The capital breathed with restless energy. Smoke rose from new chimneys along the Golden Horn, where foundries hammered steel rails and shipyards shaped iron hulls. The streets buzzed with carriages, traders, and students in crisp uniforms carrying books in Turkish and French. Factories sang, schools flourished, soldiers marched in gleaming rifles forged not in Europe but on Ottoman soil.
But beneath the hum of progress, darker whispers coiled like smoke under floorboards. In coffeehouses, rumors passed quietly: the Sultan had grown too powerful, the Sultan silenced too many, the Sultan thought himself untouchable. And among exiles who had slipped back into the capital, fueled by foreign gold, the whispers hardened into steel.
In a cellar below Galata, lit only by sputtering oil lamps, conspirators gathered around a rough table. Their faces were hidden by scarves, but their voices betrayed their fury.
"This Sultan strangles us while Europe watches," one growled.
"His factories spit smoke like dragons, and the world applauds him!" another spat.
"If we kill him, the empire cracks. Without him, the Turks will tear each other apart. The foreigners will come. We will be free."
At the far end, a man leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. He was not a rebel born of the empire but an agent carrying Austrian coin. He slid a small chest onto the table, its contents clinking.
"Here is the price of freedom," he said. "Guns, blades, coin. Strike when he is most visible, when all Istanbul watches. Strike at Friday prayers."
The rebels nodded grimly. To kill the Sultan in the sacred moment of prayer would shake the empire to its core.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Across the city, Crescent Eyes hunted shadows. Selim sat in a dimly lit room of Yıldız Palace, listening as his agents reported one by one. Each carried fragments: a whisper of weapons smuggled into the city, a foreign courier seen in Galata, a rumor of plots around the mosque of Hamidiye.
When the last agent finished, Selim dismissed them and remained in silence. His hand pressed against his beard, his thoughts heavy. The pieces formed a picture — not complete, but enough to see the outline.
He rose at once and sought his master.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Abdulhamid was in his study, bent over maps of railways that would tie Anatolia and the Balkans like veins of steel. His eyes lifted when Selim entered, and he read the grimness in his commander's face before a word was spoken.
"Speak," the Sultan said.
Selim bowed. "Majesty, there is a plot. Not vague discontent, not distant rebels. Here, in the city. They plan to strike you during Friday prayers."
The chamber fell silent, the only sound the ticking of a clock. At length Abdulhamid leaned back, his gaze piercing.
"Do you know who they are?"
"Fragments only," Selim admitted. "A mixture of exiles and foreign hirelings. The Austrians' hand is clear, but the dagger will be carried by our own traitors."
"Do you know when?"
Selim's voice was like iron. "This week. Perhaps even tomorrow."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Any other man might have paled, ordered guards to surround him, or canceled the procession. But Abdulhamid only smiled faintly, though his eyes glinted with fire.
"So, they think to break the empire by striking me in the heart of worship." His hand rested on the arm of his chair. "If I falter, they win. If I hide, they win. No — I will attend prayers as I always have. Let them come. Let them try."
Selim stepped forward, his voice urgent. "Majesty, I beg you—this is no ordinary threat. If the assassins succeed, the empire may collapse in a single stroke. We can delay prayers, choose another mosque, set traps—"
"No," Abdulhamid interrupted sharply. He rose to his feet, towering, his presence filling the room with force. "If I cower, the people will think me afraid. If I alter my path, the traitors will think me uncertain. No, Selim. I am the Sultan. My life is not my own — it belongs to the empire. And the empire must not tremble."
His voice softened but carried the weight of prophecy. "Do you not see? This too is Allah's test. My life is not mine to guard — it belongs to the empire. If they strike, they will find I cannot be touched — not by bullets, not by knives, not by fear. For the Sultan stands only by Allah's will."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That night, Crescent Eyes spread like shadows through the capital. They prowled the streets around Hamidiye Mosque, searched taverns in Galata, watched every alley and rooftop. But Istanbul was a vast beast, and though they caught some conspirators in their nets, others slipped through.
Selim returned before dawn with weary eyes. "Majesty, we have stopped some, but not all. The attempt will come."
Abdulhamid listened in silence, then nodded once. "Then let it come. We will not pray to fear. We will pray to Allah, and we will see whose will is stronger."
As the sun rose, the city stirred, unaware that daggers had already been drawn against its Sultan.
And so the night passed into morning, heavy with unseen peril. The Sultan's city awakened in innocence, its people bustling to markets and schools, never knowing how close treachery lurked. But within Yıldız Palace, every breath was sharpened by the knowledge that today, before the eyes of all Istanbul, the assassins would make their strike.
Friday dawned with a golden light over Istanbul. The Bosphorus shimmered, gulls wheeled in the sky, and the domes of the mosques caught the sun like polished shields. But within Yıldız Palace, the mood was taut as a drawn bowstring.
