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Chapter 15 - Crimean War 1/11

The news arrived at the start of October, borne on dust-caked Austrian riders who had thundered south from Belgrade with dispatches for every court in the Balkans.

The Ottoman Empire had declared war on Russia.

The Tsar's armies, having marched into Moldavia and Wallachia, now held them outright—protectorates no longer, but annexed provinces in all but name. Constantinople would not abide it. Ottoman troops had crossed the Danube at Vidin, driven north into Wallachia, and after three days of brutal fighting seized the small town of Calafat.

In Cetinje, the court dissolved into uproar.

Nobles shouted until their voices cracked—some demanding alliance with the Sultan, others warning that to provoke the Tsar was to court ruin. The Prince sat unmoved, his expression carved from stone, while the Baron strutted like a rooster, declaring Montenegro's honor bound her to Russia.

Elias said nothing. His quill scratched quietly over figures in the corner, head bowed, a harmless clerk invisible among the storm.

Exactly as he intended.

Because Elias knew what the dispatches did not say.

Yes, the Ottomans had taken Calafat. But the victory was bought with blood—thousands dead, their columns broken again and again by volleys too steady, too disciplined, too modern for any band of "volunteers."

It was the Iron Hand.

The reports fed into Elias' Eagle Vision, the battle replaying in his mind with clinical precision:

[Engagement: Calafat][Iron Hand Casualties: 84][Enemy Casualties: 2,100+][Objective: Ottoman Capture – Attritional Success][Secondary Objective: Calafat Clearout Completed]

His men had held the earthworks on the approaches, their rifles firing in seamless rhythm, giving the Russians time to withdraw in order rather than rout. When the Ottomans at last stormed the town, they did so over heaps of their own dead—slain by volleys and bayonet charges that shattered momentum again and again.

Only once the battle was beyond saving did the Iron Hand melt away, stripping what little value Calafat held before abandoning it.

The Tsar's generals had already taken note. "Slavic volunteers," they called them in their reports—praising their bravery, their uncanny steadiness under fire. Not one suspected the truth: these were no volunteers at all, but Elias' legion, wielding weapons years ahead of their time, drilled to act as one will.

In Cetinje, Elias smiled faintly at stale jokes, shuffled papers, let the Baron mock him. Inside, he burned with triumph. His soldiers had drawn first blood, and no one would ever know.

Beyond Montenegro, the world shifted on its axis.

Britain and France, though not yet formally committed, seethed at Russia's defiance. Their newspapers printed lurid accounts of villages put to the torch, of the Tsar's armies crushing Christian and Muslim alike beneath their boots. Fleets moved into the Mediterranean. In Vienna, whispers grew that Austria would soon mobilize along its northern frontier. A coalition was forming. Russia would be forced to withdraw, or else face encirclement.

The Balkans had become the hinge of Europe, and the Danube its sharpened blade.

For Elias, this was opportunity incarnate.

Even Calafat's "defeat" had yielded profit. Eagle Vision recorded the quiet flow of spoils:

[Loot Acquired: Gold, Silver][Loot Acquired: Russian Iron, Steel, Powder][Credit Growth: +325 Daily]

It was working. His men fought beneath another's banner, Russia bore the blame, and his coffers swelled. Every raid stripped abandoned Russian supplies, every skirmish bled Ottoman convoys. The world thought it a border war; Elias knew it was the birth of something larger.

The price, however, was real. Nearly a hundred of his legion lay dead, hundreds more wounded. The medics—primitive by his standards, miraculous by theirs—had saved most, but attrition was inevitable. Soldiers could not march through endless slaughter without breaking.

He would need reinforcements. More credits. More summons. More ore.

In Zabljak, the miners dug deeper into granite ridges. The first glitter of silver had been struck—small veins, but enough to encourage him. The engineers at the second base were already tunneling storage caverns, building the skeleton of a true reserve: grain, powder, uniforms stacked in vaults no Montenegrin shepherd would ever stumble upon. Slowly, his empire was growing flesh.

And still Cetinje remained blind.

The Baron bellowed for war with the Turks. Others counseled neutrality. The Prince delayed, shrewd as ever, waiting for the storm to break before committing his small kingdom.

Elias listened, indifferent mask in place, though his thoughts ran months ahead.

On October 11th, another dispatch arrived: the Ottomans were pushing north from Calafat toward Craiova. The Russians had fallen back, regrouping. The Iron Hand had been ordered to harass the flanks.

Eagle Vision chimed again:

[Operation: Craiova Raids][Iron Hand Casualties: 26][Enemy Casualties: 600+][Spoils: Horses, Grain, Powder]

The pattern was clear. His legion was becoming the knife in the dark, bleeding the Sultan's army while sparing Russian strength. Even the medics—few as they were—were reshaping the front. Where disease once killed more soldiers than gunfire, his field care was saving lives. Already, whispers trickled through Belgrade taverns of phantom Slavs, shadows who struck by night and vanished by dawn.

The legend of the Iron Hand was being born.

At night, Elias walked Cetinje's battlements, the October air sharp against his skin. He looked east, imagining the Danube shimmering beneath the moon, smoke rising from villages crushed between empires.

A year ago he had been a stranger here, fumbling through history with nothing but the system's strange gifts. Now he commanded a hidden army, two bases, and the beginnings of an economy that might one day rival nations.

But it was only the beginning.

War was widening. Britain and France would come. Austria would choose its hour. By spring, all Europe would burn. And in the ashes, Elias would find the spoils he needed.

He smiled faintly, turning back toward the palace. Tomorrow the Baron would sneer. The nobles would argue. The Prince would wait.

But none of them understood what he already knew:

The Iron Hand had been blooded.The storm had broken.And history itself was already bending beneath his grip.

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