Nightfall, outskirts of Athens — January 1771
The moon hung low behind passing clouds, veiling our movements in darkness. Athens lay ahead—its ancient walls silhouetted against the dim stars. Quiet, too quiet. The city had not fired a single warning shot all day.
Muhtasin approached, wrapped in a thick cloak. "The team is ready, Shehzade. Ten men—all strong, agile, and loyal."
I nodded, scanning the hilltop where our cannons sat idle—placed deliberately in view of the enemy, meant to draw their gaze away from the quieter side of the city.
Cemil came next. "The guards at the southern wall change every three hours. The gap between watches is barely a minute. That's our window."
I turned to the men—faces painted in ash, cloaked in silence. Among them was Idris, a bear of a man from the Pontic mountains, built like stone but moved like wind. He carried the grappling hook coiled across his back.
"Remember," I whispered. "This is not a siege. It is a reclaiming. You are not merely soldiers—you are shadows sent to open dawn's gates."
They nodded in silent unity.
At the signal—three sharp knocks of a wooden staff—they slipped away like phantoms, curving around the southern flank where the terrain dipped slightly. From the hill, I watched through the spyglass.
Time stretched thin.
Then—I saw it. The rope hook flew. It clamped onto the ledge.
Idris climbed first, legs wrapped tight, followed by two more. No sound. No arrow. No shout. The watch must have changed exactly then—our timing had struck true.
One by one, they scaled the stone.
Then… a flash of movement.
A torch flickered near the parapet. A guard turned. Idris grabbed him mid-turn, pulled him down. No scream. Just a thud.
A moment later—the gate moved.
It creaked just enough to let our first cavalry group inside. Cemil was already on horseback, leading the entry wave.
Muhtasin smiled beside me. "Your plan worked, Shehzade."
I exhaled slowly. "Then let's ride and make it count."
~~
The heavy wooden gates creaked wider, just enough for two lines of cavalry to enter side by side. The hooves of our horses padded silently over the dirt roads—muffled by cloth wraps and the ghostly stillness of the city.
We rode with discipline, lanterns low, banners tucked. No trumpet, no drum. The people were still asleep—or hiding.
Cemil and Idris led the first wave, already securing key intersections. I followed behind with Muhtasin and the Janissaries, our 40th Orta soldiers spreading in fan-like formation through the streets.
We passed by stone houses with shuttered windows. A dog barked. Then silence again.
Suddenly—a shout echoed near the central square.
"Alarm! The Ottomans are inside!"
A flare lit up from the upper floors of a building—the rebel signal.
Within moments, doors burst open. Rebels with muskets and sabers appeared from alleyways and rooftops, their faces twisted more with fear than fury.
But we were prepared.
"Hold!" I commanded. "No firing unless attacked!"
Our musketeers took position—defensive. The Sipahis fanned out. A brief volley from the rebels was answered only by shields and marching—not by cannon or powder.
Then, one of the Janissaries, by the name of Idris, did the unthinkable—he dismounted, removed his helmet, and walked forward, arms raised.
"You fight your own blood!" he shouted. "We are here to restore—not to destroy! You think Athens stands free under rebels? They'd sell you to the Russians! Believe me, nothing you would gain from it!"
His voice echoed powerfully across the plaza.
There was hesitation. Some rebels dropped their weapons. A few fled into the shadows. The populace are starts gathering around, figuring who was the man speaks.
"Our people had been oppressed for so long!, You think you can come back to maintain what it is to be!!" One of the people shouts.
Then, I shouted back. "Oh people of Athens," I began, my voice calm yet firm, "you do not stand before the Empire of yesterday. The Empire of blind pashas and greedy scribes. You stand before a new breath—one that comes not to chain you, but to lift you."
The people grew quiet. Even the rebels seemed unsure now. The smoke of conflict lingered in the air, but so too did something else—possibility.
"I know your burdens. I've seen your empty granaries. Heard the silence from the mosques and churches alike. Greek or Turk, you've all paid the price of negligence and corruption. But I did not come here to restore that rot. I came to remove it."
I glanced at Muhtasin, Cemil, Sahin and others—still silent, watchful. Then I turned back to the people.
"I serve and shape will not serve the few. It will represent the many. There will be councils—men from Athens and Edirne. Guilds and clerics, scholars and merchants, chosen not for their titles but for their service. You want grain? You'll have it. You want peace? Then build it with us."
Someone in the crowd called out, "Words are cheap!"
I nodded slowly. "True. And so, you shall have proof."
I raised my arm toward the rebel leaders, many of whom had lowered their weapons but still stood uncertain.
"Those who surrender peacefully will not be imprisoned. If they wish to serve in rebuilding the city, they may. If not, they may return to their homes in peace."
There was a long silence.
A rebel leader—rough beard, crimson sash—stepped forward with two guards.
"You come with cannons and troops, and speak of peace?"
I rode forward slowly. "We brought cannons to show power. Not to use it. Not against our own. If we wanted to raze Athens, you'd already be ash."
He narrowed his eyes. Then—after a long silence—he dropped his sword.
"Then we will see you act. If things not as expected, expect a sword on your doorstep."
I nodded "Don't worry, I will made sure not to repeat that."