The Rising Storm

In the heart of the Ottoman naval headquarters, Aydın Burcu had just finished delegating tasks to his officers when a royal courier arrived, presenting a sealed order from Selim III. The wax seal bore the imperial insignia, marking it as an urgent directive.

Breaking the seal, Aydın's eyes scanned the document carefully. His expression is pale, yet hardened. The message was clear: he was to initiate an offensive—but the exact details of the attack were written in a way only he could understand. This wasn't just any military order; it was a personal directive from the Crown Prince himself. 

"Oh my, Shehzade Selim, what on earth you just did?" He fell down and was stunned from the details. "I think I might have his favors, might as well use it later then."

He turned to his officers. "Prepare the fleet. We move at dawn."

The officers saluted in unison, leaving to ensure their ships were combat-ready. Aydın took a deep breath. He had expected war, but this—this was something else entirely. Aydın Burcu, a new officer who had bestowed 5 of the 3rd rate Ship of the Line.

~~~

Meanwhile, in Istanbul, Kapudan Pasha Mandalzade Hüsameddin Pasha oversaw the final preparations of the navy. The Ottoman fleet, anchored in the Golden Horn, was abuzz with activity. Sailors scrambled to load supplies, while engineers inspected the warships.

"Officer, summon the rest to the office right now." Hüsameddin Pasha speak with his adjutant. "Understood, pasha" The adjutant rushed, calling the Ottoman admirals to the officers.

Moments passed. There are 20 admirals of the Ottoman Navy, sat at the office. Where Hüsameddin Pasha stood by.

"Gentlemen, as we all know, our mission is to provide additional power to the janissaries, especially along the coastlines, or any battles happening at the coastal. My fleet, helped with 6 of the admirals will be with me at the Black Sea front, while the rest will be guarding the Mediterranean sea, watch out for any enemy ships. Intercept them if needed."

"But Kapudan Pasha, what about if the Baltic Fleet were to arrived here at Mediterranean?" One of the admiral voiced out.

"Admiral, its true but right now, we have intel that the Baltic Fleet is indeed on its way to the Mediterranean to join the battlefield. So make use of this time, to crush the russian fleet while they still separated."

Most of them nodded, and agreed.

"If there's no question, then you all dismissed. Make preparation, may Allah guide us all. To victory!"

"Allahu Akbar!!!" The admiral roared of takbir.

~~~

While the empire moved to war, another battle brewed in the shadows. Within the ranks of the Janissary Corps, whispers of dissent grew louder. Several high-ranking Janissary officers were unhappy with Sultan Mustafa III's recent decisions.

"The Sultan is weakening our traditions," one officer muttered in a dimly lit chamber. "He centralizes too much power, ignores our counsel, and replaces trusted men with his own appointees."

Another nodded in agreement. "He dismisses the old ways, brings in strange advisors, and keeps secrets. If we do nothing, we will soon find ourselves as nothing more than glorified palace guards."

A third officer scoffed. "And now his son? Sending orders, making military decisions? He is but a child. What precedent does this set?"

Among those gathered, influential figures like Damat Ağa Mehmed Pasha, Kalafat Mehmed Pasha, and Silahdar Mehmed Pasha quietly weighed their options. These men, deeply tied to the Janissary Corps, saw the Sultan's growing power as a direct threat to their influence.

Unbeknownst to them, certain pashas within the government, such as İzzet Mehmed Pasha and Çeteci Abdullah Pasha, were also plotting. Some sought to undermine the Sultan, believing his war strategy to be reckless. Others had secret dealings with the Russians, hoping to secure power if the Ottomans suffered a defeat.

Many assumed that Muhtasin Pasha's regiment was nothing more than an errand force, assigned away from the capital for trivial duties. No one questioned their true purpose—yet.

The empire was heading into war, but its greatest threat might not be Russia—it might be from within.

~~~

As Selim III and Cemil made their way toward Topkapi Palace, the streets of Istanbul buzzed with the usual rhythm of life—merchants haggling, travelers weaving through the crowds, and Janissaries patrolling with an air of confidence.

Then, in an instant, chaos.

A young boy dashed through the crowd, colliding into Selim with force before vanishing into the alleys.

For a moment, Selim was stunned—then, his instincts flared. His pouch was missing.

"Thief!" Cemil roared, immediately moving to pursue.

But before Cemil could react, Selim's body moved on its own. His enhanced reflexes sharpened, locking onto the boy who was already scaling a wall with unnatural agility.

"No ordinary street thief," Selim thought.

With a burst of power, he leapt forward, mirroring the boy's movements, scaling the wall with a precision that would have seemed impossible for an eight-year-old.

Cemil froze, his mouth slightly open as he watched his prince vault over rooftops, leaping from beam to beam like a phantom in the night.

The chase ended in a secluded courtyard, where the boy finally stumbled to a halt, cornered between the towering walls of the city. He whipped around, reaching for a dagger—only to find Selim already there, watching him with an unsettling calmness.

The prince tilted his head. He could strike. He could order Cemil to drag the boy back to the palace, where punishment would be swift.

But instead, he spoke. "I could punish you," Selim said, his voice calm but firm. "Or you could serve me instead."

The boy's eyes narrowed. He had spent years stealing to survive, slipping through the cracks of the empire unnoticed. No one had ever offered him anything but pain. "Why… why would you offer that?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

Selim studied him. Thin, malnourished, yet faster than any ordinary child. This was no simple pickpocket—this was a boy who had learned to survive in the shadows.

Selim's mind raced. "The Ottomans have spies, but they move like diplomats—shuffling between courts, whispering behind curtains. But what if we had ghosts? A force that did not simply gather information, but moved unseen, shaping the very fate of nations before war even began?"

If possible, he would build such a force. A shadow within the empire. A dagger hidden beneath the crescent. "You are talented," Selim finally said. "But talent wasted on petty theft will lead to nothing. Serve me, and I will ensure you never go hungry again."

The boy hesitated, staring at him as if trying to read the truth in his face. "I thought you were just some spoiled merchant's son," the boy muttered. "With the way you dress… And to serve? What are you, some prince?"

Selim smirked, stepping forward. Then, with a dramatic bow, he introduced himself. "Shehzade Selim of the House of Osman, at your service."

The boy's face was drained of color. His body tensed, his breathing ragged. "Shehzade… oh my… oh my…" His legs nearly gave out beneath him. "Please… spare me… I didn't know—"

Selim raised a hand, silencing him. "But I already spared you," he said simply. "If you choose to serve me."

The boy's breath slowed. His fingers trembled. "I… I have a mother," he finally admitted. "And a sister. They depend on me."

Selim nodded. "Then let me help you. Bring them to me." The boy, still wary but undeniably intrigued, finally nodded. Just then, Cemil arrived, panting. "My shehzade! Are you alright?!"

Selim turned, offering a small smirk. "I'm fine. And I believe we just found someone… useful."

As night fell over Istanbul, the wheels of fate continued to turn.War loomed. Factions plotted. And in the shadows, the ember of a new force had been lit. A force that, in time, would change the empire forever.