her sleeves. She would need them for the days to come.

The hours of the night passed slowly, as she drifted from nightmare to nightmare; concubines, princes, servants, none were spared as she rode her horse from dream to dream — always making them just a little bit worse, a little bit more terrifying.

That was who she was. That was what they made her become.


Word had reached them that Şehzade Bayezid was flying towards Constantinople, his loyal Janissaries at his back. They gathered in the Second Courtyard, grouped together at the edges, peering on tiptoes to see the Pasha's and Eunuchs conversing.

A short time after that, with a grey-faced, visibly aged Pasha being offered a cup of sherbet, the palace heard a mob outside its locked doors for the first time in decades.

There were cheers, shouts, cries. The voices were ferociously, defiantly assertive. The doors banged open hard, the help of a Janissary no doubt, and the street life of the city streamed in. Hulya saw the different religious groups, too many guilds to count, shopkeepers, magic casters, monks, transfiguration masters, potion keepers, servants, and Janissaries. There were far too many Janissaries.

And the same name on all their lips. The wizards of Constantinople made known their will. Hulya turned, on some instinct, in time to see the old Pasha suddenly drain his cup of sherbet. He stood up, unaided, and moved towards the chanting group.

No, thought Hulya, her mind spinning like the fire in a floo, it cannot be.

“Most noble members of our great city,” the Pasha said, lifting his thin nasally voice. “Let us hear your voice.”

The people heard him, and their voice became a roar that shook the palace. One name, again and again. Echoing among the many courtyards, the long hallways of the Harem and through the many mosques that stood on the grounds. One name. A name that shouldn't have been said.

Behind the Pasha, the Ziya Ragıp Pasha, the suave, polished Grand Vizier— the most powerful man in the city, if not the Empire— still looked bewildered by the speed of things. He had not moved or reacted, assuming that the departed Sultan's Will would take care of everything. In the end, that arrogance was to cost Ziya Pasha everything. His prince, his continued success, and his life.

The Golden Throne was now lost to Şehzade Bayezid. Perhaps that dawning awareness was what froze him there on the silk sofa while the crowd roared and thundered as if they were in the duelling arena of Hippodrome and not the Second Courtyard of the Palace.

Her plans shattered as the crowd roared around her.

“ŞEHZADE SELIM SULTAN TO THE GOLDEN THRONE!”

Şehzade Selim Sultan refused twice, as expected, as the crowd roared. Hulya saw men weeping as they shouted his name. She wondered how much he paid them. They grew louder, a deafening wall, as the Janissaries, obviously Şehzade Selim's own men, moved closer, and then surrounded him, making it impossible for him to escape. As if Şehzade Selim was being forced to accept this honour.

He stepped down from his griffin.

His men were around him, pressing close, screening him away from the many wands that might do him harm, and brought out the robes and rings that they shouldn't have had.

And so, in the Second Courtyard, under the evening light, Selim Sultan III, third son of Sultan Hüseyin Khan, was cloaked in gold and given the jewels of his ancestors.

The translucent Djinn were the first to bow, as the last of the jewels, the grey-stoned ring, slipped onto his finger.

Then the Janissaries made way, the outer ring of them parting, like a curtain, and lifted their wands. Light spilled from their wands as they proclaimed the new ruler— Sultan Selim III; Sovereign of the House of Osman, Khan of Khans of the Two Lands and the Two Seas, Commander of the Faithful and Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe, Custodian of the Two Noble Sanctuaries, Sultan of the Three Cities of Constantinople, Adrianople and Bursa, Conqueror of the two Armies and All High Sultan of the Ottoman Empire.

Hulya turned away from the cheering crowds as she knew what was to come.

War.


Three days later, on a cloudy morning, two Janissaries entered her room near the top of the tower and bade her to follow them to court. Before she left, she grabbed the robe with her most prized ring tucked away. It was her only treasure.

In the inner palace, as Hulya arrived and made her way to the courtyard, where the Sultan was awaiting his late father's concubines, no one's thoughts or whispered words were of anything else.

She stood, as she was directed to, on the margin of one bank of the stream, not far from the few chosen Viziers that had been summoned. Wind-blow leaves were falling into the water and drifting away. As many times as she'd been in this garden, by daylight and under floating light at night, Hulya was still awed by its magic. In autumn only, long after most flowers had ceased to bloom elsewhere, where in full bloom here. Yet the trees still held the colours of fall with brilliant, many-coloured leaves.

The courtyard had been designed five hundred years ago. The same stream that rained from the banquet hall's ceiling had been channelled to pass through this garden and branch into two forks, creating a small isle in the midst of trees and flowers and marble walkways beneath the carved arcades. On the isle, reached by two bridges, the Sultan of Constantinople sat on a dark wooden bench with his mother beside him. Flanking the gently curving path that approached one of the bridges Janissaries waited in the spring sunshine for the binding ceremony to begin.

Birds flitted in the branches overhead. Four instruments played themselves on the far banks of the stream that ran behind the isle. Colourful fish swam in the water. It should have been pleasant, if not for the occasion.

Between coral-coloured pillars at the far end of the garden, the Binder appeared, in green and white. The room went silent, then a bird sang, one quick trilling note. The bronze doors opened, and the Sultan's brothers, sisters and step-mothers entered.

They arrived without ceremony, with Janissaries watching every step as they approached along the walkway.

Most were dressed in simple robes. Even the Kadın-ranked concubines, normally clothed in exquisite robes and bathed in magical gems and objects, were clothed in nothing more than simple and dark robes. It was a time of mourning, and fear.

