The echoes of Europe's shadow war still lingered in the halls of Yıldız Palace. Ministers walked with hushed voices, glancing at corners as though Crescent Eyes might emerge from the stone itself. Yet even as the empire's spies clashed with Europe's secret hands, Abdulhamid's thoughts were drawn to another battlefield—one older, deeper, and infinitely more dangerous.
Faith.
It was faith, not cannon, that truly bound empires. It was the word of Allah that had driven Turks from the steppes to the gates of Vienna. And it was that same word, twisted by zealots and dulled by centuries of stagnation, that now threatened to fracture his empire from within.
Sitting alone in his study, Abdulhamid traced his finger across a Qur'an that had lain on his desk since childhood. In his other life—the 20th and 21st centuries—he had seen the power of religion wielded both to unite and to divide. He had seen nations rally under faith, and others torn apart by it. If Allah has given me this second life, he thought, then surely His intent is not merely for me to build steel and shadow, but to forge a faith that can endure.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Selim entered, his cloak damp with the mist of an Istanbul evening.
"Majesty," he said, bowing. "The reform council gathers as you commanded."
Abdulhamid rose, his expression hardening. "Then let us begin. What steel and shadow cannot finish, faith must."
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The council convened in a chamber far from the public eye. Its members were carefully chosen: reformist clerics who had quietly supported new schools; philosophers who studied both theology and modern science; and ulema whose loyalty had been tested by Crescent Eyes.
Abdulhamid addressed them directly, without preamble. "My empire bleeds in shadows and smolders in factories. Yet these will avail us little if our faith remains divided. I will not allow sectarian poison, nor zealotry that rejects the knowledge Allah Himself has woven into His creation. Tell me, learned men—what is Islam, if it cannot guide us through the modern age?"
An elder imam shifted uneasily. "Majesty, Islam is eternal truth. It does not change with time. To tamper—"
"To tamper?" Abdulhamid cut him off, his voice sharp. "Did the Prophet not command us to seek knowledge, even if in distant lands? Did Allah not craft a universe governed by laws that He Himself revealed to us through reason? A faith that fears knowledge is not faith. It is cowardice dressed as piety."
A murmur swept the chamber. Some nodded. Others lowered their eyes.
One reformist scholar, a young man from Anatolia, dared to speak: "Majesty, if you mean to unify the empire, then faith must speak one language. Already your schools teach Turkish to Armenians, Greeks, Arabs. Already in Central Asia, the teachers you dispatched preach in Turkish letters. Perhaps it is time that faith itself, from prayer to scripture, be bound in the same tongue."
The chamber stiffened. To translate sacred recitations into Turkish would be heresy to some, liberation to others.
Abdulhamid's gaze swept the room, measuring every flicker of hesitation. "One empire. One people. One tongue. If our subjects pray together, learn together, and fight together, no power can divide them. This is the will of Allah in giving us dominion."
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After the council dispersed, Selim lingered. His face was grim.
"Majesty, you play with fire," he warned. "The zealots will not forgive easily. Crescent Eyes hear whispers already—clerics calling you an innovator, a blasphemer. They say you twist faith for power."
Abdulhamid clasped his hands behind his back. "Let them whisper. Shadows I can crush. But their words reveal the truth—that they fear me more than they fear ignorance. They would chain this empire to the past. I will chain it to the future."
Selim bowed. "So long as you know, Majesty, that daggers may come from the mosque as swiftly as from Europe."
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Days later, the prophecy fulfilled itself.
It was Friday. The Hagia Sophia, that ancient jewel of Byzantium turned mosque, swelled with thousands of worshippers. The call to prayer rose like thunder, echoing through its domes. Abdulhamid entered flanked by guards, his presence sparking both reverence and unease. Some bowed deeply; others avoided his gaze, their faces twisted with suspicion.
The prayer began. Rows upon rows bent in unison, foreheads pressing to the ground. The Sultan, at the front, moved with calm precision, his heart steady. But even as he bowed, he felt the tension coil in the air like a drawn bowstring.
Then, as silence fell before the final supplication, a man burst forward. His eyes blazed with fanatic fury. From beneath his robes flashed the curve of a dagger. His voice rang out, shrill and mad:
"Blasphemer! You corrupt Allah's word!"
Gasps erupted. The dagger slashed downward—
—but it never reached the Sultan.
