The sky above Istanbul was a cauldron of flame.
From the highest balcony of Yıldız Palace, Abdulhamid saw the docks burn as if the very Bosphorus had been set ablaze. Whole masts snapped and collapsed into the water. The stench of tar and charred wood carried up on the wind, searing the nostrils, mingling with the cries of panic that floated across the strait.
Behind him, Selim stepped forward, his silhouette cutting against the orange glow. His voice was hard, steady, but laced with the urgency of a soldier who knew what he was witnessing.
"Majesty, the blaze spreads too quickly. This was not chance. Barrels of tar, crates of rifles, all perfectly placed. It was no accident."
Abdulhamid's knuckles whitened on the balcony rail. In his mind's eye, the knowledge of centuries pressed forward — the Reichstag fire that had toppled governments, the Pearl Harbor strike that had lured a nation to war, the false flags and sabotage that had always preceded great calamities. History whispered its grim lessons: fire was never only fire. It was always a message.
"Then our enemies strike at the empire's throat," he said. His words were iron. "Let them believe they taste blood. By dawn, we will make them choke on ash."
He turned abruptly. "Prepare my horse. I ride to the docks."
Selim stiffened. "Majesty, the danger—"
"Danger?" Abdulhamid cut him short. "The danger is to the empire if her Sultan hides behind marble walls while her lifeblood burns."
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When he rode into the city an hour later, the streets were a storm. Crowds poured from every quarter. Some ran with buckets in hand, others clutched children and wept, still others shouted blame into the smoke-filled night. Greeks were accused, Armenians cursed, whispers of Russian agents and British gold spread faster than the flames themselves. A riot trembled on the edge of eruption.
The dockside was a vision of hell. Entire warehouses belched fire. Casks of oil exploded like cannon blasts, showering sparks across wooden piers. Burning ships strained against their moorings before collapsing into the water, sending up pillars of steam. Fire bells rang frantically, but the bucket brigades were hopeless against the inferno.
Abdulhamid dismounted directly in the smoke, his crimson cloak whipping behind him, his eyes like obsidian in the glow. His guards struggled to clear space in the mob. Panic surged, men shouting, fists raised, but then a new voice cut through it — sharp, commanding, unmistakable.
"Enough!"
The Sultan's roar silenced even the flames for a heartbeat. Hundreds of eyes turned. Many could not believe what they saw — their Sultan, walking among them, soot streaking his face, coughing on the same smoke that choked them.
"There will be no blame but on the guilty!" Abdulhamid thundered. "No fire will divide my empire!"
He strode forward, pointing into the chaos. "You there, form ranks! You, fetch water! Soldiers, guard the remaining stores! Every hand to the line — Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Kurds — all!"
Something miraculous stirred. Men who only moments earlier had spat curses at each other now lifted buckets together. Dockhands linked arms with soldiers, Greek sailors passed water to Kurdish laborers, Armenian carpenters hacked apart flaming beams. And at their center stood Abdulhamid, sleeves rolled, cloak cast aside, working among them. His voice carried above the blaze, urging, commanding, rallying.
The people saw not marble and distance, but a man forged of smoke and fire, a Sultan of flesh who did not flinch before the inferno. In that moment, Istanbul's heart beat as one.
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But Abdulhamid knew unity at the flames' edge was not enough. The true war was fought in shadows.
Selim and the Crescent Eyes fanned out across the burning docks, their daggers glinting, their eyes sharp for prey. They were not firemen but hunters, stalking alleys and warehouses even as roofs collapsed around them. A man caught fleeing with powder-stained hands was dragged into the open. Another, a foreign sailor, was found slipping silver to dockhands in the smoke.
By dawn, twelve were in chains. They were hauled to the black cells of Yıldız Palace, their cries muffled by the crackle of dying flames. Interrogations began at once. Some broke within hours, babbling about coin, about crates marked with false manifests, about promises of escape to Europe.
One confession chilled even Selim's blood.
"It was meant to spread," the dockhand whispered, eyes wide with terror. "The docks were only the first. The bazaars, the factories — all were to burn. Istanbul in flames, the empire paralyzed. And then… the Balkans would rise."
Selim carried the words to his Sultan, dropping to one knee before him at dawn.
Abdulhamid read the written confession in silence. The ink smeared with the prisoner's blood as he turned the page. Slowly, he set it aside.
"So it begins," he murmured. "The foreign jackals think Istanbul a tinderbox. Britain sends its gold, Austria its rifles, Russia its priests. They believe the empire will crumble in smoke and fear."
He rose, his eyes alight with unyielding fire. "They are mistaken. We will not crumble. We will rise from fire as steel from the forge."
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That morning, the Sultan summoned his ministers, the ulema, and even the Young Turk agitators to the ruined docks themselves. The air still reeked of ash and salt. Charred timbers jutted like blackened bones. Soldiers formed a cordon, keeping back the weary crowds that had gathered to gawk.
Abdulhamid stood upon the burned planks, his boots blackened, the rising sun casting him in gold against the devastation. He raised his voice, and it rolled over the silence like thunder.
"Look well!" he cried, sweeping his hand over the wreckage. "They thought to break us with fire. But the empire is not wood to burn. The empire is iron — to be tempered!"
He stooped, scooping a handful of ash, letting it drift through his fingers. "From this, we will build stronger. For every dock they destroy, I will build three. For every ship they burn, I will launch five. For every lie they whisper, we will answer with truth a hundredfold!"
The crowd erupted. Dockhands cheered, soldiers struck spear against shield, even the skeptical Young Turks stood transfixed by the spectacle. The image of the Sultan among the ashes would race across every newspaper in the capital by evening — not as a picture of defeat, but as a portrait of defiance.