A high cloud slid briefly across the sun, changing the light, and bringing a swift chill to the air, a reminder that it was still Fall. At this moment, the oldest of the Sultan's remaining sons, and his mother, moved forward with effortless, trained grace, and sank down into full obeisance to Sultan Selim. The others followed.

Most of the court was staring at the gathering in pity. Sultan Selim had ceased doing so, or at least he tried, in the moment they lowered themselves to the ground before the arched bridge leading to his isle.

“You are most welcome, my sisters and brothers,” the Sultan Selim murmured.

If he sensed any of the fear and tension lingering in the air, he did not betray it. There was genuine appreciation in his voice and manner. He really meant it, thought Hulya, surprised. It was only after Selim spoke did they rise.

“It may not seem like it,” Selim went on. “On this day, of all days, but I do care for each of you. We are all our departed father's children. May Allah guide his soul. It is because we are his children, the Sultan's children, that we must continue the traditions of our forefathers, and protect this empire and the great people within it.”

There was near silence in the garden again; only the one bird still singing overhead, the breeze in the leaves of the trees, and the steady rippling of the two streams around the isle.

In that quiet, the Binder stepped forward, the grey ceremonial wand in her hand and said, “In the days of old, when our magic was one with great plains, of air, earth and horses, only one was allowed in the city where the golden throne stood. It was brother against brother and uncle against nephew. Blood stained the empire, and each other. It broke our holy teachings, and weakened us to outside forces.”

“At the height of this bloodshed, nineteen young princes were sent off by cord. A tragedy Sultan Mehmed III spent his life repenting. It was him that sent his mighty viziers to distant lands to find a solution that did not make us unclean in the eyes of God. Our prayer was answered with the Unbreakable Vow.”

Hulya felt himself shiver, though it wasn't really cold and the sun was high. She was not alone.

The Binder drew herself up slowly, as one of only her age did, and raised her old voice with deliberate intent. “For the sake of the empire, and the wizards and witches in it, the sons and daughters of the House of Osman must bind themselves to the throne. To swear off rebellion, and those wishing to use it for their own gain.”

For the first time, the woman hesitated. “We cannot return to those barbaric times. This time more than ever with rebellion brewing in the east and the Germans and Austrians in the west.”

The crone had courage, there was no denying it. No one spoke of the rebellion brewing, nor of the missing prince. “I am here, my Sultan, to bind them,” she said with no hesitation now. “Just as I have done for your father, so many years ago.”

Hulya, listening with fierce attention, looked beyond the crone clad in white and green, and saw the weeping of women, and young boys and girls trying to stand brave and unafraid.

It was tradition to start with the children of the highest ranking concubines. With Şehzade Feridun Sultan, the eldest prince deceased and Şehzade Bayezid in the wind, it fell to Şadiye Sultan, the oldest daughter, and more importantly, the only full sister to Sultan Selim.

Şadiye Sultan approached her brother with the muted poise of someone accustomed to being watched. Her skin, olive-toned and sun-kissed from years spent in shaded courtyards, retained a softness that defied the relentless passage of time. She stood taller than many of the palace women, with a straight back that hinted her confidence. Her dark eyes, not stained with tears like the others, rested on the new sultan's face as she walked. With each step, her silk robes brushed the stone path in a whisper. When she reached him, she lowered herself to one knee, head bowed.

The Sultan stood before Şadiye Sultan, his eyes lit with a tenderness Hulya was unaccustomed to seeing as he extended his hand. She placed hers in his, their fingers clasping, and the air around them seemed to tighten. The Binder stepped forward, the ceremonial wand glowing faintly, ready to bind the vow.

"Şadiye Sultan," the Sultan's voice was quiet but firm, "do you swear upon your life and honour that you will remain loyal to me, as your Sultan, and will never seek the throne for yourself?"

Şadiye nodded, her voice calm but weighted. "I swear."

A thin tongue of brilliant flame issued from the wand and wound its way around their hands like a red hot wire.

"Do you swear to protect me, to watch over me, as both your brother and ruler, and to never allow harm to come to me through your actions or inactions?"

"I swear."

A second tongue of flame shot from the wand and linked with the first, making a fine, glowing chain.

"And do you swear that your children, and their descendants, will be removed from any claim to the throne, that they will take a new name, severed from the House of Osman, forever?"

There was a flicker in her eyes, but it passed like a shadow across water. She exhaled slowly. "I swear it."

The Binder's deep lines glowed gold in the blaze of the third unique flame, which shot from the wand, twisted with the others and sealed the vow, binding them in a pact deeper than blood.

The vow was repeated, first to the four daughters and the son of the deceased Third Kadın, followed by the two children of Rukiye Kadın, the current Third Kadın. Each of the seven adults approached in a dignified manner, including the twin daughters known for their famous feud. Just like Şadiye Sultan, all had known this day would come, and they swore oaths not only for themselves, but for the children they already had.

The next to follow was one of Hulya's older classmates in the remarkable Sixth Hall, Fatma Saliha Sultan. At 19, she was on her way to being a recognised Healer for the Janissaries.

Her half brother, the green eyed, bare faced boy, who stepped forward afterwards, was Şehzade Evhad, the sixth son of the late Sultan Hüseyin. He had always been nice to Hulya, often bringing her sorbet after she won against him in their mock battle lessons. The teenage prince took two steps towards the guards from beside the Sultan and threw back his fur-lined cloak.

He was flushed and was wearing his wand.

