And what could be a better pledge of loyalty to Mustafa than the head of a Qusbecq on the silver platter?
Back in his opulently appointed lounge, he thought to himself.
Not mine, of course.
Under the full moon, the Lake Gök shimmered, vignetted by the undulating undergrowth. He squinted at the dead of night and turned. On the full-length mirror next to him flashed the analytics of the photo he had scheduled to post at nine. Only six thousand likes after five whole hours! Every day he got older, his clout shrank. He had little appeal to the younger crowds. All his followers were old fans he had for over ten years, and even they had grown insipid, hardly engaging with any of his posts. They hadn't abandoned him altogether yet for old time's sake, he could only presume, that unfollowing the man they had adored in their youth would sever the last few strings still attached to a lost time they would always hold dear.
Without worship, there is no god, and without the crowds screaming his name, Serhat Qusbecq was bound to return to being just an ordinary man – substantive enough a reason for Qusbecq to discard him, not his stepbrother.
A snort flared his nostrils, his jaw clenched, his mind racing.
"Mirror," he said. "Write me an encrypted message to Mustafa Agca. Tell him I want to join his Eternal Project. He'd be glad to hear what I can offer in return."
"Drafting."
***