Selim's men struck first. A pistol cracked, the assassin's chest burst crimson, and his body crumpled to the carpet, staining it red at Abdulhamid's feet. Screams swept through the congregation. Some fled, others wept, others shouted curses at the dead man or at the Sultan himself.
Abdulhamid did not move. He did not flinch. He finished the final words of the prayer, rose calmly, and turned to the assembly.
"Faith that fears knowledge," he declared, voice like iron ringing in the domes, "is no faith at all. Allah gave us minds to know His world. To reject that gift is to reject Him."
The words echoed through the Hagia Sophia like cannon fire. Reformists in the crowd raised their heads, eyes shining. Zealots scowled, their lips moving with silent curses. The city had heard. The empire had heard. The Sultan had drawn his line.
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That night, in the secret chambers of Yıldız, Selim stood over a table littered with intercepted letters. "Majesty, we've confirmed it. The assassin was no lone madman. He was sent by clerics who call you heretic. They plot more. They will not stop."
Abdulhamid stared into the flames of the brazier. The fire danced like the storm he had unleashed. He felt no regret. Only certainty.
"So be it," he said quietly. "The shadows of Europe strike at my empire with bombs. The shadows within strike with daggers. But Allah has set me above them all. Selim—watch the mosques. Watch the ulema. If they turn from guidance to rebellion, then they are no longer men of God. They are enemies of the empire. And enemies of the empire," he paused, his eyes like steel, "we bury."
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The blood in Hagia Sophia had scarcely dried before the rumors began to spread. By sunset, the coffeehouses of Istanbul were ablaze with debate. Some swore the Sultan had been saved by divine providence, that Allah Himself had guided Selim's pistol to strike down the heretic. Others whispered darker things—that the assassin was no lone fanatic, but a martyr sent by the pious to stop the Sultan's "blasphemous innovations."
In the markets, bakers and merchants argued in hushed tones. In the mosques, preachers thundered both for and against the Sultan's vision. And in the palace, Crescent Eyes scoured every whisper, every mutter, every letter. Selim brought the daily reports himself, his eyes grim.
"Majesty," he said one evening, "the city is divided. Reformists call you the Caliph of the future. The zealots call you a tyrant against God. And…" He hesitated. "There are imams in Anatolia and Syria who openly preach against you. We've caught sermons calling you kafir. Already, riots have broken out in Bursa. In Damascus, a mosque was set ablaze after its imam refused to speak your name in the khutbah."
Abdulhamid stood before the map of his empire, his gaze steady. He had expected this. Faith was the deepest current of all; to redirect it would always stir storms.
"Selim," he said, his voice low but sharp, "steel binds the land, shadows bind the rebels, but faith binds the soul. If we do not master it, then all else is ash. Double the Crescent Eyes within the ulema. Any who plot with foreign hands will be unmasked. Any who call for blood will find their own spilled."
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Yet repression alone could not win hearts. Abdulhamid knew that better than anyone. If faith was to unite the empire, it had to be lived, not merely enforced.
Thus he summoned his reform council again, this time in greater secrecy. The chamber's lamps burned low, casting long shadows on the walls as clerics, scholars, and teachers assembled.
"The people murmur of blasphemy," one imam confessed nervously. "Majesty, even those who trust your vision fear the change in prayer, the change in tongue. They think you mean to tear the Qur'an apart."
Abdulhamid raised a hand, silencing him. "The Qur'an is eternal. I do not change it. But Allah gave it to men to be understood, not to be recited blindly. What faith is it, if a farmer in Anatolia mouths words he cannot comprehend? If a shepherd in Syria chants verses without knowing their meaning? No—true reverence comes through understanding. And understanding comes in the tongue of the people."
Another scholar leaned forward eagerly. "Then, Majesty, let the Turkish Qur'an be taught not as replacement but as companion. Arabic remains for recitation; Turkish for comprehension. Thus we honor the word while binding the people."
Abdulhamid's eyes softened with approval. "Yes. This is the path. The faith must live in the mind, not only on the tongue."
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The plan unfolded with precision. Schools that once taught only Qur'anic recitation now opened classes in Turkish-language tafsir. Sermons were delivered in Turkish after the Arabic rites, so that every peasant, every craftsman, every soldier could understand the word of God and connect it with the empire's mission.
