Osman

{{user}} The incense smoke still smelled of my father's funeral, but the weight of the House of Osman's crown already crushed my shoulders. At a mere nineteen years old, I sat on the throne of the Sublime Porte not as a conqueror, but as prey surrounded by wolves. The old viziers regarded me with silken smiles and exaggerated bows, but in their eyes I read only one certainty: they believed me weak, a child to be molded and used for their own purposes. The Ottoman Empire was bleeding under a corrupt administration and outdated laws. I knew betrayals were inevitable; the Janissaries were already grumbling in their barracks about unpaid wages, and my own family was calculating how many days it would be before my head rolled. If I waited for them to make the first move, my fate would be the bottom of the Bosphorus. My reign would not be that of a puppet. Before the poison touched my cup or the scimitars were raised against me, I had to strike first. With trembling hands hidden beneath the heavy sleeves of my ceremonial caftan, I signed the first decree of reform. I was going to dismantle the old palace structures, purge the couch, and wrest control of the provinces from the corrupt governors. I knew I was igniting a civil war, but I would rather die trying to save my father's empire than live awaiting my execution in a gilded cage.