“What are you doing?” Rukiye Kadın cried quietly, her voice shrill with fear. Sultan Selim did not move, Hulya noticed. The boy stood almost directly in front of him.

“What,” stressed the painfully young, thin boy in front of the Sultan, “are you doing here? You don't belong here!” The words rang in the quiet space.

“What are you saying?” cried the same woman as before. A knowing woman, Hulya thought. “What are you doing coming armed into this sanctuary?”

The boy reached into his cloak and withdrew his wand. “He's a traitor!” he cried. “Our glorious father, may Allah guide his soul, selected Şehzade Bayezid as the Sultan. This traitor doesn't belong on our golden throne!”

“That,” said the Sultan with astonishing composure, as a shocked swell of sound ran through the throne room, “is quite the lie. Did not the people choose me?”

“By bribery, you traitorous scum! You saw the papers, we all did!”

Hulya swallowed hard. The words were unthinkable. The boy must have known what would come for these transgressions.

Two things happened very quickly then, almost at the same moment. The boy pointed his wand at the Sultan, and two tall and dark men moved themselves in front of the Sultan. Their faces were expressionless.

“Enough,” said the Sultan calmly, and rose from his throne. “Brother, our dearest father appointed me after Şehzade Bayezid caused the Džanovgrad incident. You saw, as I did, the ramifications it caused. The German Austrians on our doorstep, the Hungarians mobilising. Our father saw this and his will changed. Stand down brother.”

“LIAR!” shouted the younger prince. “I saw our father, talked with him. He did not change his mind!”

“I will give you one more chance, brother. Durpaşa Kadın, control your son.”

The mother of Şehzade Evhad Sultan was brought forward.

Her back straight as a broom, she lifted her two hands and drew back her veil. She was young, golden-haired, with soft features and a petite drawn mouth. There was a cold, regal fury in her eyes though, as she said to the Sultan before her, beyond the two guards blocking him, “I have taught my son to be just and true, as the laws beyond this world dictate us too.”

Selim seemed resigned to this decision, and with a flick of his finger, the Janissaries grabbed the young prince's arms, dragged him across the bridge and out of the courtyard. The boy screamed and fought all the while, even after the door closed.

A rigid stillness followed this. The day seemed almost too bright now, as if the sunlight were at odds with the gravity of what was happening below.

“Will you grant me leave to follow my son?” Durpaşa Kadın was still gazing at the door that took her son, as if oblivious to those on the isle now.

Selim stood motionless for a long moment, the silence heavy and oppressive. He looked at Durpaşa Kadın, his expression unreadable, though something flickered in his eyes—perhaps regret, perhaps a resignation as deep as the grave she was asking for.

Durpaşa Kadın did not waver. She remained as she was, her veil pulled back, her golden hair catching the light, untouched by the wind. Her eyes were fixed on the door where her son had disappeared, but Hulya saw the way her hands gripped the folds of her robe, knuckles white.

The Sultan exhaled. His gaze drifted to the garden, to the vivid blossoms and the bright blue sky that seemed so indifferent to the suffering below. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost gentle. "I will grant you leave."

Durpaşa Kadın did not bow, did not offer thanks. She merely turned and began to walk in the same direction her son had been taken, her steps deliberate and unhurried, as if she were already on the path to the next world. Hulya watched her go, a lump forming in her throat. The garden seemed to blur, the colours too bright, too painful.

A Janissary stepped forward to follow her, but Selim raised his hand to stop him. "Let her go alone."

Hulya watched her go, her heart heavy. The day felt colder now, despite the sun. She stood there, surrounded by beauty, yet all she could see was the emptiness left in the wake of Durpaşa Kadın's silent, determined steps.

In the aftermath of this, the two young daughters of the second ranked Hanım approached the Sultan, their small forms overwhelmed by the weight of the moment. Terror clouded their eyes—what had once been a dreaded ritual now felt monstrous after Şehzade Evhad's cries.

The eldest, fifteen, knelt first. Her voice trembled, but she did not falter. The Binder's wand sparked to life, binding her vow with a flicker of magic. She rose, unsteady, returning to her mother.

The middle daughter, twelve, hesitated before placing her hands in the Sultan's. Her voice was a whisper as the flames wound around her small fingers. She winced but continued.

The youngest daughter of the Sultan, and that of the third ranked Hanım, only ten, looked like a fragile shadow as she stepped forward. Wide-eyed, she swore her vow with a trembling voice. Hulya's heart ached as she watched the flames curl around those tiny hands. No child should be cursed with the burden of loyalty and magic.

The Binder lowered her wand, her face drawn with the weight of the ceremony. When she called for Ayla Hanım and the Sultan Hüseyin's unexpected son, the entire court tensed. The child was so small, barely more than a babe, and Ayla's quiet weeping could be heard even before she stepped forward.

She fell to her knees before the Sultan, her hands clasped in supplication.

“Please,” Ayla Hanım begged on her knees. “I will make the vow until he is old enough.”

But that was not the way.

They took the child, just as tradition dictated for those too young to speak, and left behind the grieving mother.

Hulya wondered how many child-sized coffins would leave the palace tonight.


In the dimming light, the Sultan's gaze, sharp and unyielding, turned to the gathered concubines who had not borne children. The Grand Vizier, a figure of austere authority, began distributing potions to prevent a new heir from being born and tokens—gold and gems—as compensation and a semblance of freedom. Their futures, though uncertain, were suddenly not bound by the harem's confines. Instead, they were promised new roles within the empire, or matches arranged with influential Janissaries and pashas.

