Winter lifted slowly over Istanbul, but its chill clung to Abdulhamid's court like an iron chain. The memory of the parade bomb still burned in every minister's eyes. Yet where others saw fear, the Sultan saw opportunity. The enemy had shown their hand, and in doing so, given him license to show his.
In the map room, Selim stood with his commanders of Crescent Eyes, a circle of hardened men who had spent more nights in foreign alleys than in their own beds. The Sultan's gaze swept over them as he laid his hand flat upon Europe's map.
"They struck in our heart," Abdulhamid said. "They believed we would cower, that fear would chain us to our walls. But fear is their weakness, not ours. Now we carry the war to them. Not armies, not banners—but knives, poisons, and whispers. Let their cities tremble as ours did."
Selim nodded grimly. "Majesty, targets have already been prepared. Journalists, financiers, and ministers most responsible for the shadow war. With your leave, Crescent Eyes will strike."
The Sultan's voice was cold, steady, final: "Leave granted. Let Europe know—the hand they mocked now closes around their throats."
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The first blow fell in Vienna.
Julius von Richter, a banker who funneled Russian rubles into the Balkan insurgents, left his club on a snowy night. His carriage never arrived. The next morning, his body was found beneath the Danube bridge, throat cut, a single crescent coin pressed into his palm.
Vienna erupted in rumor. Some whispered of a duel, others of thieves. But in quiet halls, ministers muttered the truth: the Sultan's shadows had reached their capital.
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In Paris, Alain Lambert, a fiery journalist who had railed against the "Turkish menace" for years, opened a package on his desk. It contained only an inkwell. When he lifted it, the glass shattered, releasing a cloud of powder that burned his lungs. He was dead within hours, gasping for breath.
The newspapers reported it as an "accident of chemicals." But those who had read his last column—the one urging open French support for Balkan rebels—knew better.
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London, too, felt the Sultan's hand. Sir Henry Markham, once bold in his anti-Ottoman speeches, now found his mistress's letters nailed to his door. His reputation collapsed overnight. He resigned in disgrace, muttering that the empire had "specters in every shadow."
The British press speculated. Whispers spread that the Ottomans had mastered blackmail as skillfully as they once mastered steel.
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Back in Istanbul, reports flowed to the Sultan like tributaries to a great river. Selim recited each one without flourish, his tone as cold as the deeds themselves.
"Vienna banker dead. Paris journalist silenced. London politician ruined. Moscow general's train derailed on the southern line—at least twenty dead, though the general survived, barely."
Abdulhamid's fingers drummed against the map. "Not enough. Their fire in Istanbul nearly killed hundreds. I will not rest until their salons echo with fear, until every man who plotted against me wonders if his wine is poisoned, if his carriage is trapped, if his next word will be his last."
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But Europe was not idle. The Eastern Accord, shocked by the sudden wave of assassinations, tightened its grip. Armored patrols prowled Vienna. French police raided immigrant quarters. The British Home Office issued warnings against "Oriental subversion."
And yet, despite their vigilance, men continued to vanish. Ministers whispered in secret meetings, "The Turk has become a phantom. His hand strangles us in our very homes."
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That night, as the call to prayer drifted over Istanbul, Abdulhamid walked the gardens of Yıldız Palace alone. Snowflakes melted against his beard. He thought of the long centuries of Ottoman decline—the humiliations, the treaties, the mockery of Europe calling his empire "the sick man."
Not sick. Not dying. Reborn.
Every assassination, every whisper of terror in Europe was not mere revenge. It was a declaration: that the empire lived, and that its Sultan's hand could reach wherever Allah willed it.
He turned his gaze north, toward the lands of Vienna, Paris, London, Moscow. His eyes gleamed.
"They wanted shadows in Istanbul," he murmured. "Now they will drown in shadows of their own."
The Sultan's vow was no idle flourish. As Crescent Eyes struck and Europe reeled, Abdulhamid knew the war of shadows had only begun. Fear was spreading through salons and parliaments, but he also knew fear was a double-edged sword—one that could just as easily cut his own men. Europe would not remain passive. Somewhere, even now, they were sharpening their own knives.
For weeks, Europe shuddered under invisible blows. Bankers whispered in Vienna, journalists trembled in Paris, and in London, even parliamentarians glanced over their shoulders as they walked home at night. The Eastern Accord had been meant to choke the Ottoman Empire in silence. Now it found itself suffocating instead.
But empires do not yield easily.
By spring, the first counterstroke fell. In Paris, three Crescent Eyes agents were trapped in a raid. One died under interrogation, another vanished into the Seine, weighted with chains. The third—young and brilliant—confessed under torment. His words reached London, Vienna, and Moscow within days.
