After the Sultan’s decisive victory, the change in the lord’s attitudes was dramatic.
Those who had maintained neutrality until now rushed to send wealth and troops.
Thanks to this, the Sultan’s expanded army looked even more formidable, causing many to surrender at the mere sight of it.
But the Sultan’s forgiveness was not given out of mercy alone—it was a calculated decision. If he acted too harshly, there was a risk that more would join the rebel forces.
Murad’s plan had succeeded perfectly, and in the end, Little Mustafa, having lost the majority of his forces, led the remnants into flight toward the Karamanid principality.
No one doubted Murad’s victory any longer.
The Anatolian lords once again pledged loyalty to the Sultan and sent him generous tributes.
Yet by the time the tributes arrived, the Sultan’s expression had already turned cold.
The worth of loyalty is determined by who pledges it.
“How can I find joy in the loyalty of those who only swear it now?”
There was not a soul who missed the bitterness laced within the young Sultan’s grumbling words.
It was fortunate that only Ishak Pasha and Turahan Bey, who had been summoned to the Sultan’s tent, heard him.
Had the other lords overheard, they might have plotted rebellion again. Yet, the Sultan’s words were right—how could one trust those who bowed only after looking at the tide?
The Sultan’s two loyal retainers silently bowed their heads, tacitly showing agreement.
Neither spoke a word, keeping a tense silence. Confronted with the cold stillness shaped by Ishak Pasha and Turahan Bey, Murad realized he had gotten carried away.
The war was not yet over.
Little Mustafa had escaped alive, and now the Ottomans had to punish the principalities that had joined the rebellion.
If conflict broke out with the lords, it would jeopardize the campaign.
‘I am a Muslim, one who has offered everything to the will of Almighty Allah.’
Patience. Hold fast, you most faithful of Muslims.
The more Murad repeated these words to himself, the more he felt his mind grow chillingly calm.
Once the excitement faded, so too did the anger and turmoil.
Only a prepared victor remained, one who moved solely for the sake of the Ottomans and the Prophet’s prophecy.
After glancing once at his loyal retainers who had wordlessly replied him, Murad resumed speaking.
“Yet I still need them. Therefore, I plan to hold a feast in Bursa to appease them. Does anyone object to this location?”
The Ottomans had two capitals, split between the sea and the empire’s great city of Constantinople: Edirne in Rumelia (Greece) and Bursa in Anatolia.
Murad had chosen Bursa as the feast’s location because it was fitting to prove the land’s stabilization after quelling the rebellion.
However, an unexpected objection arose within the Sultan’s tent.
“Sultan, I humbly request that the victory feast be held not in Bursa, but in Manisa.”
It was Ishak Pasha who made the unforeseen request. Even the usually tight-lipped Turahan looked visibly startled, an unusual sight. Murad himself could not hide his surprise.
“Ishak, what are you saying all of a sudden?”
“There is a reason the feast must be held in Manisa. And it is not because it is my domain. Please, believe once again in my loyalty, for I have abandoned my own lands to serve you.”
Seeing Ishak Pasha’s desperate plea, Murad let out a low groan.
Originally stationed in Manisa, Ishak had abandoned his territory the moment he heard of the rebellion, marching north with his forces.
It wasn’t out of fear—he had aimed to establish a defensive line near the Dardanelles before Little Mustafa’s army could block the Sultan’s landing.
Knowing this, Murad could not easily refuse him.
In the end, he could not turn down the friend who had already proven his loyalty.
“Very well. Manisa was the first to be isolated during the rebellion. Hosting the feast there would best demonstrate Anatolia’s return to stability. I accept your counsel, Ishak.”
“I am deeply grateful, my Sultan.”
“Turahan, what are your thoughts?”
“As the Sultan has decided based on reason, not personal favour, I will naturally follow.”
Had Murad acted purely out of personal affection, Turahan might have been disappointed.
But through the Sultan’s decision, Turahan could be certain that his advice had been accepted. The young Sultan had not forgotten his duty as a leader, wherever he went.
Thus, the celebratory feast commemorating the destruction of Little Mustafa’s forces was set to take place in Manisa.
Upon arriving in Manisa, Murad first donated a considerable portion of the tribute to those who had suffered from the war. This act not only served to soothe the people’s hearts but also signaled the war’s end.
Food supplies were even distributed, an unusual generosity that revived the devastated city with newfound vigor.
By the time the lords were all gathered, reconstruction under Murad’s orders had been well underway for a month, and the preparations for the feast were complete.
One by one, the lords who pledged loyalty to the young Sultan began arriving, along with their entourages.
Manisa, once scarred by war, seemed almost miraculously restored.
Songs celebrating the victory rang out across the city, and one by one, marriage alliances symbolizing renewed trust between the Sultan and the lords were formed.
The soldiers, too, shared in the bounty. Rewarded for their bravery, they indulged in long-awaited pleasures of drink and women.
The feast proceeded in an ideal form, satisfying all.
The lords secured alliances with the Sultan. Manisa enjoyed an unexpected boom. The soldiers thrilled in their rewards.
