Chapter 6: Mustafa's First Prayer
Friday.
Mother dressed Mustafa and me. Today, we would be accompanying the Sultan—yes, the Sultan, not Father. It would be the first Friday prayer that Sultan Suleiman would offer at the Fatih Mosque in Istanbul. This mosque, originally built by Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror (Fatih Sultan Mehmet), had long been associated with imperial ceremonies, including Friday processions and the public appearances of sultans.
I recalled seeing the trailer of Sultan Fatih's drama, said to release in late November on Netflix—before I found myself in this... dream.
"Orhan and Mustafa, my lions, behave yourselves. Today, you'll be accompanying your father to the mosque for prayer," Mother said as she sat on a wide velvet sofa. On either side of her sat us—her sons.
"But Mother, I don't know how to pray…" Mustafa mumbled, his voice laced with anxiety. His small hands fidgeted nervously, clearly afraid that he might disappoint Suleiman… and that his father might no longer want to see him again.
"It's alright, Mustafa. There's no need to be nervous," she said with warmth in her voice. "Your elder brother Orhan will be there with you, and so will your father and Uncle Ibrahim Pasha. Just follow their movements, my dear." She gently cupped Mustafa's cheeks, playing with them affectionately before turning to do the same to me. Well… I was still a child too.
"Orhan, aren't you nervous?" she asked, looking at me gently.
I shook my head. "No, Mother. Father and Uncle Ibrahim will be there. As long as Father is with me, I fear no one in this world—except Allah."
"My brave son," she smiled, "I heard from the servants that you were praying last night in your room."
"Yes, Mother. I learned how to pray from Uncle Ibrahim back in the Manisa Palace. I was praying to Allah, asking Him to give you all the happiness and joy in the world. I even asked Him to give you and Father a long and healthy life. If possible, I prayed for my lifespan to be given to you instead. I... I don't want to see you die before me."
I knew I'd just thrown Uncle Ibrahim under the bus… though, wait—was there even a bus in this timeline? No. Was the train even invented yet? Let's just say I threw him under a horse's hoof.
"Oh, my sweet son…" Mother's voice trembled. "Don't ever wish to give your life to me. How would this mother live without her two sons?" She hugged us tightly. Her eyes turned red, and I could hear her heartbeat—fast and anxious.
But what I prayed for wasn't something poetic. It was inevitable. At the very least, I thought, Mustafa and I might be banished someday. I could accept it—I didn't belong here. But would Mustafa? No... he wouldn't.
Knock, knock.
"My Sultan! It is time for us to leave," Uncle Ibrahim's voice came from beyond the massive metal doors. He had to shout for his words to reach us.
The doors creaked open, and in walked Uncle Ibrahim in his usual formal attire. Mother stood to watch us go. Mustafa and I each took one of his hands, ready to walk out.
We couldn't keep the Sultan waiting.
"Mother, I'll be back soon," I said, glancing back.
Mustafa saw me and did the same. "Mother, I'll come back too!" he declared.
I smiled. This was what I meant—young siblings follow the footsteps of their elder brothers and sisters. Children at this age were like blank slates, and the world around them was the chalk. When they grow up spoiled, the adults blame the child. But it's the environment that molds them.
I was confident that the fruits of my labor would bloom one day. I planned to raise Mustafa into the best version of a Sultan—an ideal son, husband, and brother.
Mustafa and I stood outside in the sunlight, waiting for Father to arrive. The sun glared down on us, and Father still wasn't ready. I wasn't sure how people perceived time here. I'd never paid much attention to these details in the drama, but judging by the expressions of those around us, we were definitely running late.
Everyone gathered here was of considerable status. No one approached us directly—soldiers guarded us, and Uncle Ibrahim stopped anyone from coming too close.
"Brother, I'm scared," Mustafa whispered, holding onto me tightly.
I patted his head. "Don't worry, Mustafa. I'm here. Just follow what I do. And remember... I saw how you treated Aunt when we arrived. I didn't say anything back then, but remember: no matter how powerful you become, the only people who will never betray you are your family."
"I know, Brother. I was wrong… I just wanted to see Father," he admitted.
I nodded. That day, I had chosen silence for a reason. Trying to reason with someone who is emotional—especially in front of strangers—often makes them resist even more. That goes for both children and adults.
"You know, it takes true strength to admit your mistakes. Many warriors lack that courage. But Mustafa does not. So tell me—what does that make you?"
"The strongest!" Mustafa beamed, his smile as radiant as the morning sun.
I smiled too but said nothing more. Enough lectures for today. If I kept talking every day like this, my words would lose their meaning.
"The Sultan of the World—Sultan Suleiman—is here!" the Gate Sergeant shouted.
Everyone bowed their heads as Sultan Suleiman emerged in a luxurious robe—a sky blue-green garment embroidered with gold threads and glittering with tiny diamonds that caught the sunlight.
I bowed my head, and so did Mustafa—though a little late. By the time he finished bowing, most people had already raised their heads. But I didn't correct him. He was still learning.
Father walked up to us and ruffled our hair gently, trying to show affection. But then, as if suddenly remembering the people around him, he quickly straightened his posture and walked ahead with his head held high.
At the sergeant's call, the guards formed ranks. Sultan Suleiman mounted his steed—a white Arabian warhorse—and the Friday procession began. Golden banners fluttered behind him as a procession of officials, guards, and commoners followed in reverent silence.
After the Friday prayer, Father remained seated on his horse while a soldier collected petitions from civilians gathered outside the Fatih Mosque. These were the grievances suffered under the previous rule—under Sultan Selim, Father's father… my grandfather.
Mustafa and I walked on foot toward the Main Palace while Father remained atop his horse, basking in the crowd's admiration, his name echoing in whispers of awe.
Mustafa, tired from the heat and excitement, began to drag his feet. I asked Uncle Ibrahim if he could carry him.
"Of course," he agreed, hoisting Mustafa up easily. "Would you like me to carry you too?"
I shook my head with a smile. "Thank you, but I'm fine. I'm not tired."
I wasn't lying. Thanks to the system that had been gradually rewarding me with stat points, I had grown stronger—almost like a superhuman. Though my body still limited my movements, I knew I had potential. I just had to put in the work.
I had plans. Starting tomorrow, I would begin training in earnest. Nothing out of the ordinary—just the usual routine: a 10km run, 100 pushups, 100 pullups, 100 side jumps. And I would now add 100 sword swings to my arsenal.
When the day came for me to stand on the battlefield, I needed a reason for my strength. People would believe it if they saw I had been training hard since childhood.
Back at the palace, Mustafa fell asleep the moment we arrived. I instructed the servants not to disturb us—unless it had been at least 20 minutes. They assumed we were resting and left quietly.
I performed wudu, purifying myself. Then, I unrolled my prayer mat, faced the Qibla, and began my afternoon prayers.
Yes, I had already offered the afternoon prayer earlier—but that was the Sunni method. And like the saying goes: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. So I had followed the others during the mosque prayer.
But now… now it was time for my prayer.
I was a Shia. Our namaz differed, even in the call to prayer (adhan). We recited:
"Ash-hadu anna Aliy-yan wali-yullāh" (أشهد أن عليا ولي الله)
Translation: "I bear witness that Ali is the vicegerent of Allah."
This came right after:
"Ash-hadu anna Muḥammadar rasūlu-llāh" (أشهد أن محمدًا رسول الله)
Translation: "I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah."
We also prayed Zuhr and Asr together, unlike Sunnis who offered them separately.
I didn't feel guilty for praying again. Allah is the Most Merciful. He knew my intentions. Whether I prayed once or twice, He understood my sincerity.