Selim's footsteps echoed sharply against the polished marble floors as he made his way through the palace corridors, flanked by Cemil and Şahin. The summons had been sudden—a Janissary messenger arriving breathless at his chambers, bearing the Sultan's seal.
His father awaited him in the Divanhane.
"Something big must have happened," Şahin muttered, his eyes scanning the corridors for any sign of tension among the palace guards.
"Another war council, perhaps?" Cemil guessed.
Selim exhaled through his nose, his mind already racing ahead. With the recent victory at Taganrog, the pressure on the Ottoman fleet had eased—but the war was far from over.
Then, just as they turned a corner—
A sudden impact.
"Brother, you are so busy, I didn't even have time for shit!"
A sharp thwack landed between Selim's shoulder blades as Sah Sultan—his fiery younger sister—landed a solid punch against his back.
Selim staggered slightly but quickly recovered, smirking as he turned to face her. "Haha, sorry, sister."
Sah crossed her arms, her expression one of feigned annoyance. "You should be! Ever since this war started, you've barely had time to breathe. And now you're getting summoned by father? What have you done this time?"
Selim merely shrugged, suppressing a grin.
Cemil coughed lightly. "Let's just say... certain actions have had unexpected consequences."
Şahin sighed. "More than a few consequences."
Sah raised an eyebrow but chose not to press further. Instead, she grinned and punched Selim's arm again—a little lighter this time. "Well, don't go getting yourself killed in these 'consequences,' alright?"
Selim chuckled. "I'll do my best."
With that, he turned and strode into the Divanhane.
~~~
As I stepped into the grand chamber of the Divan, my eyes were immediately drawn to my father, Sultan Mustafa III, seated beneath the imperial throne, a mixture of calm resolve and fatigue etched into his features. At his right stood Grand Vizier Ali Pasha, the defterdar and around the long marble table gathered key statesmen and military figures, some of whom bore the banners of distant provinces—Kalafat Mehmed Pasha's envoys among them, no doubt relaying word from the Caucasus front.
In times past, the Moldovan border had been the Empire's primary warzone with Russia, thanks to the sprawling plains and easier maneuverability for armies. But now, with flames of rebellion flaring in the south and west, priorities had fractured like shattered glass.
I bowed deeply, my voice steady. "Hünkârım, I have come as per your command."
The Sultan's sharp gaze met mine. "Good," he said. "I trust you've been made aware of the present circumstances?"
I gave a single nod. "Yes, so far I get the big picture. With our armies already divided between the Balkans and the Caucasus, the sudden uprisings in Egypt, Palestine, and Athens threaten to tear the Empire's stability apart. We can call upon provincial Eyalet forces, but time is not in our favor. The longer we wait, the more entrenched these rebels will become." Not gonna lie, it would be an adult analyse despite being a child.
I use the wooden stick and brushed across the large map laid out on the table, fingers hovering over Morea, Cairo, and Acre. Which technically, the main cities that falls into the rebels. "If I were to decide, we should deploy the nearest Janissaries, in which right now are the 40th Orta under Muhtasin Pasha, at Edirne."
A heavy silence followed, until Grand Vizier Moldovancı Ali Pasha cleared his throat. "A perceptive analysis, Şehzade," he said slowly. "But perception alone cannot carry an army. Have you considered the risks of stripping Edirne's 40th Orta for an offensive maneuver?"
I turned to face him. "Grand Vizier, I understand the caution. But this is not a time for passivity. Edirne remains safe under current circumstances. Morea, however, is a battlefield waiting to swallow us whole. We must move now, with force. If we strike fast, we can keep the rebellion from solidifying."
Murmurs rose from the council. Some nodded in agreement, others exchanged uncertain glances.
"But," the Grand Vizier insisted, "what of the other rebels? Deploying the 40th Orta weakens our center."
"And we still have several Ortas waiting to be mobilized, its just that we still not call them," I answered to Grand Vizier, "You know of it don't you?" The vizier, silenced for a while. "Well its true that we have other Janissaries ready, but still I would prefer the peaceful terms instead of killing them.
"Grand Vizier!, what did you say?!, this is rebellion we talking of course to death is the punishment for treason!." The argument and debate continues to heat even more.
Mustafa III then waved his hand slightly, prompting the doors at the far end of the chamber to open.
"Silence!, I anticipated this very debate," he said, his voice rising with a measure of flair. "Allow me to introduce a man whose counsel can assist us against Russia. François Baron de Tott."
Into the chamber stepped a tall, sharp-eyed man clad in a crisp French military uniform of blue and silver. A tricolor plume adorned his hat, and though his attire differed from the silken robes of the Ottoman elite, his presence commanded instant attention.
He bowed deeply. "Messieurs, honored gentlemen of the Divan. I am François Baron de Tott, military advisor to His Imperial Majesty. Şehzade Selim," he said, meeting my gaze and offering a slight nod, "it is a pleasure."