The scene was meticulously orchestrated; a grand reshuffling of lives as ordered as a chess game. Skilled daughters were returned to their families, their fates intertwined with new alliances crafted by the Sultan's will. The new Grand Vizier was already negotiating marriages on behalf of the Sultan, the web of influence expanding as deftly as a spider's silk. Like coins exchanged, Muggleborns passed from one hand to another.

Sultan Selim's gaze cut through the dimming light, settling on Hulya. His voice, low and deliberate, sliced through the murmur of the court.

“She is not my father's child,” Selim said, eyes narrowing as he turned to the Grand Vizier. “My father has not had an African wife in many years.”

The Grand Vizier, standing a step behind the Sultan, inclined his head respectfully. “No, your Magnificence. It is that creation,” he said, gesturing subtly toward Hulya, “the one Şehzade Bayezid created.”

Hulya, sensing the shift in focus, tightened her grip on the small gem sewn into her sleeve. She could feel the weight of their scrutiny and the unspoken expectations hanging in the air.

“Come here child.”

Hulya approached, and sank to the ground in full obeisance.

“I am uncertain what to do with you,” the Sultan said quietly.

Hulya's fingers tightened around the ring sewn into her sleeve, feeling its familiar shape press into her palm. “Let me be your ears, your Magnificence,” she said. “Let me use my gifts for you.”

He turned his head slightly, studying her. “And why would you?”

“She is dangerous.” The Valide Sultan interjected. There was irritation in her voice. “In fact, you ought not to even be here unbound.”

“Perhaps,” Hulya said mildly. “The Janissaries were courteous. Perhaps too much so.”

“Perhaps they saw no reason to fear a girl of your repute… at least, not in the daytime,” the Valide Sultan murmured silkily.

A dagger of sorts there, Hulya thought, chasing the nuances as quickly as she could. Her reputation encompassed many things, and it included an additional dimension with a new Sultan. She could not, on the face of things, be called a harmless young woman. Perhaps especially for the royal family. It was her dreams, after all, that revealed the scheming of the oldest son of Sultan Hüseyin just two years prior. Weeks later, the Şehzade Feridun Sultan was dead.

Hulya tilted her head. “It has been long,” she said, with apparent confidentiality, “since I have had the privilege of exchanging words with the illustrious Emine ikinci Kadınefendi Hazretleri. Whatever our jealous viziers might say, she remains a credit to her people and an exceptional mother to our Magnificence. In my most humble view.”

It was a risk to talk back to the Sultan's mother, she knew, but it needed to be done. If not for the Valide Sultan, a vizier would have said it. At least here she got some pleasure. Emine Kadin had always looked down on her.

At this point, the Sultan appeared to lose patience. “I asked her a question,” Selim said bluntly, and those assembled in the garden were made sharply aware that whatever poised or subtly might be here on display, only one man ruled. “She has not been allowed to answer it.”

“Yes, your Magnificence,” said Hulya. “It is because you sit on the golden throne,” she answered, her voice soft but certain. “I will serve you, as God directs me to.”

Selim's gaze lingered on her, a weight pressing down like the noonday sun. He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and his voice carried the soft resonance of silk stretched tight. "You speak well. Too well, perhaps. But words, no matter how artfully woven, cannot hide intent. Is it truly service you offer? Or something darker—something born of bitterness?"

For a heartbeat, Hulya's eyes flickered, betraying a glimpse of pain before she composed herself again. Her tone remained steady, though the weight of what she said hung between them. “Şehzade Bayezid twisted the spirit into me, made me what I am. My father—" She stopped, taking a breath before continuing, her words sharper now. "He was all I had before we were torn apart. I would do anything to stop those who hurt him. Anything to end the ones who kept us from each other.”

“Of course,” said Sultan Selim. “That is why you are here. That's why you want revenge.”

“This is why I must have revenge on the one who wronged me,” said Hulya, grave in her black robe. Another murmur of sound rose and fell away.

It was the Valide Sultan's turn to sound irritated. “And are we to offer a position here to anyone who swears revenge against past misdeeds? If so, we better open the palace to everyone.”

“Not whenever,” said Hulya quietly, “But for those who have nowhere left to go.”

“Ah!” said the Valide Sultan sardonically, “For those broken and used. Well, that changes everything.”

Drawing a breath, she unclasped her hands and let them fall to her side. She looked up at the Valide Sultan, saying nothing, waiting. She braced herself for whatever further blows might be levelled against her.

No blows fell, verbal or otherwise, Instead, it was the Sultan who spoke again. “You could not have known I would ascend the throne. Why did you stay, if you hate my brother so? You are not bound by the ties of blood.”

She looked away, the courtyard beyond them filled with dappled light and the sound of distant birds. “I do not have the choice to leave,” she said, her words quieter now, but no less resolute. “Unlike your siblings, who can choose a vow, I am already bound. I have been since the day the spirit was bound into my flesh. My fate is tied to the one who wears the ring and sits on the golden throne. Without your command, I cannot even leave this city.”

Hulya reached for his left hand, her fingers brushing against his skin. The Sultan stilled. In that moment, the runes etched into her neck flared with a soft light, though only he could see it. The magic that bound her to the throne pulsed between them, ancient and unyielding. She knew he felt it too, the weight of her binding, the depth of her servitude. The runes that crossed her spine and heart glowed faintly beneath her clothes, a reminder that she was marked, in ways unseen.

