The halls of Topkapı Palace were unusually quiet that evening, save for the faint crackling of torches and the distant murmurs of courtiers whispering in hushed tones. Inside the Divanhane, where the weight of the empire rested upon his shoulders, Sultan Mustafa III sat at the grand table, his fingers lightly tapping against the polished surface. Before him, maps were sprawled out, detailing the empire's current warfronts—the Balkans, the Caucasus, and the Black Sea.
War was a cruel mistress. The empire's resources were stretched thin, and every decision had to be precise. The Ottoman fleet was already preoccupied—defending the Mediterranean against Venetian and Russian threats, patrolling the Aegean, and supporting supply lines between Istanbul and the Danube. The Black Sea, though crucial, had never been the primary focus of their naval doctrine.
Then, the chamber doors swung open.
The chief chamberlain entered first, bowing deeply before stepping aside to allow the naval secretary to approach. The official looked flustered, his breathing slightly labored from what Mustafa could only assume was urgent news.
"Hünkârım," the man bowed deeply, his voice wavering with barely concealed astonishment. "News has arrived from the northern front. A major raid—an Ottoman fleet struck Taganrog and reduced it to ash."
The Sultan's fingers froze mid-tap. His gaze lifted sharply.
"What?"
The room fell silent. Even the viziers, who had been murmuring among themselves over provincial reports, turned their heads.
Taganrog? That was deep within Russian-controlled waters, beyond the typical reach of the Ottoman fleet. It was a vital Russian stronghold, a key port from which Tsarina Catherine's navy launched patrols and resupplied the Azov coast. No major Ottoman admiral had been assigned an offensive campaign there—so who had ordered it?
"Explain," Mustafa commanded, his voice even but carrying an unmistakable weight.
The naval secretary swallowed before unfurling a sealed report, its parchment marked with the emblem of the Crimean Khanate. "Hünkârım, according to the report, the attack was initiated by a young officer by the name of Aydin Burcu. For this operation, he utilized his small fleet, and with several hired Xebec ships. He struck under cover of night, destroying Russian storehouses, shipyards, and key installations before escaping southward."
Murmurs spread among the gathered officials.
Mustafa leaned forward, his gaze darkening. "Aydın Burcu? Why I felt familiar with that name ...."
"If I'm not mistaken, Aydin reis was always with Shehzade Selim."
Mustafa accidentally larged his eyes, "Oh, so you want to say that the operation was orchestrated by my son? An 8 year old boy?"
"Yes, Hünkârım. And—" The official hesitated before carefully setting another sealed letter before the Sultan.
Mustafa recognized the tughra (imperial monogram) of his son before he even opened it.
The chamber remained deathly silent as Sultan Mustafa III processed the report before him. His fingers, which had been lightly tapping against the table just moments ago, had now stilled completely. A raid on Taganrog, deep in Russian-held waters—by an officer not even listed among the high admirals of the Ottoman fleet? And worse, the report had arrived not from his own naval officers, but from the Crimean Khanate, a vassal state.
His gaze hardened as he unfolded the letter bearing the Khanate's seal. The words within were both an account and an unspoken challenge.
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To the Sublime Porte,
Your Majesty, Sultan Mustafa III, the raid on Taganrog has been a success. Under the command of Aydın Burcu, Ottoman ships, including several Xebecs, set ablaze Russian supply depots, naval stores, and shipyards before retreating southward. Russian naval operations in the Azov Sea have been crippled for the time being.
This act of daring is worthy of the annals of history. Yet, it is my duty to report that this raid was not initiated by your admirals nor ordered by your high command. The operation was conducted under the directive of your son, Şehzade Selim bin Mustafa. He provided funding, arranged the necessary vessels, and gave his own seal for the fleet's provisions. The boldness of the young Shehzade has resulted in a remarkable victory. And as a subject, nothing I express but an honor and full support on this. However, I must ask—was this done with your knowledge?
Khan Qaplan II Giray, Protector of the Steppe
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Mustafa's grip on the parchment tightened, his eyes lingering on the final lines.
A murmur spread among the assembled pashas, the viziers exchanging glances between each other, uncertain of what to say. The silence was finally broken by Moldovancı Ali Pasha, the Grand Vizier, who exhaled sharply and stepped forward.
"Hünkârım," he began cautiously, choosing his words carefully, "it seems our vassals are informing us of matters we should have known ourselves. How is it that the fleet was moved without the knowledge of the Kapudan Pasha? How is it that an eight-year-old prince—your son, may he be blessed—was able to coordinate an operation of this scale without the knowledge of this very divan?"
His words carried weight, but there was something else beneath them—concern, irritation, perhaps even fear.
Another vizier, Topal Mehmed Pasha, scoffed. "If this report is true, then not only did the raid succeed, but it did so without the direct oversight of our admirals. Perhaps we should be asking why no one among our high command saw such an opportunity."
That remark sent ripples through the chamber.
Ali Pasha turned sharply toward Mehmed Pasha. "An opportunity, you say? This was a reckless gamble! Had it failed, the Russians would have seen it as an act of desperation, and worse, our navy would have been disgraced. If we allow a child to dictate our military actions, what does that say of us?"
"Yet it did not fail," countered Halil Hamid Pasha, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It succeeded—so spectacularly that the Russians have been forced onto the defensive. This boy, our Shehzade, has struck where our admirals did not."
Mustafa listened to them, his expression unreadable. There was truth to both arguments. His son had orchestrated a masterstroke—one that even his most seasoned commanders had overlooked. And yet, it was done without his approval.
The Sultan finally spoke, his voice even, yet firm. "Enough."
The pashas fell silent immediately.
Mustafa set the letter down and leaned forward. "What has been done is done. My son—my own flesh and blood—has, in his own way, changed the course of this war. Whether reckless or brilliant, we cannot change that now."
He turned his gaze to Ali Pasha. "You speak of protocol. I understand your concern. But let me ask you this—if I had given this order, would you be questioning it now?"
Ali Pasha pursed his lips but did not speak.
"No," Mustafa continued. "Because victory silences doubt. And right now, my son has given us something rare—a decisive victory."
A murmur spread again, though this time, it was less of dissent and more of acknowledgment.
Mustafa then shifted his attention to the Naval Secretary, who had remained silent until now. "What is the current movement of our fleets?"
The official, straightening himself, replied promptly, "Hünkârım, the bulk of the Kapudan Pasha's fleet remains stationed near Kefe and Varna, patrolling the western Black Sea to counter Russian reinforcements while the rest of admirals are at Mediterranean, on defensive. However, with Taganrog destroyed, we know that the enemy's naval supply lines have been jeopardized.."
Mustafa nodded. His mind was already moving several steps ahead.
"Send orders to the Kapudan Pasha," he commanded. "The Russians will be reeling from this attack, and we will not give them time to recover. I want our fleet to harass their remainings from gates of Kerch, gateway to Azov Sea. Sink their supply ships. Strike their depots."
The naval secretary bowed. "At once, Hünkârım."
As he left to deliver the orders, Mustafa exhaled and leaned back. His gaze once more drifted to the letter from his son.
Selim was bold. Reckless, even. But in that recklessness, there was a rare kind of brilliance.
"The boy is too bold," Ali Pasha muttered under his breath.
Mustafa smirked. "Perhaps. But bold men can change empires."