Several years had passed since Khairi ascended as Sultan of Zapheris. The air in the palace still carried the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens Sitri had loved, now tended with religious devotion by the servants. Many hailed him as the greatest ruler the kingdom had ever known. He not only forged a powerful alliance with the Borealian Empire by marrying his youngest sister, Fedra, to Crown Prince Roman Chernigov, but he also revolutionized the nation's education and healthcare systems—making both entirely free for all citizens. His progressive policies were met with fierce opposition from the court, but Khairi had little patience for the complaints of old, corrupt nobles.

With the unwavering support of his Haseki Sultan and beloved wife, Sitri, he had felt unstoppable. For her, he would have done anything. Even dissolve the harem, as he'd promised after the birth of their first child. Then, in a single day, everything changed. The midwife's screams still echoed in his nightmares, followed by the silence that came after Sitri's final breath. She died giving birth to their son, who, frail and weak, did not survive past the day of his birth. The loss shattered Khairi, and the grief rippled through the kingdom like a stone cast into still water.

To the concubines and their ambitious families, however, it was an opportunity—a chance for one of them to rise as the new Kadin, or perhaps even the next Haseki Sultan. But Khairi had no interest in replacing Sitri. After her death, he abandoned the harem entirely, withdrawing not only from his court but from the world itself. The marble halls once filled with laughter now echoed with emptiness as he neglected meetings, ignored foreign emissaries, and left much of the kingdom's administration to his younger brother, Duke Rushdi al-Bangura.

Under the cover of night, Khairi infiltrated one of Sabri's trading ships, the salt air stinging his face as he slipped past bribed port guards who turned a blind eye to the carriage of captives being smuggled in. As he had suspected, the slaves were from the war-ravaged kingdom of Yikarafel, their fates cruelly sealed by the aftermath of conflict with the Dark Lord. The metallic clink of chains and muffled sobs drifted across the water, making his blood boil with righteous anger.

The trail led him beyond the capital, through winding roads and shadowed forests where moonlight filtered through ancient olive trees, until he arrived at a remote village near Count Sabri's mithril mines. The earth here smelled of damp stone and sweat, a stark contrast to the perfumed air of his palace. As Khairi slipped into the village, he moved like a shadow, careful not to draw attention from the guards patrolling with torches that cast long, dancing shadows.

The air inside the barracks was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and damp wood. The slaves were crammed into iron-barred cages, their eyes dull with hopelessness. Khairi swept his gaze across the dimly lit room, but then—he froze. Curled up on the cold floor of one of the cages was a frail young woman, barely conscious. Her body was gaunt, her breathing shallow. Yet it was not her pitiful state that sent a tremor through Khairi—it was her face. In the flickering torchlight, she looked almost exactly like Sitri.