Her voice took on a note of quiet urgency, a plea woven into her words. “Hear me, my lord. I accepted my fate long ago. I am a weapon for the empire. A tool for the Sultan. And yet, it is you who sits on the throne, not your brother. Use me, and let me have my revenge. Let me strike against the one who hurt me, who seeks to unravel all that we hold dear.

There was a long pause as Selim weighed her words, each one turning over in his mind like the stones of a riverbed, worn smooth by time. The garden around them seemed to hold its breath, the rustle of leaves stilled in expectation. Then, slowly, he inclined his head, acknowledging something in her that even he could not deny.

"You have endured," he said at last, his voice low, carrying with it the weight of his throne, of the empire itself. "Endured far more than many who have served in my palace. And for that, I commend you. But understand this: you will not use your gifts unless I command it. Not in dreams. Not in waking life." The grey-stoned ring on his finger gleamed, and she felt the pulse of magic surge through the runes etched into her flesh, an unbreakable tether binding her to her master's will.

He released her hand, and Hulya felt the connection falter, though its echo clung to her like a shadow. The moment stretched thin, fragile as silk caught in the wind, yet she remained still, the weight of his gaze a palpable force against her. He saw her as a weapon, valuable yet dangerous. Hulya knew he sensed it, the risk of wielding her. It made him uneasy.

“Go now,” he said quietly, the words slipping into the still air between them. “And may Allah have mercy on us all.”

The moment stretched, fragile and thin, as Hulya bowed. The garden's silence became deafening, and each step she took felt measured, deliberate, as though she was treading upon the edge of a blade. Behind her, she could sense the gaze of the Sultan, heavy with the weight of the crown he bore, and the Valide Sultan's eyes, sharp as the blade of a scimitar. But no words followed her departure, only the soft whisper of her own robes against the stone.

There was truth in what she had said. Enough to keep her moving forward. Enough to stay alive. Enough to extract revenge.



Autumn surrendered slowly, the gold of the leaves draining into the earth as winter's chill gripped the empire. The streets of Constantinople grew quiet, save for the hollow winds sweeping through them. Sultan Selim's palace, once alive with cautious energy, became an island of tense stillness. The new year came and went, marked not by revelry but by a muted dread of the conflict looming on the horizon. Celebrations were hushed, dimmed by the shadow of Şehzade Bayezid's attacks. The joy that once brightened the city had vanished.

In the northern forests of Nikomedeia, the clash of steel and magic shattered the stillness. After ten days of skirmishes, Sultan Selim's Janissaries met Bayezid's loyalists beneath bare winter branches. Blood soaked the frozen ground, the air thick with curses and the crackle of conjured flames. Now, the empire began to run, swift as a Qilin, towards war.

Weeks bled into months. Winter's icy breath lingered longer than welcome. Hulya moved through the palace like a shadow, her steps measured and deliberate. The cold was unyielding, as was the threat from the north. The Germans stirred, inching southward, waiting.

Yet, despite the storm raging beyond the palace walls, inside, the political dance continued. Sultan Selim tightened his grip on power, even as the weight of his crown pressed heavier on his brow.

Within that shifting world, Hulya, now in the Fourth Hall of the Enderûn-i Sihrî Mektebi, found herself caught in the currents of change. Her promotion had been expected; her growing skill in Battle magic and Transfiguration drew the attention of her mentors. What was less expected was the introduction to Prince Ibrahim, the eldest son of Sultan Selim.

Their meeting had been as cold as the winter winds. Ibrahim regarded her with suspicion, his dark eyes narrowing when their paths crossed. To him, she was a dangerous creature. To her, he was arrogant, a fool who had never been tested by hardship. Their encounters, though brief, left the air between them thick with tension.

Winter could not last forever, though. Slowly, begrudgingly, the cold receded. The city stirred as the first blossoms of spring pushed their way through the thawing earth. Even amidst war, nature found its way to renew itself. The hyacinths bloomed in the palace gardens, their fragrance a reminder of life beyond battle.

Hulya felt the change as well. Spring brought with it visitors from distant lands, alliances formed not for peace, but for survival. She returned to the halls of power, eyes ever watchful. Among the new arrivals, one stood out—a golden-haired woman from England, Narcissa Malfoy, commanding attention with each graceful step.

The hall filled with the scents of early spring—the freshness of hyacinths mingling with the heady spices of a feast just concluded. Hulya stood at the edge of the gathering, her dark eyes tracking Narcissa's movements.

Narcissa Malfoy was seated beside Sultan Selim, her golden hair gleaming in the soft lamplight. She spoke in low tones, her voice carrying just enough for those close to her to catch a word here and there. Hulya caught the name Triwizard Tournament and saw Selim's eyes narrow with the familiar flash of frustration.

They had not been allowed to participate—again. The Sultan had wanted their entrance, had wanted his people to stand among the champions, but Drumstrang had denied their entrance, as they always did, claiming tradition, claiming rising tensions. When they went to the Supreme Mugwump, the famous Albus Dumbledore, they were dismissed. Albus Dumbledore prized smooth transitions of power, and had made his displeasure known at Sultan Selim's rise. All this pricked at Selim's pride.

“…the second task,” Narcissa was saying, her smile twisting as if she found amusement in the absurdity of it all. “It was a rather theatrical affair, even by our standards. The champions had to retrieve something precious to them from the depths of the Black Lake. Of course, they were told it was a rescue mission, that their loved ones were in danger.” She waved a delicate hand, dismissing the drama of it. “But it was all a game, naturally.”

“And did they succeed?” Selim asked, his tone sharp.

