The streets of Istanbul were alive with color and sound, the marketplace humming with the chatter of vendors and the clinking of wares. Mephistopheles moved through the throng like a shadow, his polished red-and-white suit drawing curious glances but no suspicion. To the mortals around him, he was simply another foreigner, blending into the Ottoman Empire’s cosmopolitan tapestry.
But beneath his immaculate exterior, a storm brewed. Faust had betrayed their pact, abandoned his alchemy in a misguided attempt to win Faouzia’s love. Mephistopheles had expected so much more from the alchemist—chaos, brilliance, a ripple that would echo through time. Instead, Faust had become just another mortal blinded by love.
The thought curdled in Mephistopheles’ mind as he wandered the marketplace, his eyes scanning the crowd for something—or someone—to distract him. That was when he saw her.
Margaretta.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
She stood at a vendor’s stall, her dark hair catching the sunlight like a crown. She was laughing softly, her voice carrying a musical lilt that drew Mephistopheles like a moth to a flame. Her pink gown flowed around her like water, and the vendor, clearly captivated, handed her an orange with a flustered smile.
For a moment, Mephistopheles simply watched, intrigued despite himself. Then, with a practiced smile, he approached.
“Is it the oranges or your company that makes the air so sweet?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.
Margaretta turned, startled but not displeased. Her dark eyes met his gaze, and she smiled faintly. “I suppose that depends on who’s asking.”
“Someone who appreciates beauty,” he said, inclining his head. “And who can’t help but notice when it shines so brightly.”
Margaretta raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “You’re a bold one,” she said, her tone playful. “But I suppose boldness suits a man who looks like he stepped out of a painting.”
Mephistopheles chuckled, the sound low and warm. “And here I thought it was you who belonged in a painting.”
Margaretta laughed again, and for the first time in centuries, Mephistopheles felt something unfamiliar stir within him. Not desire—not entirely—but something adjacent to it. Fascination, perhaps. Possibility.