Istanbul, March 1894.
A cold wind rattled the shutters of Yıldız Palace, but within the council chamber the air was thick with tension. Maps of the empire lay unfurled across the table, marked not only with red lines of railways and black dots for oil refineries, but with darker signs: circles inked in crimson where resistance to the new tongue still festered.
Abdulhamid sat at the head of the table, hands folded, his gaze like a hawk's. The ministers shifted nervously, waiting for him to speak. Finally, he did.
"For ten years, children have learned Latin Turkish. For ten years, schools have filled their minds with one script, one tongue. But some refuse still. Priests in Macedonia cling to their sermons. Arab imams in the south mutter against us. French and British missionaries spread poison in Syria and Lebanon. If this continues, our children will grow divided."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. The Minister of Education, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, raised a trembling hand. "Majesty, in many towns we already see success. Young boys in Bosnia read faster in Turkish than their fathers in their native tongue. In Mosul, even Arab girls now write in the Latin script. But the older generations… they cling to their letters as to their lives."
"They will die," Abdulhamid said coldly. "And their children will remain. What matters is not the old, but the young."
The Grand Vizier leaned forward. "Majesty, some propose compromise. Let the old keep their script in church and mosque, but let schools enforce Latin Turkish. Perhaps—"
"No." Abdulhamid's voice was like iron. "Compromise is weakness. Weakness is death. The empire must breathe in one tongue alone. Crescent Eyes will ensure this."
Selim, commander of Crescent Eyes, bowed. His presence at the council was unusual, a reminder that shadows sat at the Sultan's right hand as surely as ministers. "Majesty, my agents already work. Priests are watched. Imams infiltrated. Pamphlets destroyed. Those who persist in defiance will vanish, and their flocks will fall silent."
Abdulhamid's eyes gleamed. "Then let it be so."
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In the Balkans, spring brought storms not only of weather but of blood. In a village outside Skopje, a priest defied the decree, gathering children to teach them the old Slavic script in secret. Crescent Eyes discovered it within days. The priest was taken at night, his body found weeks later in a ravine. His flock, leaderless and afraid, sent their children to the Turkish school. Within months, the children corrected their parents' prayers, their words stumbling back into Turkish syllables.
Reports reached the palace of mothers weeping as their children laughed at them, calling their native tongues "old-fashioned" or "wrong." Abdulhamid read the reports with grim satisfaction. "It is working," he told Selim. "Rebellion dies not with soldiers but with children."
In Mesopotamia, resistance was subtler. Arab imams continued to preach in Arabic, refusing the Turkish Qur'an printed in the Latin script. Abdulhamid responded with cunning. Wealthy imams who adopted the Turkish letters received not only stipends, but whole estates seized from rebels. The young clerics saw opportunity where the old saw blasphemy. A generation of ambitious men now praised the Sultan's decree, hoping to climb through loyalty.
Still, some resisted. A school in Najaf was burned to the ground. Crescent Eyes struck back with vengeance, assassinating the ringleaders and quietly spreading rumors that Allah Himself had cursed them with madness before death. The fires stopped.
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In Anatolia itself, the heartland of the Turks, resistance was weakest — yet still present. Old men gathered in tea-houses, grumbling that the Sultan had betrayed their fathers by abandoning Arabic script. But their grandsons read newspapers in Latin Turkish, and when they mocked the old men's ignorance, laughter cut deeper than Crescent Eyes' knives.
Abdulhamid traveled in disguise one spring to Konya, walking among the people with only Selim at his side. In a schoolyard, he listened to children recite lessons in clear Turkish letters. One boy raised his hand proudly: "My father cannot read the new words, but I can. I teach him."
The Sultan smiled faintly, though sadness touched his eyes. Later, when alone, he whispered a prayer: "Allah, let this sacrifice endure. Let them forget their divisions, even if they must forget their fathers' tongues."
No one heard. No one knew that in another life he had seen nations destroyed by division, seen empires fall because they failed to unite their tongues. The secret of his rebirth remained locked within him, burning as both gift and curse.