“Most of them,” Narcissa replied, her tone unbothered by his mood. “One champion nearly drowned, but the others managed well enough. Viktor Krum, the Durmstrang boy, is doing rather well. Strong, capable. He seems to be their favourite.”

Selim's jaw tightened at the mention of Krum. “I know of him,” he said curtly. “But tell me, what is the third task? What challenge remains for these champions?”

Narcissa's smile widened, a glint of something predatory in her pale eyes. “Ah, that is yet to be revealed. A maze, I've heard. Twisting, turning… full of dark magic and creatures hidden within. It will test their courage, their wit, and their endurance.”

Selim's expression darkened. “And once again, we watch from afar. It seems the magical world prefers to keep us at arm's length.”

Narcissa's gaze flicked to Hulya, a glance that held too much curiosity for comfort. Hulya met it without wavering. Narcissa was a woman who understood power, who saw beneath the surface of words and gestures, and she was always testing, always seeking leverage.

“The old ways hold fast,” Hulya said softly, her words measured, each one chosen with care. “Even as the world shifts around them.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa murmured, her smile never faltering. “But it is the unexpected that changes the course of history. Wouldn't you agree?”

“We shall see,” Selim said, his voice cool. He turned his attention fully to Narcissa, his eyes narrowing. “But tell me, Narcissa, why have you travelled all this way? Surely, you did not come here to simply visit a childhood friend and to tell him stories of schoolchildren.”

Narcissa's smile shifted, cool and deliberate, the warmth draining from her gaze. “No, Selim, I didn't come here for stories. There are… developments in England. Dumbledore is moving against you, though he might never say it so plainly. He has never approved of your ascent to the throne. The German Confederation is whispering in his ear, and it seems your brother has found powerful friends. The tides are turning, and I fear they're aiming to sweep you away.”

Selim leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, a steady rhythm that belied the tension coiled within him. “And what would you have us do about these tides? About Albus Dumbledore?”

Narcissa's eyes glinted with a dangerous light, her voice soft but edged. “Watch carefully, Selim. Dumbledore plays a long game, and the pieces are moving. The world is shifting, and the ripples will reach even your empire. But,” she added with a faint smile, “not all of England shares his view. Lucius speaks for you, and there are those in the Ministry who prefer stability—your kind of stability—over the chaos Dumbledore's interference might bring.”

Hulya watched as Selim absorbed this, the silence stretching between them. The air was thick with tension, an invisible storm gathering strength. Narcissa was playing a game of her own, and whatever her true purpose, Hulya knew it wasn't simply to deliver warnings.

Selim's voice cut through the stillness, calm but with an edge that could slice through stone. “We will be ready, Narcissa. But understand this—if the old ways are threatened, if Dumbledore pushes too far, we will not stand idly by.”

Narcissa inclined her head, a glimmer of satisfaction curling her lips. “I never expected you would.”



After Narcissa left, the echoes of her words still lingered in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Hulya stood at the edge of the gathering, her eyes drifting to Sultan Selim. The tension in his posture, the barely restrained fury beneath the surface, was unmistakable.

A servant approached Hulya. “His Magnificence wishes to see you, Lady Hulya. At once.”

Selim stood by the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. The moonlight cast a pale glow over him, making him seem almost otherworldly—a figure carved from stone, ancient and unmoving. He didn't turn as she entered, but his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Lady Narcissa's visit,” he began, his tone measured, but the anger simmering just beneath the surface, “is only the latest in a long line of provocations. Albus Dumbledore and the Germans move against me, and Bayezid… he is not done with his ambitions. My brother's men still linger in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. They think I am vulnerable. They think I am distracted.”

He paused, his gaze locking onto hers. “But I am not distracted, Hulya. I see everything. And it is time for me to act.”

She remained silent, waiting for him to continue. She had learned long ago that patience was the key to survival in the Sultan's court. He would speak when he was ready, and not before.

Selim moved closer to her, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “Like many royal courts, mine is a den of ambition and intrigue, deception and flattery, of men and women who would curry my favour to enhance their stature or get into my bed. They gossip, sell tales, and find a way to discover our innermost secrets. Add to that the foreign ambassadors who report my every move to their masters, and one will see it is a tangled web of enmities, alliances, and outright scheming. It would make me a fool to believe everyone here is loyal.”

He stopped, the weight of his words hanging between them. “I need you to discover who truly stands with us.”

Hulya stiffened. She knew what he was asking of her.

“I am at your service, Magnificence,” she said softly, bowing her head.

“It is time for your revenge, Hulya,” he said, his voice colder. “Use the powers you were cursed with. Your dreams. Find the traitors. Root them out, one by one.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to remain calm. She had trained for this. She had prepared for this moment, ever since the day the spirit had been bound to her flesh, ever since her father had been taken from her. This was her purpose. This was her revenge.

“Yes, Magnificence,” she said, her voice steady. “I will do as you command.”

“You may go,” he said, dismissing her.

Hulya bowed and left the chamber, the weight of her mission heavy on her shoulders. She had always known she was a weapon, a tool for the Sultan's power. Now, it was time to use that weapon.



That night, her door locked with magic, she cut the ring from her robe and slipped it into her finger. Then, she laid down.

The dreams came. Galloping over the forest floor in the night fog, her breath coming out in short white wisps. It was a stallion she was riding, it's midnight black flesh peeking through trees like the taunts of a grim in the shadows. But she got closer. The stallion's legs picked up speed until she was nearly flying, one hand reaching out for the horse's mane while the other clasped the gem within her pocket.