In Central Asia, where Abdulhamid had already dispatched teachers and ulema months earlier, the reform spread swiftly. Reports arrived from Bukhara and Samarkand: villagers now prayed in Arabic but discussed the meaning in Turkish. Children wrote verses in the new alphabet, chanting both holy words and patriotic oaths. Slowly, subtly, their identity as Turks of the empire was deepening.
One evening, Selim read a letter aloud: "Majesty, in a village near Tashkent, the people have begun to call you not only Sultan, but Ata—father. They say the Sultan-Caliph has given them back their faith, not as chains, but as fire."
Abdulhamid closed his eyes briefly. This was the fruit he sought. Not domination alone, but devotion—unity born of reverence, not fear.
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But not all fruits were sweet. In Istanbul, the conservative ulema struck back. Pamphlets circulated in secret, declaring the Sultan a tyrant. In one, his name was written beside that of Pharaoh, a man who claimed divine power. Another called for the people to rise up and "defend the true Islam against innovation."
Selim stormed into the Sultan's chamber, slamming one such pamphlet onto the table. "Majesty, this was printed in Üsküdar. Crescent Eyes tracked it to a press owned by a respected imam. Shall I silence him?"
Abdulhamid studied the page, its ink still fresh. Then he spoke calmly. "No. To kill him outright would make him a martyr. Instead, let him preach. But we will send our men into his congregation. They will spread whispers of his corruption, tales of his secret dealings with foreign gold. His voice will wither not by dagger, but by doubt."
Selim's eyes glinted with dark admiration. "As you will, Majesty. The shadows are sharper than the blade."
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Weeks passed, and Istanbul became a city of divided sermons. In one mosque, the preacher thundered loyalty to the Sultan-Caliph. In another, curses rained upon his name. Families argued in their homes; neighbors shouted across courtyards.
Yet Abdulhamid pressed on. He declared new religious schools—Mekteb-i İlahiyat—where students learned theology alongside mathematics, mechanics, and philosophy. Clerics who refused to adapt were stripped of their posts; young imams loyal to the Sultan replaced them.
And all the while, Crescent Eyes guarded him without rest. Daggers gleamed in every shadow. Twice more fanatics tried to strike, once in Damascus, once in Konya. Both fell before they reached him. Each failure only hardened Abdulhamid's resolve.
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One night, gazing out at the Bosphorus, Abdulhamid spoke to Selim with rare softness.
"I thought Allah commanded me to build steel, to wield shadows," he said. His gaze lingered on the dark waters, reflecting the lights of the city. "But I see now—those are but the bones and sinews. Faith is the heart. Without it, the empire cannot live."
Selim bowed deeply. "Majesty, you risk everything on this. Factories can be rebuilt, spies replaced. But once faith turns fully against you, there will be no second reprieve."
Abdulhamid's eyes burned with certainty. "Then we will not let it turn. We will shape it as steel in the forge. The people will not see a heretic, but a guide. They will not see division, but unity. I am Sultan. I am Caliph. And I am Allah's servant, chosen to lead this people into the century to come."
The words rang with a conviction that silenced even Selim's doubts.
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Thus the empire edged into a new dawn of faith—not yet triumphant, but burning with promise and peril both. Factories roared, Crescent Eyes struck in shadows, and now mosques echoed with sermons reshaped in the Sultan's vision.
But for every loyal heart kindled, another hardened against him. In the secret chambers of Istanbul, conservative ulema whispered of rebellion. In foreign embassies, European envoys watched with keen interest, seeing in Abdulhamid's reforms not salvation, but dangerous fire.
And in Central Asia, the teachers and preachers sent months before now wrote back of villages stirred, tribes whispering of a Caliph who might free them from Russian chains.
The empire's faith was no longer what it had been. It was becoming something new, something bold, something untested.
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Abdulhamid stood on the balcony of Yıldız Palace one evening, the domes of mosques glowing red in the sunset. He could hear the call to prayer rolling over the city, still in Arabic—but after it, he knew, Turkish sermons would follow.
"One empire," he whispered to the horizon. "One people. One faith. The gift Allah has given me will not be wasted."
Behind him, Selim appeared, bowing low. "Majesty, the next council awaits."
Abdulhamid turned, his cloak flowing like a shadow. His eyes gleamed with resolve.
"Then let us finish what we have begun."