Istanbul

Cabin lights flicker; I jolt awake. Descent has begun. Outside, the sky bruises itself into day: bars of pink, slashes of blue, and new gold. My hand drifts to Asdar’s note—a nervous relic, its shape bitten into my palm—as the city unfurls below, vast and split by water and empire.

IST is fever-bright, sharp-edged. Immigration lines snake and contract; announcements tumble through five languages—some mine, some not yet.

Overhead: “Dikkat! Lütfen bagajlarınızı yanınızdan ayırmayın—””Attention! Please do not leave your baggage unattended.”

I roll my eyes. As if anyone in Istanbul ever does.

Move, Elena. Pretend you’re still drawn to fresh arrivals and camouflage. The old cover story—readers of angles and architects of threat.

Mrs H thrums in my pocket; Karim’s watchfulness is a shadow at my back. Tarmo—wasn’t he supposed to pick me up?—may be somewhere just out of sight.

How many layers deep am I now?

Burçu Şaşmaz’s emissaries, bland in their tailored nerves.

A DEİK staffer approaches: tie askew, handshake just a beat too polished.

“Dr Delange?” His voice wavers, then firms. “Ms. Şaşmaz sends her regards. There’s been a venue change. Security concern.”

I let my eyes linger: cool, unreadable. “I like a little improvisation.”

A throat cleared, hands clenched to stillness. “Yes, ma’am. We won’t be delayed.”

I arch a brow. “Far?”

He checks his phone. “Just outside Arrivals. Only hand baggage?”

“My policy.” I grip my bag tighter. Only what I can run with.

“We should move quickly,” he says, hitching his briefcase as if it’s armour.

Outside—galvanic swirl: horns blur with gull cries, the taint of Bosphorus salt and diesel sharpens. My mind whirls: Sandi’s fate; Tarmo’s invisible leverage; Burçu’s chess game; Mrs H’s remote choreography.

I slide into the car—city lights stuttering past, streets fragmenting, motion jolting the scene. The staffer attempts small talk.

“Traffic’s brutal this morning.”

I offer a nod; my real conversation’s silent, inward.

If Sandi’s in trouble, I’ll know soon. Burçu always exacts her price.

And always, Mrs H moves pieces I can’t yet see.

Odds shift with every kilometre.

The Istanbul arc will not open easily. Loyalty, perception—each time, a city asks more of me. Will I be a header, or only a footnote, this time?

Each mile, the stakes pulse louder: Sandi in peril, Burçu’s long shadow on the itinerary, my own reputation trembling.

Eyes on the window, I catch my reflection and mouth a vow:

“I arrive as ready as I’ll ever be. Istanbul, go ahead: try me. Let’s see who leaves the bigger mark this time.”

I.Ph.

Meanwhile, as you’ve read Chapter 2 of Book V, the newly rewritten Chapter 4 of Book I is being released today at 11:11 on Ko-Fi!

https://ko-fi.com/phaedrasfables86481

Don’t miss the next instalment: join Elena’s journey in both timelines and see how she evolves and the story unfolds.