Istanbul, January 1892
The bells of Istanbul tolled across the winter air, their echoes blending with the deep groan of factory whistles and the sharp hiss of locomotives pulling into the new station at Sirkeci. Ten years. A single decade — yet for Abdulhamid, it felt like an entire age had passed since he had returned triumphant from the Balkan rebellion, bearing not only victory but vision.
Ten years of unrelenting struggle. Ten years of steel, of fire, of language. Ten years in which the empire clawed its way back from the brink of death.
The skyline of Istanbul was no longer the same. The domes of Hagia Sophia and the slender minarets of Süleymaniye still pierced the heavens, but between them rose chimneys that belched smoke into the pale January sky. Shipyards in the Golden Horn bristled with cranes. Across the Bosphorus, oil-fed lamps burned even in the poorest quarters, their glow defying the winter dusk. Railways gleamed like veins of steel across Anatolia, their trains powered not by coal bought from British merchants, but by Mesopotamian oil flowing from Mosul and Basra.
From the balcony of Yıldız Palace, Abdulhamid surveyed it all. The Bosphorus shimmered under the weak sun. On one bank, the old city clung to its past. On the other, factories and schools announced the empire's new soul. Smoke curled into the sky like incense. To most men, it was pollution. To Abdulhamid, it was prayer.
Selim, the ever-loyal commander of Crescent Eyes, stood at his side, a thick folder in hand. "Majesty. The morning reports."
Abdulhamid took the folder, his sharp eyes flicking over the coded lines of text. Crescent Eyes tracked not only spies and saboteurs but the very pulse of the empire: school attendance in Salonika, birth rates in Baghdad, shipments of rifles from Istanbul's arsenal, oil quotas from Basra.
"Coal output remains steady," Selim reported. "But the oil trains from Mosul exceeded last month's record. The Basra refinery now supplies sixty percent of the fleet. In addition, attendance at the Turkish schools in Sarajevo and Skopje has risen. More children write the Latin letters than the Greek priests care to admit."
Abdulhamid set the papers down and clasped his hands behind his back. His voice, soft yet commanding, carried the weight of memory. "Ten years ago, Selim, we begged Europe for rifles. We bought coal at their price. Our children prayed in tongues that divided them. Now Europe offers us loans not out of kindness but out of fear we may outpace them. And still—" He paused, eyes narrowing. "Still, the work is not finished. We have built steel, but we must also build flesh. An empire of smoke and rail is strong. But an empire of sons and daughters is eternal."
Selim tilted his head. "Majesty speaks of… population?"
"Yes." Abdulhamid turned to face him fully, his gaze piercing. "Industry is nothing without people. Armies are nothing without soldiers. To endure, the empire must grow not only stronger but larger in its very blood. We must make more Turks."
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The Imperial Council convened that afternoon beneath the marble dome of Yıldız. Ministers of Industry, Education, Population, and Faith — titles born of Abdulhamid's decade of reform — gathered around a massive map unfurled across the table. Red lines marked the new railroads, black dots the factories, blue the schools. Beside them were tables of figures: oil production, literacy rates, birth statistics.
Abdulhamid entered with measured steps, his presence alone commanding silence.
"My sons of the empire," he began, his voice resonant. "For a decade we have forged steel, built schools, and silenced rebellion. Now we must ensure that what we build endures. An empire is not only walls and cannons. It is people. Without more Turks, there is no empire."
The Minister of Population, an aging physician, nodded eagerly. "Majesty, since your decree five years ago, families with more than four children have received tax reductions. The stipend for every newborn has increased births in Anatolia. In Baghdad and Aleppo, marriage funds encourage unions at younger ages. We have seen growth."
Abdulhamid raised his hand. "Not enough." His gaze swept the chamber. "In Europe, I saw nations multiply. Russia throws millions of men into battle. Germany grows with each generation. If we remain stagnant, we will be swallowed. Therefore, I decree: every family of six children will receive land. Every soldier returning from service will be granted dowry funds if he marries within the year. Every widow who remarries shall keep her stipend. And Turkish-speaking families shall be settled in Mesopotamia and the Balkans to strengthen the roots of our presence."
Murmurs swept the chamber. One vizier dared to object. "Majesty, this will empty the treasury."
Abdulhamid's eyes hardened. "What empties the treasury faster — stipends for children or coffins for soldiers? Gold spent on life is never wasted."
Selim, silent until then, stepped forward. "The Crescent Eyes will ensure the policies are not abused. Families must prove Turkish schooling for their children to receive aid. This way, loyalty and growth walk together."
A ripple of approval spread through the room.
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The Sultan leaned over the map, tracing a finger from Sarajevo to Skopje, from Mosul to Basra. "Assimilation is our sword. In Baghdad, children now write Turkish letters by oil-lamp. In Sarajevo, they sing Turkish songs even as their priests mutter in anger. This is how nations are reborn: not in a single year, but over generations. The old tongues will fade. The new tongue will remain."
The Minister of Education hesitated. "Majesty, the Greek priests in Macedonia… the Serbian agitators… they resist fiercely. They smuggle books, bribe teachers."
Abdulhamid's lips curved into a thin smile. "And yet their children sit in our classrooms. Their grandchildren will not even remember the resistance of their fathers. We will not force them into silence — time will do it for us. Crescent Eyes will only ensure no spark of rebellion grows into flame."
Selim bowed slightly. "Already, agents have seized crates of Greek primers in Thessaly. They were replaced with Turkish science texts before the villagers knew."
The council chuckled, but Abdulhamid remained grave.
"Steel, oil, and smoke make us strong. But it is people who carry the future. If in twenty years we are not greater in number, then all our factories are but empty shells. The empire must not only endure — it must multiply."
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Later that evening, alone in his private chambers, Abdulhamid allowed the weight of the day to settle. He lit no lamp, preferring the pale glow of the moon over the Bosphorus.
None knew the secret he carried — that in another life, another century, he had seen this empire collapse, carved by foreign hands, weakened by nationalism, undone by childless homes and disunited peoples. He had seen trenches filled with sons, wars fought with machines, the Turk reduced to a broken fragment. Allah had returned him to change that fate.
He closed his eyes, whispering into the night. Factories I can build. Schools I can command. But children… children must come from the people themselves. May Allah bless them with fertility, may He guide them to multiply, for their lives are the walls of the empire.
A knock at the door interrupted his prayer. It was Selim again, shadow silent. He bowed. "Majesty, a courier from Salonika. Reports of unrest among Albanian chiefs resisting the schools."
Abdulhamid opened his eyes, steel glinting in the dark. "Then remind them that schools bring bread, that loyalty brings land. If they refuse… remind them also that Crescent Eyes do not sleep."
Selim's voice was low. "And what of the Russians? They stir both Arabs and Balkans alike."
Abdulhamid turned back toward the Bosphorus. His tone was soft, almost cold. "Then we shall stir faster. Let them choke on their own plots. We will not falter. For this empire is no longer the sick man. It is the child reborn. It is the people yet to be born."
The moonlight gleamed across his face as he whispered the final words to himself:
"One people. One empire. One destiny."