A mix of nerves and worry hit me when I got a sudden message from my father the sultan. He wanted all his sons and the Imperial Council together for a quick meeting. Normally, he doesn't call us all like this unless it's really important.
Everyone started guessing. Maybe my father the sultan was really dead which means I and my brothers are going to start killing each other's and we were bracing for the worst. In our family, though, things got tense when talk turned to who might take over. Being a son in the Ottoman Empire meant you were automatically seen as a potential threat to the throne.
I personally didn't care about ruling, but how do I tell my brothers that without them thinking I was plotting against them? That wasn't going to be easy. In our world, you always had to watch your back when it came to who was next in line.
"I could hear each step echo as I walked through the central hallway, the focal point of the Selamlık, my mind racing to decipher why our father had summoned us so urgently as I made my way towards the hall."
"I realized my brothers and the viziers were already all seated at the Divan, the grand council chamber of the palace. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting vibrant hues onto the intricately woven carpets that lined the floor. The room itself was a masterpiece of Ottoman architecture, with soaring ceilings adorned with intricate arabesques and golden filigree. Cushioned divans arranged around a massive, intricately carved wooden table awaited occupants, each seat a throne in its own right. The air was thick with anticipation, the weight of impending decisions palpable as courtiers murmured among themselves, awaiting the Sultan's arrival."
"I'm a little late," I muttered inwardly after politely greeting everyone. The viziers responded to my greetings amiably, but my brothers only offered tight-lipped smiles. Selim, my eldest brother, ignored me completely, intensifying my apprehension about what was to come.
"Yes, son, you are indeed a bit late," one of the viziers sitting next to me remarked with a smirk, breaking the awkward silence.
I was about to apologize when the elegant entrance of my father, the king, prompted everyone to rise to their feet and bow.
"Although he was extremely old and supported by four men to help him to his throne, the fear his presence struck in us was always present and palpable."
"As he settled onto his ornate throne, draped in robes of regal splendor, the weight of his gaze swept over us like a tempest. Despite his age, his eyes burned with a fierce intensity, commanding respect and obedience from all who stood before him.
"I want Mustafa, my younger son, to be the next king when I'm no more," he declared with a voice that, though weakened by time, carried the authority of years of rule. who ever doesn't want to comply with this decision I made will die by his sword His words hung in the air, heavy with the implications they carried for the future of the empire and the dynamics among his sons."
"It was like my breath seized for a while upon hearing my father declare me the next king. I was his least favorite child among his 24 children, both male and female. He always sent me to wars while sending the others on vacations and marrying his daughters to men of dignity.
I gulped for breath, steeling myself for what to say or do next. 'Why me?' I questioned, my demeanor somber.
Normally, I knew it was against the law to question the king's authority, but at this point, my life was at stake, so why should I fear death? The guards moved toward me, intending to enforce the rule, but my father slowly raised his left hand, signaling them to leave me alone.
"Mustafa, my son," he began, his voice carrying the weight of years of rule, "you may think I have favored others because your mother is my youngest wife or because I've sent you to war. But the ways of a king are different from those of a common villager. You will come to understand this during your reign. I have chosen you as our future king because of your wisdom and fearlessness in battle. A good king in the Ottoman Empire is not merely one who commands from a throne but one who can lead in war, manage the economy, and make sound decisions. I believe in you, Mustafa, my youngest son. Time and again, you have proven yourself capable without my guidance."
"But, Father, have I not been a good son to you as well? Have I not done everything in my power to ensure the success of the Ottoman Empire?" Bayezid, my father's closest son, interjected, disappointment evident in his tone.
My father turned to Bayezid, raising a brow and speaking with authority, his voice showing his age. "All my sons are unique in their own ways. But I, Sultan Murad of the Ottoman Empire, have spoken."
As my father, Sultan Murad, named me his successor, he stood up from his throne, and the hall went quiet. Everyone looked uneasy, exchanging worried glances. I felt honored but also sensed tension among my brothers.
After my father left, the room stayed tense. People whispered nervously, and I saw Bayezid's disappointed look, hinting at challenges ahead.
Alone in the hall, I felt the weight of my father's decision. This wasn't just about becoming king; it sparked rivalry among us brothers. I knew leading wouldn't be easy, needing both strength and wisdom to handle family tensions.
I saw my father watching from through the blurred day light window, sorrounded with multitude of guards. His face showed pride and concern. I realized how big a responsibility I now had.
As I thought about what lay ahead, I promised myself to live up to my father's trust. Being king would test me like never before, navigating family ambitions and keeping our empire strong.
I quietly left the hall, bewildered by the mixed reactions around me some offered congratulatory smiles while others stared bluntly. As I walked through the hallway to my chamber, I couldn't shake off the weight of the news. I decided to visit the Sultan's harem where my mother lived to share it with her.
Upon seeing me, my mother greeted me with her characteristic warmth a genuine smile that no one else on this planet could replicate.
My mother's chamber and mine were in separate places; she resided in the harem, the female quarters, while I stayed in the selamlik, the male quarters. We had been separated for over six years, since I turned 18. Despite this, I visited her once or twice a week.
"I have something important to tell you," I began, my voice a mix of uncertainty and determination. "Father has chosen me to be the next king."
Her eyes widened with pride and concern. "Mustafa, my son," she said softly, "this is a great honor, but it comes with great responsibility."
Understanding the weight of her words, I nodded. "I know, Mother. I need to be careful."
She placed a reassuring hand on mine. "You've always been wise. Trust yourself and the values that guide you."
Her words bolstered my resolve. In that moment, surrounded by the comfort of the harem, I knew that despite the challenges ahead, I would face them with the love of my mother and the teachings of my father.
"Mustafa! Come out here!" male voices interrupted my thoughts, their tone riotous. Though my stomach fluttered, I knew I had to stay strong to prevent my mother from being frightened.
"If I said I wasn't expecting this, I'd be lying. It happened sooner than I imagined. I pondered how to approach them without provoking a fight, but no peaceful solution came to mind. One thing is certain: I won't allow them to harm my mother. I'm prepared to show them the terror I can unleash on the battlefield, I bet none of them wants to witness me taking a life out of them with my bare hands, none of them wants to see the main reason why father has chosen me as the future king, I am ready to show them what I am capable of if they dare me. I smirked at my thought before going to get the door open."