But Abdulhamid's mind was already beyond the ruins. The empire had been warned. This was not the end, only the spark.
The true fire waited in the mountains of the Balkans.
But even as the last embers at the docks hissed into silence, Abdulhamid knew the greater battle had only begun. Fire could destroy wood and stone, but its smoke could poison hearts. Rumor was deadlier than flame. If left unchecked, suspicion would spread from the charred piers into the veins of the city itself. And so, even before dawn broke over the Bosphorus, he set his will in motion.
The fire was quenched by morning, but the city still smoked with fear. Across Istanbul, rumors ran faster than water through the aqueducts. Who had struck at the docks? Foreign agents? Christian rebels? Dissatisfied workers? Each answer carried its own venom, threatening to turn neighbors into enemies.
Abdulhamid understood at once: the fire itself had been only the first weapon. The second was panic, suspicion, and hatred. If left unchecked, the empire would consume itself more quickly than any blaze.
So while ashes still smoldered, he gave new orders. Crescent Eyes were to blanket the city — not only searching for saboteurs, but for whispers. Coffeehouses were infiltrated, guild meetings shadowed, broadsheets seized before they reached the streets. Men and women with loose tongues found themselves quietly spirited away for questioning.
"Every rumor is a spark," Abdulhamid told Selim as they walked the ruined quayside. "Stamp it before it becomes flame. The people must believe not in division, but in me. I am the only pillar strong enough to hold the empire."
Selim bowed. "It will be done, Majesty. Already, my agents have tracked the gold that paid the dockhands. Austrian, through merchants in Galata. And the smugglers? Many bore Russian papers."
The Sultan's eyes narrowed. "Good. Pull the threads gently. We cannot yet show them we know. But when the net closes, it will close on all."
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By the second day, the presses thundered again — this time under Abdulhamid's command. Pamphlets, proclamations, and newspapers poured onto the streets, declaring the Sultan's heroism in battling the flames, his promise to rebuild stronger than before. Handbills bore bold slogans:
"FIRE CANNOT DESTROY US. FIRE FORGES US."
"THE EMPIRE IS STEEL. THE SULTAN IS ITS FORGE."
They were plastered to walls, shouted by street criers, slipped under doors in the night. Even the poorest laborer, who had never seen the inside of a school, could read the simple words — and believe.
Selim's men distributed them as fast as presses could ink them, ensuring that when foreign agents whispered despair, the people shouted defiance in return.
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Still, not all voices could be drowned. Among the prisoners dragged from the docks was one who had yet to speak. He was unlike the rest — not a drunken dockhand or greedy smuggler, but a tall man with hard blue eyes, skin pale as a northerner's, and a calmness that unsettled even seasoned interrogators. His Turkish was broken, his papers forged, his manner that of a soldier rather than a common criminal.
For three days he endured hunger, beatings, and solitude in the bowels of Yıldız Palace without so much as a word. Guards muttered that he laughed to himself in the dark. Some thought him mad. Others, that he was trained in ways they could not fathom.
At last Selim entered his cell. Torchlight flickered across the stone walls. He said nothing at first, only stared. The prisoner stared back, unflinching.
"You are no dockhand," Selim said softly at last. "No merchant. No smuggler. Who are you?"
The man spat blood onto the floor and gave a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You will not live long enough to learn my name."
Selim's dagger pressed lightly against the man's throat. "You will speak. All men speak, in time."
But before the blade drew blood, a new presence filled the chamber. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stone. The door groaned open, and the Sultan himself entered, robed in black, his face a mask of iron resolve.
Abdulhamid stepped close, so near the prisoner could smell the faint scent of smoke still lingering on his garments. His voice was low, almost gentle, but carried the weight of absolute command.
"Speak."
The man trembled. For all his training, for all his silence, something in the Sultan's eyes shattered his defiance. He broke, words spilling like water from a burst dam.
Rifles, hidden in caches across the city. Money flowing from Austrian bankers through Greek and Armenian intermediaries. Agents stirring unrest in guilds and churches. And beyond Istanbul — a grander design. Serbia, Bulgaria, Macedonia, even far-off Bosnia, all primed for revolt. The fire at the docks had been only the match to light the pyre.
"The plan…" the prisoner gasped, sweat dripping down his brow. "Coordinated. Uprisings across the Balkans. Istanbul burning, the army distracted, the provinces lost before you can move."
Abdulhamid listened without flinching. When the man finished, silence pressed on the cell like a tomb. At last, the Sultan spoke.
"Take him away."
The guards dragged the prisoner out, still sobbing his confessions.
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When the door shut, Abdulhamid turned to Selim. His voice was low, controlled, yet edged with steel.
"Prepare the Crescent Eyes. Tighten the nets. The fire in Istanbul was only their matchstick. Now we strike at the forest before it burns."
Selim bowed, his expression fierce. "Yes, Majesty."
The Sultan's gaze lingered on the dark stone of the cell. He spoke as though to the shadows themselves. "They thought the empire sick, ready to collapse at the first flame. They will learn instead that fire does not destroy steel. It tempers it."
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Above, Istanbul's skies were still gray with smoke. But in the palace, the true storm was gathering. Orders flew like arrows. Spies shadowed every merchant from Vienna, every priest from Moscow, every clerk who handled foreign coin. New factories were assigned guard brigades drawn from their own workers, sworn as "soldiers of steel." Coffeehouses whispered with rumors, but Crescent Eyes whispered louder.
The empire had been struck, but not broken. And in the heart of its Sultan, the fire of resolve burned brighter than ever.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, in the mountains of the Balkans, conspirators sharpened their knives and waited for the moment to rise. They believed they had time, that the "Sick Man" of Europe still staggered.
But Abdulhamid would not stagger. He would strike first.