Yet not everyone wore a smile.
Murad stood apart, expressionless, letting the night breeze wash over him. Even after the sun had set, he gazed down at the still lively city.
Then, sensing a presence behind him, he spoke.
“Now, I believe you owe me an explanation, Ishak.”
“…Yes, my Sultan.”
“Speak. What is the reason for all this…?”
Murad turned to scold his friend—but froze mid-motion.
Someone else was there.
Not the private audience he had expected.
A boy.
A boy no taller than Ishak’s thigh, not even of age yet.
And as soon as their eyes met, the boy knelt and offered a formal greeting.
“I present myself before the Sultan.”
His voice was still high and childish, untouched by adolescence.
Murad stared, glancing between the boy and Ishak.
Slowly, realization crept into his eyes. His pupils, usually so composed and cold, trembled faintly.
Several times, he opened his mouth to speak—but no sound came out.
Only after a long silence did Murad’s voice finally echo through the room.
“This child is…”
And kneeling beside the boy, Ishak Pasha answered in a solemn voice.
“He is your son, whom I have protected until now.”
“…And her? What happened to her?”
“The lady passed away on the day Your Majesty marched for Edirne.”
“……”
Though his power was strong, it was still a matter of raising arms against his own father, the reigning Sultan at the time.
Had he failed, he would have been imprisoned or marked for death by one of his brothers.
Ishak Pasha said nothing of how she had died, but Murad, who knew well the nature of the woman he had once embraced, could easily guess the reason.
‘She feared becoming a hostage.’
The succession had been settled, yet both Mustafa, who had claimed to be the son of Murad’s grandfather Bayezid, and the recent uprising’s instigator, the younger Mustafa, were still alive.
Could even the most cold-blooded Sultan have remained composed if his wife and son had been taken hostage?
Murad endured, struggling to hide his devastating emotions, and looked down at the boy.
The boy, too, seemed overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events, glancing at Ishak and bombarding him with questions.
“Ishak Uncle, what do you mean I’m the Sultan’s son? Are you saying I’ll be adopted as his heir?”
“No, do not doubt it. You are the son of my friend, the Sultan. A son bound by blood.”
“But the Sultan is right there… how can you joke about such a thing…”
“If you cannot believe my words, ask him yourself.”
Only after seeing Ishak’s immovable attitude did the boy’s eyes begin to waver.
Anyone would have reacted the same upon learning such a shocking truth.
Carrying a truth he could hardly believe, the boy slowly shifted his gaze to Murad. His gaze was pure, but he was too young to grasp the emotions in Murad’s heart.
In the end, it was Murad who spoke first, unable to leave the boy floundering.
“…Ishak, if I recall correctly, I once said that if a son were born, he should be named Ahmed.”
“Yes, that is so. This boy’s name is Ahmed.”
“Ahmed…”
Murad’s eyebrows trembled. Unable to endure the tremor, the young Sultan shut his eyes tightly.
“Take the boy… take Ahmed away. Not yet, not yet.”
“My Sultan, he is your legitimate son.”
“…Grant me time, Ishak.”
“As you command, my Sultan. You heard him, Ahmed.”
Ishak turned his gaze to the boy.
The boy, Ahmed, the son of Murad and the rightful heir of the Ottomans, looked up at Murad with clear eyes and nodded.
“Yes, I heard.”
With that, Ahmed turned his gaze away from Murad.
Still too young to express the emotions that should have welled up, he quietly left the room without saying a word or asking a single question.
Only then did Murad—no longer the Sultan, but simply a man—open his eyes.
“I have forgotten for too long.”
“But it was the right decision.”
“If so, let me ask you this. Ishak, knowing that my son was here, why did you abandon Manisa?”
“After the death of your wife, I placed Ahmed under the guardianship of an imam, enrolling him as an adopted son, and raised him as his guardian. Though I paid him much attention, I deliberately took on the guardianship of other children as well, so that Ahmed would seem unremarkable. All this was to hide the fact that he was your son, in the belief that it was the safest course.”
“…….”
Murad fell silent.
The devotion and prudence Ishak Pasha had shown had been of great benefit to the Ottomans.
Though he had abandoned Manisa, it was because of this that Ahmed had avoided grave danger.
Yet unresolved resentment still stirred violently in Murad’s heart, unsure where to go.
In the end, Murad closed his eyes again.
“Ishak.”
“Speak, my Sultan.”
“I have been a Sultan, but I have never been a father.”
“……..”
“I will acknowledge Ahmed as my son and a prince, but… I do not have the heart, nor the confidence, to treat him as a father should.”
“…Murad…”
“Thus, I ask you…You must become Ahmed’s father.”
The one who opened his eyes then was no longer merely Murad.
It was the Sultan.
The young Sultan, still gazing down at his friend who knelt before him, added one final sentence.
“I will remain Ahmed’s Sultan.”
Before that cold, unyielding gaze, there was little Ishak could do.
He chose to respect his friend’s decision.
Ishak bowed his head in silence, indicating his acceptance of the Sultan’s will, without the slightest hint of protest.
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