Chapter 5: Father and Son Time
"Move, I want to see Father."
Mustafa, tightly clutching my hand, shouted boldly at the guards stationed outside the entrance of the Sultan's Royal Court—also known as the Divan-ı Hümayun. Father was currently holding one of his daily meetings inside, where matters of the empire were decided. Present within were the usual dignitaries: the Grand Vizier (Sadrazam), who chaired the council; the Viziers, high-ranking ministers; the Kazasker, military judges; the Nişancı, keeper of the imperial seal and records; and the Defterdar, the empire's treasurer.
I knelt beside my younger brother, trying to keep my tone calm.
"Mustafa, Father is in a meeting. Let's go back. We'll meet him at lunchtime—or during prayer."
But this little lion cub wasn't easily convinced. He shook his head vigorously, his small arms flailing with dramatic flair.
"Brother, nooo! I want to meet Father now, please!"
He tugged at my sleeve with such force that I nearly lost my balance. His eyes began to redden, a delicate shimmer forming—threatening to spill into tears at any moment. I sighed. For all the nobility in our blood, we still wielded the same universal weapon of childhood: relentless persistence wrapped in cuteness.
Suddenly, the voices from inside fell silent. I recognized Father's authoritative tone as he issued a final command. Moments later, the great gilded doors creaked open.
Out stepped Uncle Ibrahim.
He knelt on one knee to come level with us, his expression softening immediately when he saw Mustafa's puffy eyes and my wearied face.
"My Şehzades," he greeted, his voice warm and soothing. "What's wrong? Tell me."
Let me pause and paint the picture properly—especially for those future poets tempted to romanticize this scene.
Uncle Ibrahim, known across the realm as Pargalı Ibrahim Pasha, possessed the charm of a nobleman carved from marble. Sharp cheekbones, a tall figure, and robes that whispered wealth—he carried himself like a man born to stand beside thrones, whispering strategy and secrets. His eyes were intelligent, almost calculating. The sort that seemed to always know what chess piece you were and whether you'd be useful in the next move.
Still, I couldn't help staring at his hairline, which was valiantly losing the battle against time.
'Is balding early a mark of wisdom?' I mused. 'Or does hair flee in the presence of overwhelming power?'
As for Father—Sultan Suleiman, the man the world would one day call "The Magnificent"—he still sat inside those doors. Poets would one day marvel at his sharp gaze, noble robes, perfectly kept beard, and voice that brooked no disobedience.
But to me?
'He's in his late twenties and already looks like his hairline is racing for the horizon,' I thought dryly.
Uncle Ibrahim gently wiped away one of Mustafa's tears and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Your father is speaking with the council, little lion. But I'll make sure he knows you came. Will that be alright?"
Mustafa nodded reluctantly, sniffing once. His pride wouldn't allow him to cry further—not in front of our very regal, very nearly bald uncle.
[Choose One of the Following Options]
Option 1: Force your way into the Sultan's Royal Court — Reward: Ultimate Skill
Option 2: Command Ibrahim Pasha to summon the Sultan — Reward: Ibrahim Pasha Favorability -20
Option 3: Convince Ibrahim Pasha to deliver a subtle message — Reward: +1 Intelligence Attribute
Without hesitation, I selected Option 3. From my past life experience, I knew high rewards often came with high risks—and no life, especially mine, should be wasted over something so minor. If I were to be of any use to the empire, I had to survive, grow, and bide my time.
"Uncle Ibrahim," I said, pointing to a large iron grill shaped like a window, composed of small square openings. "Mustafa and I will stand there. Could you ask Father to just glance in our direction? Even a nod would be enough."
I looked back at him—but in truth, I was watching the system panel.
[+1 Intelligence]
I smirked inwardly. At least it wasn't something useless.
"Why didn't I think of that?" Uncle Ibrahim said, clearly impressed. His mouth stayed open for a moment before snapping shut. "Alright. I'll do it."
He stood and guided us to the opposite side of the grill. Then he stepped inside and whispered something in Father's ear. The Sultan paused mid-command and looked toward us.