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By summer, the foreign powers struck back. In Syria, French missionaries expanded their schools, teaching children in French and Arabic, mocking the Latin Turkish decrees. In Macedonia, Russian priests funded underground classes in old Slavic letters. British missionaries in Basra distributed Bibles and primers in English, enticing the curious.
Crescent Eyes moved like wolves among them. French priests were found dead of "cholera." Russian agents vanished on the road to Salonika. British schools mysteriously burned in the night, their ruins blamed on "accidents." And yet, Abdulhamid ordered not only death, but replacement. For every foreign school destroyed, two Turkish schools were built, their teachers armed with stipends and soldiers for protection.
Selim reported the results. "Majesty, resistance flares but dwindles. Children flock to our schools, for we offer them food, books, even coin. Their parents resist, but hunger forces their hands. Within a decade, the old tongues will fade."
Abdulhamid nodded, his eyes heavy with the weight of vision. "Then we are on the right path. Let Crescent Eyes be relentless. Let no whisper of defiance grow into a shout."
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Autumn 1894 brought fresh storms. In the Balkans, rebels launched a violent uprising, burning Turkish schools and murdering teachers. Crescent Eyes struck back with fury, hunting ringleaders and executing them without trial. But Abdulhamid did not rely on fear alone.
He decreed that villages loyal to Turkish schools would be rewarded. Grain flowed into cooperative towns. Children of loyal families received scholarships to study in Istanbul. When rebels attacked, entire villages rose against them — not out of loyalty, but out of hunger and self-interest.
Reports soon reached the palace: in Bosnia, children chanted Turkish songs as rebels were dragged through the streets. In Albania, orphans of rebels were taken into state orphanages, renamed, and raised as Turks. In Macedonia, villages begged for Turkish schools after rebels had left them starving.
Abdulhamid studied the reports late into the night. His heart was iron, but it ached in secret. "This is the cost," he thought. "Generations erased, so that the next may live united. Better their grief now than the empire's death tomorrow."
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In Mesopotamia, British agents armed tribes against Turkish officials. Crescent Eyes countered with assassination and bribes. Imams who supported the Sultan were elevated; those who defied him were found with their throats cut in the desert. Villages that resisted Turkish schools lost stipends and starved. Villages that obeyed thrived with oil revenues and new roads.
Soon, loyalty was no longer about faith or tribe, but about survival. Fathers who cursed the Latin letters in secret still sent their sons to Turkish schools, because those sons brought home stipends and food. And those sons, once educated, corrected their fathers' speech, mocking their ignorance. The cycle deepened with every passing year.
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By winter, the empire groaned under the weight of transformation. But Abdulhamid's vision was taking shape. Newspapers in Istanbul published essays by Balkan children in Latin Turkish. Poems from Arab students praised the Sultan as Caliph. Even in Damascus and Aleppo, young men wrote letters in the new script, their old alphabets fading into memory.
One evening, in the quiet of his study, Abdulhamid reviewed these essays. His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the sharp Latin letters. They reminded him of classrooms in the 21st century, of children writing in the same script, unaware of the blood spilled to bring it into being.
Selim entered quietly. "Majesty, the Crescent Eyes report success. Resistance remains, but it dies slowly. Within twenty years, there will be no empire of many tongues. Only Turks."
Abdulhamid closed his eyes briefly, the weight of his secret pressing down on him. He could never tell Selim that he knew — he had seen — what disunity would bring in another life. That this second chance was not merely a blessing, but a command.
He opened his eyes, steel returning to them. "Then let us finish what we began. The empire will not fall. Not in my life. Not in my children's. Not ever."
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By the close of 1894, the empire had changed irreversibly. In the Balkans, children corrected their parents. In Mesopotamia, imams preached in Turkish. In Anatolia, old men grumbled, but their grandsons laughed. The Crescent Eyes watched all, ensuring silence where words might grow into rebellion.
Europe whispered of tyranny. France called it cultural murder. Britain called it barbarity. Russia called it blasphemy. But within the empire, a generation rose that spoke one tongue, read one script, prayed with one voice.
And standing over it all was Abdulhamid — the Iron Sultan, bearing a secret fire no one else could see, forging not only steel and oil, but the very soul of his people.