Selim brought the report to Abdulhamid, his jaw clenched. "Majesty, the French now know many of our methods. They will hunt us with greater precision. Already, our Paris cell has been torn apart."
The Sultan's eyes narrowed. "And the boy?"
Selim's silence was answer enough.
Abdulhamid turned to the window, his fingers tightening on the sill. A single broken link can fray the whole chain. I have built Crescent Eyes to weave a web, but webs burn when the flame touches them.
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Soon after, a catastrophe struck in Moscow.
Colonel Semyonov, the general who had narrowly survived the derailed train, was now guarded like a czar. Still, Crescent Eyes attempted another strike. The assassin—disguised as a priest—slipped into the general's chapel. But just as he drew his blade, guards stormed in.
The assassin fought like a man possessed, cutting two down before he was shot through the chest. His body was paraded in Moscow's streets, and Russian papers crowed: "The Turk's Shadows Broken!"
Abdulhamid read the headline in silence. Then he pushed the paper aside. "Let them believe it. Pride blinds more than fear."
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Yet the danger was not distant alone.
In Vienna, the widow of banker von Richter demanded protection from the emperor, claiming she had found a crescent coin upon her doorstep. Panic rippled through the aristocracy. Armored coaches became the fashion, and entire boulevards were lit at night. Ministers met in secret, whispering that their homes were no longer safe.
But even as Europe trembled, Istanbul shook too. For one night, Selim returned with a face more grave than ever before.
"Majesty," he said, voice rough, "our cell in London has been destroyed. Five men. Executed quietly, without trial. Their bodies buried in unmarked ground. The British sent the message not with words, but with silence."
Abdulhamid's heart tightened. Five of his best, gone. Their lives had been coins spent in the shadow war. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, they burned with fire.
"Then we do not relent. For every one they kill, I will take ten. For every shadow they burn, I will send fire into their palaces."
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The escalation was merciless.
Within weeks, a Russian colonel was found poisoned in Warsaw. A French arms dealer drowned in Marseille. In London, a factory producing rifles for the Balkans exploded in flames, its cause "unknown."
But vengeance had its cost. Crescent Eyes bled agents faster than they could recruit. Selim's reports grew heavier with each passing week.
"Majesty, we are striking harder, but so are they. Our web holds, but it stretches thin. Europe's secret police grow sharper by the day. If we continue without pause, we may win fear—but lose the men who cast it."
Abdulhamid listened, silent, then spoke. "Selim, you mistake me. This is not a war of victory. It is a war of endurance. They believe time is theirs. I will show them it belongs to me."
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And so he shifted the war. No longer only assassinations. Now, whispers of betrayal spread in Europe itself. Crescent Eyes forged letters implicating French ministers in corruption. In Vienna, they leaked rumors of Austrian generals plotting against the emperor. In London, false documents suggested members of Parliament had taken bribes from Ottoman merchants.
The shadow war had become not only blood, but poison poured into Europe's veins.
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Yet Abdulhamid's own court was not free from danger.
One evening, Selim burst into the Sultan's study with a sealed letter, intercepted from the Russian embassy. Inside was a chilling message: "Our friends in Istanbul have delivered. The Sultan's table is poisoned."
Abdulhamid froze. His eyes flicked to the untouched meal before him. He pushed it aside, rage tightening his jaw.
"There are traitors even here," he said coldly. "Selim, listen well. No minister, no servant, no vizier is above suspicion. The Crescent Eyes will not only guard me—they will watch the palace itself. Until every snake is crushed."
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In the weeks that followed, Istanbul itself became a fortress of shadows. Servants were replaced, guards doubled, ministers tested. Even the closest advisors felt the invisible weight of Selim's watchful eyes. Abdulhamid trusted none fully, not even those who had served for decades.
The Sultan's divine mission had hardened into iron resolve: to survive was not enough. To outlast, to outmaneuver, to outshadow—that was his destiny.
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One night, standing upon the palace balcony, Abdulhamid looked westward. Beyond the horizon lay Paris, Vienna, London, Moscow. Cities of light and power, proud in their arrogance. Yet he knew now they whispered of him, of the Turk who had turned shadows into weapons, of the Sultan whose hand stretched farther than any army's sword.
"They wished for war in the dark," he murmured, his voice carrying to none but the stars. "Then in the dark we shall reign. Let them feel the empire not only in steel and steam—but in fear."
The crescent moon rose above the city, gleaming like a blade. And Abdulhamid swore, as he had sworn since his second life began, that no enemy—foreign or within—would find peace while he sat the throne.