Abdulhamid stood in his ceremonial robes, the green standard of the Prophet carried before him. Soldiers in crisp formation lined the courtyard, their rifles gleaming. Crescent Eyes mingled among them, invisible but ready, their hands resting on hidden pistols and blades.
Selim approached, his jaw tight. "Majesty, the streets are dangerous. My men have flushed out some cells, but too many remain. I beg you—ride in closed carriage. Let me double the guards."
Abdulhamid's voice was calm, steel under silk. "No. If the Sultan hides behind iron walls, the empire looks weak. I will ride as I always do, under the eyes of my people and the eyes of Allah. If danger waits, then we shall face it openly."
He lifted his prayer beads, each bead sliding under his fingers with quiet certainty. "Fear is the assassin's ally. Faith is ours."
Selim bowed his head. He would not argue further, though his chest burned with worry.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The procession began. Drums beat solemnly, horns sounded, and the gates of Yıldız swung open. The Sultan's horse, a black stallion armored in silver trappings, carried him proudly through the streets. Citizens lined the path, bowing, cheering, some throwing flowers.
But amid the crowd, shadows waited.
A man in a worn cloak fingered the pistol hidden under his sash. Another crouched near a cart, a dagger strapped to his arm. From a rooftop, a third conspirator watched, rifle ready. Their hearts pounded, their breaths came short — but their eyes burned with fanatic resolve.
As the Sultan approached the mosque, the assassins moved.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first shot cracked like thunder.
The crowd screamed. Horses reared. Guards whirled, muskets rising. The bullet tore through the air — and struck only the edge of the Sultan's saddle, splintering leather.
Before the assassin could fire again, Crescent Eyes surged. Two leapt from the crowd, blades flashing. The shooter fell with his throat cut, vanishing beneath trampling feet.
But more daggers came. From the cart, a cloaked rebel lunged, his knife aimed at Abdulhamid's heart.
Selim was faster. He hurled himself between assassin and Sultan, parrying the strike with his sabre. The two men crashed against the horse, steel shrieking. With a roar, Selim's blade split the rebel's chest, and he toppled to the dust.
On the rooftop, the rifleman fired. The ball whistled toward the Sultan's head—only to strike the raised shield of a guard who had thrown himself into its path. The man fell dead, but the Sultan remained untouched.
The crowd panicked, shrieking prayers, scattering in terror. Yet Abdulhamid did not move to flee. He raised his hand, commanding stillness, his face calm even as chaos raged around him.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Protect His Majesty!" Selim bellowed. Crescent Eyes and guards stormed the streets, cutting down rebels in alleys, dragging conspirators from the throng. Blood stained the cobblestones, screams echoed against the mosque's walls.
When the last assassin fell, silence returned — broken only by the wails of frightened citizens and the groans of the wounded. Smoke lingered in the air, mingled with the copper scent of blood.
Selim, panting, his blade red, turned to Abdulhamid. "Majesty, are you harmed?"
The Sultan dismounted slowly. His robes were unmarked, his face composed. He looked down at the slain guardsman who had shielded him, then at the bodies of assassins sprawled in the dust.
"No," he said softly. "I am not harmed. For Allah decides the span of a Sultan's breath, not rebels, not bullets."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Inside the mosque, he led the prayer as though nothing had happened. His voice rose steady, echoing through the chamber, calming the trembling faithful. And when he stepped out again, he mounted the same horse, lifted his head high, and rode back through the city as if the attempt had never been.
To the people, it was a vision of invincibility. Rumors spread like fire: bullets could not touch him, blades could not pierce him, assassins could not reach him. The Sultan was Allah's chosen, untouchable.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That evening, in Yıldız Palace, Selim stood before him, weary but unbowed.
"Majesty," he said, "we crushed the attempt, but its roots run deeper. We found Austrian gold in the assassins' satchels. This was not only the Brotherhood's work. It was foreign design."
Abdulhamid's eyes darkened. "Then the message is clear. They cannot defeat me with armies, so they send cowards with daggers. Very well. If they send shadows, I will rule the shadows. From this day, no exile shall feel safe in Paris or London, no traitor shall rest easy in Vienna or Moscow. The Crescent Eyes will strike wherever the empire is threatened."
He leaned forward, voice low and deadly. "They sought to kill me in my own city. Let them learn instead that not even their cities are beyond my reach."
Selim bowed, a fire lit in his chest. "As you command, my Sultan."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the balcony, Abdulhamid stood alone, gazing over the city lights. The people below sang hymns of his survival. Smoke from factories rose into the night sky, mingling with the stars.
He whispered softly, words only for himself:
"This is Allah's sign. I will not fall. Not today, not tomorrow. My life is His tool, and I shall use it to shape an empire that no dagger, no bullet, no empire of Europe can undo."
And with that vow, he turned back into the palace, where new plans awaited.