Whispers grew in the edges of the forest. They swelled into a hum. The next second, the world dropped out from under her. The humming drew her further in, and she knew what was on the other side. The hum stopped and bent into a shudder that flowed through her body like a violin in an orchestra, and when she opened her eyes, the door to the hallway was now a door of light, shimmering and beckoning as if she had been there the whole time waiting for her to find it.

She rode the stallion into the dream drenched in such vivid colours that it hurt her eyes to look at. When she adjusted, she drank it up in small gulps. It had been so long. The sky was a purplish-blue on top of a horizon bathed in an orange glow, like a sunset that never faded. Tiny red petals floated by on a warm breeze that smelled faintly of happy times—a fire burning, the warm scent of borek and something flowery that reminded her of her papa.

She caught a bit of a song played on a kabak kemane. It was coming from the hilltop above. She picked up speed until she was galloping towards the music. Past the trees of spruce and pine, and by the shores of a bubbling brook. Where grass met air, her father sat, still in his blue robes, playing the instrument as he gazed over the edge of the cliff.

She leaped from the horse and fell to her knees. “Father!”

Her father turned.

“It has been a long time, my dearest lamb.”

“I'm sorry, father!” Hulya barely could speak. It was all she could do to hold back her emotions. For the last several months, all she had wanted was to reach out, but the command had forbidden her to. “I wanted to but —”

He held up a hand.

“There is no need to explain. I know what restrictions you are bound to, and what it means that you are here now. Come sit, my darling Hulya.”

Hulya sat beside her father, the warmth of his presence grounding her. The dreamscape hummed with the quiet music of the kabak kemane. She had waited so long for this moment, yet her heart remained steady, her purpose clear.

"I've earned his trust, Father," she said quietly, her voice calm. "What is the next step?"

Her father paused, gazing out over the horizon. "Europe is in chaos, my lamb. Factions splinter, alliances shift. There is a spark waiting to be lit, and when it ignites, the whole continent will burn."

She listened closely, absorbing each word. “And you want to light it?”

He nodded, a dark gleam in his eyes. “The sultan is not your only enemy, Hulya. The world beyond our borders is restless. We will use that. But not yet. Your role is to continue as you are. Be his loyal servant. Learn, watch. The time will come, but it must be when the fire will spread farthest.”

She met his gaze. “I understand. I'll be ready when you call on me.”

His smile was small but full of pride. “I know you will. We will hurt everyone that has kept you from me. Anyone who has wronged us will find their empires turned to ash.”

"Go back," her father said softly. "Continue as you have been. The time will come, and when it does, you will know."

The dream faded, the colours around them softening into mist. Hulya stayed still, absorbing every detail until the last note of the kabak kemane faded, and she was alone again in her darkened chamber.


Her dreams, now a tool of invaluable precision, revealed more than mere whispers. One night, she found herself racing through the darkened forest, the stallion beneath her moving with the speed of her heartbeat. The whispers grew louder, forming a chorus of deceit. In the heart of the nightmare, Hulya saw the flicker of treachery.

A Janissary spy, hidden within Selim's ranks. His plot was laid bare before her, a sinister weave of betrayal.

Hulya's warning came swift and sharp. The spy was seized, the immediate threat neutralised. She was rewarded. Her leash loosened.

Constantinople's streets thrummed with whispers. Betrayal and distrust seeped into every corner.

German Auroren, sensing the disarray within the empire, escalated their aggression. The city's merchants and traders spoke in hushed tones of approaching enemies and ominous signs. Rumors of German Aurorens gathering at the borders grew more frequent, each tale more alarming than the last. The air was thick with the scent of impending conflict.

The whispers of unrest grew louder, blending with the increasing frequency of German skirmishes along the empire's fringes. Constantinople, caught in the grip of uncertainty, became a tinderbox. Every new piece of intelligence, every strategic movement, seemed to add fuel to the growing fire of discontent.

June arrived in all its glory, bringing with it not only the warmth of summer but also the sparks of conflict. The empire, already a cauldron of strife, burst into flames. The Muggles, relentless in their war in the Balkans, played their part in this inferno.

When the Muggle mortars began raining down on Sarajevo, the Serbian wizards slaughtered their Ottoman friends and neighbours, cheered on by the notorious Germans and Austrians.

That same day, thousands of miles away, on a dreary and cold island, a boy screamed while the Dark Lord rose.

It was on this day; the historians later said, that the Second Great Wizarding War began.

 

Spoiler

Certainly a Foreign Magical Region, no doubt about that. Unfortunately too foreign at times for the little old me. Strange foreign names, I'm used to, and I can skim over them and remember their differences at the same time so I don't lose track later, but there's a lot of stuff I simply don't know what they are. In the longer work, with enough repetition, I would pick up on the most, likely, but in this piece if there's two of them in the sentence I just skimmed over the whole thing, and maybe lost a lovely bit of prose because of it.

I think I can safely split this story in two: First part of it, while very well written and set up, is mostly introductory. We don't get almost anything from the MC, a tiny bit of her history, a touch of her musings on the current events, and that's it; she's just an observer. And I think it goes for a little too long without any of her input.

The second part steps into more familiar territory, and brilliantly links the foreign with domestic, with something we --- the readers --- understand. I enjoyed it a lot. And a scheme within the larger scheme as well. It's satisfying in its ending, with even me wanting a bit more of it. I guess it works well as it is, but I cannot shake off the feeling that it would work much much better as the far larger story, tying all those innuendos together.

Good stuff, all in all.

