Dust covered riders. Broken sentences. Sealed reports that said more in what they did not include than what they did. By the time the full account reached the palace in Turkistan, the truth had already settled into the walls.
The army was gone.
The throne room did not erupt. It stilled.
Sultan Mehmet sat as he always did, unmoving, his expression unchanged as the final report was read aloud. Around him, the air felt heavier, as though the room itself understood what had been lost.
"…the centre collapsed under sustained pressure," the messenger said, voice wavering despite his effort to remain composed. "The Janissaries engaged but were unable to restore the line. The flanking manoeuvre failed. The mercenary force under Harrison Fontaine was routed. He has been taken prisoner. Many of our soldiers died, including scores of Janissaries."
A pause.
Then the last part. "The Crown Prince… did not survive; he fell in battle."
Silence followed. Not shock. Not grief. Just silence.
Mahmud Pasha lowered his gaze slightly, waiting.
The Sultan did not react. After a moment, he spoke. "How."
The messenger hesitated. "Caught in the collapse of the centre, my Sultan. He was struck multiple times while attempting to withdraw. The Janissaries…"
"I was asking about how the battle was lost," the Sultan said.
The correction landed like a blade. The messenger swallowed.
"It was… the early commitment of the Janissaries, my Sultan. They were deployed before the flanking forces had fully engaged. The enemy exploited the opening. The centre…"
"...was broken," Sultan Mehmet finished.
The messenger nodded, unable to continue. Another silence followed, longer this time.
Then Mahmud Pasha stepped forward. "My Sultan," he said carefully, "the loss is severe. The army…"
"Was spent the moment Omar acted without thinking," Mehmet replied.
His tone remained level, almost detached.
"Omar accelerated our downfall rather than helping us win this war."
Mahmud Pasha glanced up, surprised, though he masked it quickly. "The Crown Prince acted…"
"...without discipline, without intelligence," the Sultan said.
There was no anger in it. No sorrow. Just judgment.
"He mistook urgency for necessity. That is not command. That is impulse."
The room seemed to tighten further.
Mahmud Pasha chose his next words carefully.
"He was your son."
Mehmet's gaze did not shift. "He was my heir," he said. "There is a difference."
The words settled coldly.
Outside the palace, the city had already begun to feel it.
Rumours moved faster than confirmation. The army was destroyed. The Crown Prince dead. The enemy advancing.
Fear followed naturally. But within the throne room, fear was not permitted to take shape.
Mahmud Pasha straightened slightly. "Then we must turn to what remains," he said. "The capital still stands. The walls are strong. Supplies…"
"Are sufficient for a siege," Mehmet finished.
He rose then, slowly, the movement drawing every eye in the chamber.
"It would seem that this is where it would end," he said. "Not in the sands. Here."
He stepped down from the throne, his pace measured. "The army has failed. That is done. We do not rebuild it. We do not chase what is lost."
Mahmud Pasha nodded faintly. "Then we prepare the city."
"Yes."
A map was brought forward, spread across a long table. The Sultan did not study it long. He already knew.
"Numbers," he said.
Mahmud Pasha answered. "We can gather perhaps two hundred and fifty thousand within the walls. No more. Over half are militia. Poorly trained, but willing."
"And the rest."
"Veterans. Survivors. The remnants of what has not yet been destroyed."
Mehmet nodded once. "And the enemy."
"Twice our number," Mahmud Pasha said. "At least. Their artillery… three times what we can field."
A pause. "They will not rush this," Mahmud added. "They will besiege us."
"Yes," Mehmet said. "They will."
Another figure stood nearby, silent until now.
Older. Weathered. His uniform marked not by ornament, but by age and use. Selim Furuq. Once a general of the Sultanate. Now long retired. Until this moment.
Mehmet turned toward him. "You know why you are here."
Selim inclined his head. "I do."
"You commanded men when they still listened," the Sultan said. "When discipline held."
Selim allowed himself the faintest trace of a dry expression. "Some of them did."
Mehmet stepped closer. "You will take command of the garrison."
There was no ceremony in the appointment. No declaration. Just the weight of necessity.
Selim did not hesitate. "I will."
Mahmud Pasha looked between them. "The conditions are not favourable," he said. "Outnumbered two to one. Outgunned three to one. Half the force is untested."
Selim nodded. "Yes."
"And yet," Mahmud pressed, "you accept."
Selim's gaze shifted briefly to the map, then back to the Sultan. "This is not a field battle," he said. "Numbers matter less behind walls. Discipline matters more."
Mehmet watched him closely. "And can you create discipline from what remains?"
Selim's answer came without delay. "No." A slight pause. "But I can impose enough of it."
The Sultan gave a small nod. "That will have to be enough. Turkistan's walls are thick and high, and I have 2,000 Janissaries left. Let these factors help instil confidence and discipline into our milita."
He turned back to the map, his voice steady, unchanged. "They will come within the week. Their army will rest a day or two after the battle before setting upon us. They will expect fear. Disorder. Collapse."
He looked at Mahmud Pasha. "They will not find it."
Mahmud inclined his head. "No, my Sultan."
Outside, the city prepared.
Gates reinforced. Supplies gathered. Militia armed and organised as best they could be. The remnants of the army folded into the defences, their experience now more valuable than their numbers.
Within the palace, there was no mourning. No public grief.
The death of the Crown Prince was not spoken of again in that chamber.
Not because it did not matter. But because something else mattered more. The war had narrowed to a single point.
And Sultan Mehmet had already turned his attention to it.