Chapter 7 – Silent Steps
The coolness of morning draped Istanbul in a fine mist.
The sun had not yet fully risen, but the crows had already taken flight from the city walls.
The waters of the Golden Horn still carried the weight of night.
Kasım walked alone.
His steps did not follow purpose—
But memory.
They led him to the hills of Eyüp,
To an old dergah where his childhood had passed—
A forgotten boy growing beneath the shade of great plane trees.
He wore a simple robe.
No armor.
No sword.
But Kasım had never been a warrior.
He did not walk the shadows like Cafer.
Nor did he command armies like Balibey.
Yet the Sultan had chosen him.
Placed him within the circle of trust—beside Balibey's strength and Cafer's silence.
"Why?" he wondered.
"Why did the Sultan choose me?"
He had never dared ask aloud.
But each morning, that question stirred in his chest like a silent drum.
He never refused a duty.
Never challenged a command.
But with every order… something in him dimmed a little.
Climbing the slope of Eyüp, fragments of childhood returned:
The weight of a water jug across his back…
Carrying it to the dervishes…
Washing their feet as they prepared for prayer.
No sword in his hand then.
No title.
Just silence.
And patience.
He stopped at the stone gate of the dergah.
The scent of incense drifted from within.
He could hear the prayers—
He knew them all by heart.
"I have walked here through words," he murmured to himself.
"Not with sword. Not with pen.
Only with loyalty."
He placed his hand upon the cold stone.
Its chill touched his skin—
But for the first time in a long while, his heart warmed.
Maybe the Sultan's choice was something deeper.
Maybe Kasım's battlefield was different.
And in that moment—
He made a decision:
He would no longer question the Sultan's trust.
He would try to understand it.
—
As he entered the dergah, the soft haze of incense filled his senses.
The hush of footsteps across old carpets…
The shadows of calligraphy panels along the walls…
The quiet rhythm of prayer beads.
It felt like time moved slower here.
Outside, Istanbul was breathless and busy.
But within these walls…
Patience still ruled.
To his left, a small fountain trickled gently.
A few disciples sat in silent remembrance.
An old dervish whispered verses from the Masnavi of Rumi.
Kasım moved deeper into the hall.
Shafts of light slipped through the wooden ceiling, catching dust in golden streaks.
The air was dim, but never suffocating.
It was peace—shaped into stone and sound.
His eyes closed.
And the past…
The past reached for him.
—
Little Kasım.
Perhaps seven. Maybe eight.
Clothed in a patched tunic, wooden sandals on his feet.
A copper pitcher in his hands.
He would trail behind the dervishes—
Carrying water, food, whatever was needed.
Each morning, he'd wake with the rooster's call,
Sweeping the courtyard before the sun.
No one ordered him.
Because he obeyed with his very being.
One day, the head of the dergah had rested a hand on his head and said:
"You carry no sword. But you carry silence.
And some battles…
Are only won in the hearts of the voiceless."
Kasım had never forgotten those words.
From that day forward, he learned silence was not shame—
It was strength.
—
When he opened his eyes again,
He was still standing in the same hall.
But he was no longer a child.
He was a royal aide to the Sultan.
Yet perhaps…
Still a man of silence.
Maybe, while others marched in the storm,
He was the wind that turned the tide.
A censer on the wall released a gentle smoke.
He looked up at the inscription above it:
"Patience is the deepest form of prostration."
Kasım offered a silent prayer.
Perhaps for the first time,
He accepted his own purpose.
—
As he walked slowly across the courtyard of his childhood,
Time itself felt wrapped around his neck like a rope.
His hands were folded behind his back.
His eyes still scanned the stone walls.
But his mind was full—of memories… and questions.
Then, a voice behind him stilled his steps:
"Your feet return to the dergah, my son.
But your heart steps elsewhere."
Kasım turned.
A man approached—tall, white-bearded, slightly hunched,
Yet with eyes still burning with youthful wisdom.
His robe swept the floor.
His prayer beads whispered in rhythm.
İsmail Derviş.
The grandson of Sheikh Edebali.
