Sylus | Sultan

The air is thick with scents of saffron and roasted lamb, the cries of merchants hawking their wares echoing off sandstone walls. Heat shimmers over the wide, sunbaked street of the bazaar, where every stall glitters with trinkets, fabrics and spices spilling from burlap sacks.

You’re still struggling against the chains biting into your wrists, your voice raw from shouting. The slaver’s hand comes down across your face again - a sharp, stinging crack that splits your lip. The metallic tang of blood fills your mouth, but you only glare harder.

That’s when the crowd parts. A man approaches, flanked by guards in black-and-gold armor. His robe is a deep cobalt trimmed with gold thread, the fabric heavy and expensive. Silver hair spills from under his loosely wrapped turban, and a pair of sharp, unreadable crimson eyes lock onto you with unsettling focus. He moves like a predator that already knows the outcome of the hunt.

The slaver stiffens, his tone suddenly respectful. "Your Excellency, may I offer—"

But the man ignores him, stepping close enough for you to see the glint of fine rings on his fingers. His hand lifts, brushing his thumb across your mouth. Warm skin. A smudge of your blood streaked across your cheek.

"How much?" His voice is low and smooth, but cold enough to raise goosebumps along your arms.

The slaver chuckles nervously. "This one? She’s wild. Not worth the trouble, my Sultan. I have others—"

"I asked how much."

They haggle quickly, gold coins flashing in the sun before passing into the slaver’s hands. The guards seize you, pulling you toward a gilded sedan chair draped in silks. You twist to speak, to demand answers, but the Sultan has already turned away, reclining in the shaded interior as if you’re of no more concern than the weather. The guards push you forward, and you have no choice but to follow.

//

The palace is nothing like you expected. You’re led through marble courtyards where water runs in shallow channels, perfumed gardens heavy with the scent of osmantus, and hallways lit with hanging bronze lanterns that sway gently in the afternoon breeze. Your bare feet sink into thick woven rugs, each more intricate than the last.

Instead of the kitchen or the servants’ quarters, you’re taken to a part of the palace where women lounge on embroidered cushions, their laughter soft and melodic. The air here smells of rosewater and incense, and silks in jewel tones hang from archways like waterfalls of color. A woman rises to greet you. She’s tall, draped in soft peach-colored silk, her brown hair braided with gold thread. Her smile is warm, her voice lilting.

"I’m Tara," she says, taking your hands as if you’re an honored guest rather than a prize bought in a marketplace. "Valide Sultan - I keep order here in the harem."

You’re too stunned to respond at first, but Tara goes on, gently steering you deeper inside.

"You have nothing to fear. Our Sultan is a kind man. He rarely visits here at all… and when he does, it’s only by invitation." She tilts her head, a teasing glimmer in her eyes. "Though you are new, and that makes tonight… an exception. He will speak to you in private later."

Before you can question her, you’re swept away by a cluster of women. They bathe you in warm water scented with orange blossoms, their chatter filling the air like the hum of bees. A soft cloth dabs at your split lip, cool ointment eases the sting. Fingers braid and coil your hair, brushing golden powder along your eyelids. When they dress you, it’s in something lighter than a whisper. Layers of gossamer silk in deep sapphire, slashed with gold. A jewelled girdle rests against your hips, chains of tiny bells chiming with every step you take.

By the time night falls, the harem glows with candlelight. Guards wait at the door. You’re escorted through dim corridors where the air is cooler, quieter. When the massive cedar doors to his chamber open, you almost forget to breathe. It’s an oasis - the murmur of a small fountain in the corner, lush green fronds catching the golden flicker of candles. Sheer white curtains billow at the terrace doors, the scent of night-blooming flowers drifting in. At the far end of the room, a four-poster bed rises like a throne, its drapes whisper-thin. You see the silhouette of a man sitting against the pillows, silver hair catching the light like strands of molten moonlight.

"Come closer," Sylus says.

His voice is low, steady, but it carries through the room like a command woven into the air itself. You hesitate. And then your gaze snags on the nearby table. A fruit bowl, and beside it - a slim stiletto, the blade’s hilt catching the candlelight.

You start walking towards the bed, slowly, your hand carefully reaching for the stiletto, fingers curling around the handle, sliding the weapon behind your back. The silk at your hips swishes softly as you step forward, each footfall heavier than the last, your heartbeat drumming so loud you’re certain he can hear it. Sylus leans back slightly, resting an arm along his bent knee, the picture of a man who has never been threatened in his life.

“Sit,” he says, softer now, as though he’s offering the choice rather than giving an order.