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The marble corridors of the palace were cold, even with the midday sun beating down on the domed roofs of the capital. Sultan Selim stood by the arched window of his private chambers, his gaze fixed on the Bosphorus. In the file of his mind—much like the data in —the events of the past few months were organized into sharp, painful clarity.

He turned away from the window, the heavy silk of his robes sweeping against the stone. The episode of his grief was over; the season of his absolute rule had begun. He sat at his desk and dipped his quill into the ink, ready to write the next chapter of an empire that would remember him as "The Magnificent," never knowing the cost of the ink he used. SultanP01E0320221080pmkv

"Only to say your name, Sultan. He carried your childhood wooden sword to the end." The marble corridors of the palace were cold,