 

Spoiler

This is a banger for sure. There's a certain timelessness to how you portray the Ottomans, which is honestly interesting. It felt like it would've taken place centuries ago, and then Narcissa enters and suddenly you're given a great deal more of context on what else is going on.

That said, it does feel like the prologue to a larger story. For some reason. Hard to put my finger on. Taken in that light though it's a fantastic prologue, presuming this Hulya is a protagonist or a vital character.

You've got a deft hand with characterization, I think. The Sultan having his hand forced to kill his brother because he just wouldn't shut up is a standout scene for sure, as is it ending abruptly on a child being taken because they couldn't take an unbreakable vow yet. That's brutal. I approve.

Part 1 is maybe a little long, but otherwise this is great.

 

Spoiler

The first half feels almost like an original fantasy novel, with how different the Ottomans feel compared to the British. This is a culture that is very traditional - far more than the British Purebloods - yet at the same time not nearly focused on blood. Yes, it looks like Muggleborns are removed from their families and raised to be Janissaries and servants of the palace... but they are also the mothers of the Princes, and are the Viziers running the empire.

I also caught this sentence, which was interesting:

A heaviness crept over the world. In the North, Istanbul thrived in vibrant chaos, the sky blazing with the hues of dawn. But around the palace, the light dimmed, as if daybreak had been halted. Even the clouds, once thick and swollen with rain, transformed into a muted, wintry grey. Hulya watched as the dullness spread, sapping the brilliance from all it touched.

Constantinople is still what they call the magical city, and it is close to Istanbul in geography.

The second half does bring us closer to what we know. Suddenly we are introduced to the time period, as well as tie-ins with GoF. Narcissa is the only canon character that we see, and she shines in this scene. Not only do we discover that the Blacks had connections to the Sultans of the Ottomans long ago, we see the international politics of wizards. And why many are against Dumbledore.

Overall, the setting is wonderful, as well as the feelings it generates. However, Hulya is passive for a huge portion of the story. It might be better if she has some more direct actions in the first half, or find a way to cut down the first half to be less long. Secondly, I do agree with the others, this feels more like a prologue than a complete story (though it does work as a story).

 

Spoiler

As a fan of Ottoman history, you made the empire feel immortal. I appreciated the reference to Mehmed III and his relationship to England helping tie this modern Sultan to the past. But I fear you have gone too far and while the timelessness feels accurate, it also feels like it is adrift in the sea of time. We don't know that it is modern until Narcissa shows up, but even then, it doesn't feel like it is connected to the modern world that it is set in. I felt like it would have been a better tragedy for the empire had Hulya been active during the first wizarding war, or even better, during the first world war. The empire relying on magic when its own wizards hated and feared the Sultan could have been more dramatic.
But back on the first hand, you've built up to something exciting and interesting. I want to know more about the second wizarding war in the balkans. I want to know about the absoulte clusterfuck that is, from our perspective, NATO getting into the balkans, and then what happens with Kosovo.
Which isn't the thrust of your story. Your story is about palace intrigue and we don't get to see much of it. Hulya is beyond the palace intrigue, she's already sworn to the throne, and while vilified by the many, she is valued by the Sultan. We just don't see enough of her maneuvering in the palace to make it sink in. I'm reminded of the anime The Raven Consort. While she deals with palace intrigue, she is seperated from it, and its a detraction, not a benefit. Hulya needs to be in the thick of it if we are to explore it.
But does it meet the prompt? Absolutely.
Ideas for improvement: What you have is golden, but the reader needs to have an introductory knowledge of the Harem and the Janissaries to make sense of this. Adding additional chapters beforehand to explicate this, and then further chapters dealing with the Hulya's attempt at overthrowing/humiliating the sultanate during/after the Bosnian war would be a great expansion.
I would gladly read more of this.

 

Spoiler

Taking me back to very vaguely remembered A-level history, here.

Writing is very good, although not without a couple of errors – the Janissaries ‘shouting at anyone who laundered’ stands out, unless there’s another meaning of laundered I’m not aware of?

Nice sense of timelessness; feels like it could be a genuine period piece, so much so that the sudden appearance of Narcissa is perhaps a little jarring. Also, nice sense of place, with very vivid descriptions.

The Binding scene is horrible in the best way; kudos.

It’s interesting to see Dumbledore presented as getting involved in international politics beyond Voldemort; rationally, you know that as Supreme Mugwump he must do on occasion, but it’s not something I’ve really seen before (assuming, of course, that we can trust what Narcissa is saying and the Sultan believes, which is obviously not entirely certain).

Hulya’s hybrid magic is interesting – it’s a shame we don’t see more of it.

I’d happily read more of this – please keep it coming!

 

Spoiler

You write really beautifully. The descriptions of nature and seasons in particular are just gorgeous and flow like they're written by a pro.

For someone like me who is mostly unfamiliar with this prt of the world, there are too many new titles and names and they blend into each other. I lost track of who some of the people were, also mistakenly thought one of the titles was a name for a good chunk of the fic.

You've struck a very good balance between the beauty in the setting and the brutal, almost dystopian fate most of the characters seem to have. Very effectful.


I find the story in itself a bit difficult to rate. If I think of it as a short story then I'd need the first half to be a lot more concise and more stuff happening/fleshing out in the latter half. You have the plot twists there but they're not given enough room to shine. If it's part of a much longer story then I'd urge you not to cut any of the beginning because it's very well-written and the drawn-out scene works so well with your decriptions, just a lovely read. I think either way you should bring out your protagonist a bit more. If you want her to stay mysterious to the reader during the first bit then we need more of her feelings and inner workings and just who she is later on.