I returned the nod politely, already aware of his reputation. A French nobleman and former artillery officer, de Tott had been invited to the Empire to modernize our artillery corps and fortifications. His presence in Istanbul, years before war had even begun, had been a quiet yet pivotal step in my father's slow push toward military reform.
In fact, some whispered that it was de Tott's dire assessments of Russian naval build-up and his scathing critiques of Ottoman coastal defenses that finally swayed Mustafa to prepare for war.
As de Tott approached the table, his eyes landed on the map—and immediately found Crete. I was already looking at it.
He smiled faintly. He sees it, I thought.
"Hünkârım," he said, gesturing to the island, "if I may suggest—it is time we fortify Crete. Not a full naval base, no. We cannot afford that. But a presence. A message."
The Grand Vizier arched an eyebrow. "Crete?"
The Defterdar, ever cautious, folded his arms. "Constructing a naval base in wartime? With all due respect, Monsieur de Tott, our coffers are not limitless. Our economy remains stable, but the pace of war is devouring silver faster than it can be replenished."
De Tott responded smoothly. "I propose not a base but a bastion. Station a small fleet there. Use existing harbors. Construct a coastal fortress—not a sprawling port. Just a series of fortified batteries on elevated ground, positioned to protect our ships and intercept any approaching enemy vessels."
He tapped Crete on the map. "Positioned here, it will allow us to cut supply routes to rebel-held Athens, patrol the Aegean with greater ease, especially from Tyrhenian Sea, and reduce the strain on our fleets."
I stepped forward. "And it will show the Greeks and any Russian allies that we still command the sea. With the Taganrog raid having reduced Russian naval capability, now is the time to press the advantage."
A pause followed.
The Defterdar considered. "If the construction is minimal… and we utilize what we already have… then perhaps this is manageable."
The Grand Vizier still looked skeptical, but he nodded slowly. "So long as it is swift, and not another drain on our supply lines."
The Sultan sat back, arms crossed. His expression unreadable.
"De Tott," he finally said, "you have proven useful before. I entrust you with overseeing the initial fortifications. Let it be modest. But let the world know the Crescent does not drift—it moves."
A murmur of approval rippled through the Divan chamber, the sound like distant waves crashing against the marble walls. The decision to fortify Crete—a bastion in the middle of the sea—was not just strategic, but symbolic. It marked a shift in posture: the Empire was no longer retreating inward. We were planting our banner once again, where others assumed we had lost grip.
But for me, this was only a stepping stone.
I straightened my back slightly and took a measured breath. "Now that we are aligned on the Crete matter, there remains a more pressing issue still unresolved." My hand gestured across the map to the southern tip of the Balkans. "The Orlov rebellion is still there, unless we deploy our troops to destroy them. Russian support might be limited for now, but it won't remain so. The longer we delay, the stronger the rebels become."
Eyes turned toward me again—some curious, others cautious.
François Baron de Tott leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded, his sharp gaze studying the map with narrowed eyes. Then he chuckled softly.
"Actually," he said, with a faint grin, "sending the 40th Orta might prove to be a masterstroke. Especially since, from what I've heard... that particular unit has adopted a rather unusual training regimen. Wouldn't you agree, young şehzade?"
There was a flicker of curiosity among the pashas. It seems he knew about my plan on Edirne.
I met his gaze without flinching. "They are more disciplined than most Janissary ortas."
De Tott raised an eyebrow. "Discipline is good. But this seemed more than discipline. Reports from Edirne suggest a certain... structure I've not seen before in our traditional formations. Musket drills, march coordination, even the way they set up perimeter security during training—it reminded me more of Prussian influence than Ottoman tradition."
He said it lightly, but his tone was probing.
I merely offered a reserved smile. "Perhaps Edirne breeds better habits."
There was a chuckle or two from the lower-ranking officers. But the Grand Vizier's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he sensed something deeper but couldn't quite place it.
"Regardless," de Tott continued, "if that Orta is as prepared as rumors suggest, Morea would be the ideal crucible to test them. Their presence alone would unsettle the rebels, who still believe our troops are weak due to our least involvement in wars."
The Sultan drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, deep in thought. "You speak of this Orta as if it were something new."
"Not new, Hünkârım," de Tott said diplomatically. "But... evolving."
Mustafa's eyes briefly flicked to me. I said nothing.
At last, the Sultan nodded. "Very well. The 40th Orta shall be deployed to Morea. Send orders to Muhtasin Pasha to march within three days. Use the supply lines we've secured through your earlier initiative." His gaze settled on me with a touch of paternal sharpness. "And I expect that initiative to remain discreet."
I bowed my head. "Of course, Hünkârım."
"And, I think since it was you who started it, you shall join the 40th Orta as well, not on the front lines, but as part of the officers, of course a prince as young as you, should not be at the front, yet."
I opened my mouth but quickly regained my composure. "Understood, hunkarim".