I didn't stand too long. I leaned against the wall, letting it support me while I waited for the meeting to end.
Though I was a prince—Sultan's blood in my veins—I wasn't impressed by how the empire functioned. Women, alcohol, slave trading, corruption. The land that claimed the name of Islam was rife with vices. And the one man who had the power to stop it? He condoned it.
Even Hurrem Sultan—once Alexandra—was a victim of that system.
She was originally from what is now Western Ukraine, born near Rohatyn. At 13, kidnapped by Crimean Tatars during a raid, she spent years as a captive aboard ships before entering the palace at around 15 or 16. Imagine watching your family slaughtered, then living in chains for years—only to be told to serve a strange man.
She was lucky. Sultan Suleiman was still young then. I remember the drama I once saw: even at sixty, the Sultan was known to take concubines barely out of girlhood.
Power... it had clearly gone to his head.
"Brother! Look, Father is waving at me! Let's wave back together!"
Mustafa tugged at my sleeve. I followed his lead, wearing a smile I didn't feel and nodding stiffly in Father's direction.
Pretending joy while looking at a man who never once showed affection since your birth... that's not something I was trained for. I wasn't a professional actor—I simply did what I thought was right.
Later, after the council dispersed, Uncle Ibrahim brought us to Father's resting chamber. There, he had been teaching Mustafa how to write using a charcoal stick—the closest thing to a pencil in this era.
"My lions!"
Father strode in and immediately lifted Mustafa into his arms while resting a hand atop my head.
Uncle Ibrahim respectfully stepped back, head bowed like a loyal servant.
"What were you both doing?" Father asked as he took a seat on the carpeted area, nestled between cushions and a small wooden table. Ibrahim had set it up as a learning space for us.
"Uncle Ibrahim was teaching us to write," I replied, "because Mustafa wanted to meet you before going to school."
"Oh? And why does my little lion refuse school?"
"Father, I wanted to see you!" Mustafa said as he nestled his small head on Father's chest. "I don't want to go to school. It's boring. I want to go hunting with you, fight with swords, and travel!"
My throat tightened. That same little boy would one day be betrayed—by this very man. Mustafa, the child who sought nothing more than love and attention, would be executed on Father's command. All because his presence threatened Hurrem's children.
Yes, Second Mother had her schemes. But the final decision—the sword—lay in Father's hand. He could've exiled us. Instead, he chose blood.
The drama I once watched began to make more sense now, especially after gaining that Intelligence stat. My thoughts had become clearer, faster. A small blessing.
I only hoped to grow quickly. There were many things I had to accomplish before I, too, faced the blade.
The following days were uneventful. As children, we were kept far from the empire's intricacies—which, in my case, was a blessing. While Mustafa played, I immersed myself in prayer.
Though prayer wasn't yet obligatory at my age, I wanted to pray—for my mother's health, for Mustafa, even for Second Mother's unborn children. I smiled when I caught Mustafa mimicking my movements. I didn't mind at all. If he developed faith young, it might protect him in the future.
The maids were stunned that a child not yet nine could pray so precisely. Yes, there were minor differences between mosque prayers and those offered at home. At home, one had to begin by giving the Azan before prayer.
I entered prostration and rested my forehead on my right palm—my Sijdagah. As a Shia, I prayed using a clay tablet made from the sacred soil of Karbala. As I currently was unable to find the Sijdagah I had to use the alternative that My mother in reality had taught me which was that I could also use my hand as temporary alternative if I didn't have anything to press my forehead on.
A/N: Kakh-e-Shifa refers to the sacred clay from Karbala, Iraq—where Imam Hussain, grandson of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, was martyred in 680 AD. The Sijdagah (Mohr) is a small, round piece of this clay used by Shia Muslims during prayer, placed beneath the forehead during Sajdah.
As I prayed, Mustafa played nearby. One maid leaned toward a servant, whispering about whether my actions were correct. Their confusion only confirmed my suspicion: some of these palace servants weren't even Muslims. Or at least, they lacked knowledge about their faith.
Yet here I was—a boy, not yet nine—showing them the way.
And still, no one questioned how or why.