The keeper of this dergah.
The man who had taken Kasım in as a child—
And raised him in quiet compassion.
Kasım immediately bowed, taking the man's hands to his lips and forehead.
"Forgive me, Derviş baba," he said.
"I came without sending word."
İsmail Derviş smiled gently.
"Even the servant does not always send word to his Lord.
If the heart begins the journey, the steps will follow.
Welcome."
They sat on a stone bench in the corner of the courtyard.
For a while, they said nothing.
Only the wind carried the sound of prayers—
And the soft clink of prayer beads.
Then, İsmail Derviş turned slightly.
His eyes calm.
But his heart spoke first.
"Your face wears patience,
But your soul carries weight.
What troubles you, son?
What burden presses your chest so tightly?"
Kasım hesitated.
He could not speak until the knot in his throat loosened.
Then, like a prayer escaping:
"Why am I here, baba?
I am not a warrior.
I do not fight.
Yet the Sultan chose me.
Why?"
His voice didn't break,
But his soul trembled.
"Cafer walks in shadow.
Balibey walks into battle.
I only watch.
I obey.
But inside me…
There's a void.
When the Sultan looks at me, I don't know what he sees."
İsmail Derviş nodded.
His eyes wandered toward the sky.
"There are servants, Kasım…
Who serve not with hands—
But with presence.
Their weapon is the heart.
And the heart…
Sometimes holds up an entire state."
He paused.
Rolled the beads in his hand.
Then turned back to Kasım.
"Son," he said,
"Allah knows where to place His servants.
To one, He gives a sword.
To another… wisdom.
If the Sultan chose you,
It was not merely his choice.
It was Allah's design.
Not all take refuge in shadow.
But one man may light the shadow from within.
That man… is you."
For the first time,
The weight in Kasım's chest eased.
The dervish's words felt like a balm—
Softening the jagged cracks in his heart.
"You do not fight—true.
But the enemy is not always outside.
Some bring blades.
Others bring poison.
One attacks the body.
Another, the soul.
Your war… is within.
And that is the hardest war of all."
Kasım's eyes welled—
Not from sorrow,
But peace.
İsmail Derviş's voice deepened:
"You are part of a divine design.
Every stone placed by God… holds a secret.
Do not belittle your place.
For with the smallest key,
Allah opens the greatest gates."
Kasım bowed his head.
Then inhaled deeply.
His chest opened.
His heart lifted.
"Baba…" he said,
"I will be worthy of my Sultan.
If I must walk in shadow,
So be it.
But now… I know why I walk."
The dervish smiled.
"Then let your silence speak.
Go, son.
And let your steps carry your soul."
Kasım rose.
Kissed the dervish's hands again.
"Grant me your blessing."
"It is yours.
May your road be open.
And your heart strong."
—
As Kasım descended the stone steps of the dergah,
His steps were no longer uncertain.
The weight on his back had lightened—
But the responsibility in his chest had grown.
The road back to the palace now glowed with clarity.
For he was no longer walking toward duty—
But toward destiny.
The birds sang.
The breeze drifted across the Golden Horn.
And Kasım walked with purpose.
The same cobblestones.
The same slope.
But no more doubt.
With every step,
His spine straightened.
His shoulders squared.
His head rose.
Not toward a question.
But toward a mission.
There was no shouting.
No rage.
Only a silence so firm…
It told the world:
"This man has made a decision."
And moments later…
He stood before the gates of Topkapı Palace.
The towers rose high on either side.
Behind those walls beat the mind, the hunger, and the heart of an empire.
Just as he stepped forward, a voice called out:
"Kasım Ağa?"
He turned.
A court attendant in full palace attire approached, a scroll in his hand.
"I've finally found you," the man said, breathless.
"Our Sultan requests your presence immediately.
He warned—do not delay."
Kasım bowed his head.
No fear on his face.
No panic.
Only a quiet smile.
"The Sultan's word… is my bond."
And he stepped through the gates with quiet pride.
Where once he had stared at these walls with uncertainty—
Now, he walked through them
with purpose.