The council chamber was quieter than usual, though the lamps burned as bright as ever. Ministers shifted in their seats, their robes rustling like dry leaves, their voices hesitant as though even their words might be taken down as evidence. After Leyla's execution, no one in Topkapi Palace doubted that the Sultan would act ruthlessly when betrayal was unearthed. And yet, even in silence, whispers seemed to thrum in the walls.
Abdulhamid sat upon the raised throne, his gaze sweeping across his viziers. His expression was calm, unreadable, but within his chest the storm of vigilance raged. One among you feasts at my table and sells my secrets to St. Petersburg. You smile before me, yet your hand feeds the serpent. I will see you stripped of your mask before long.
He tapped his signet against the arm of the throne. "Let us speak of the empire's future."
The Grand Vizier bowed, his voice measured. "Majesty, reports from Konya and Sivas suggest that the people embrace the new schools. The Latin script spreads quickly, though some elders resist."
"Let them resist," Abdulhamid replied evenly. "The children will not. The future belongs not to old tongues but to young hands."
Another minister cleared his throat. "The rail line from Baghdad to Mosul nears completion. Yet the cost has strained the treasury. Some suggest borrowing from French bankers, to lighten the burden."
Abdulhamid's eyes narrowed. "Borrow chains, and you wear them for life. No. We forge our rails from our own steel."
The chamber fell silent again. Each man seemed cautious, careful, as though any misstep might bring the Crescent Eyes upon him. But that was exactly as Abdulhamid intended.
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For weeks, he had plotted his test. The traitor would reveal himself if given the right bait. And so, with Selim's help, the Sultan crafted a series of false reports—memoranda filled with tempting secrets: rumors of a new refinery in Mosul, false routes for oil convoys, fabricated contracts with German arms merchants. These documents were slipped, one by one, into the private folders of different ministers.
Selim and his men watched closely. Couriers leaving the ministers' estates were shadowed, letters intercepted. The Crescent Eyes traced each whisper into the foreign quarters of Istanbul—into French salons, into British embassies, into Russian trading houses.
The palace became a theater of masks. Ministers entered the council chamber with polite smiles, but behind every glance lay fear: fear that one wrong word might condemn them, fear that their loyalty would be tested, fear that the Sultan already knew.
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One evening, the first trap bore fruit.
Selim entered the Sultan's private study carrying a folded parchment. He laid it before Abdulhamid without a word. The Sultan unfolded it, his eyes narrowing. It was a copy of the very oil contract he had ordered placed in the portfolio of Minister Halil Pasha. The same words, the same seal—now in the possession of a Russian attaché.
Abdulhamid felt his blood chill, though his face betrayed nothing. Halil Pasha had been at his side for years, a man respected by the court, his voice always calm, measured, loyal. And yet here is proof that his hand feeds the serpent.
He closed the parchment slowly. "So. The mask begins to slip."
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The next council meeting was a play staged upon a knife's edge. Halil Pasha sat in his accustomed seat, speaking with measured tones about grain shipments in Rumelia, his eyes serene, his beard neatly combed. None of the other ministers suspected, or if they did, they dared not show it.
Abdulhamid watched him closely. Every gesture, every glance, seemed laden with deceit. You believe yourself safe. You think I have not seen the fangs behind your smile. But already, Selim has prepared your noose.
"Your report is thorough, Halil," the Sultan said aloud. "Stay after the council is dismissed. I would hear more."
The minister bowed his head, unaware that his fate had already been sealed.
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But Abdulhamid was not yet ready to strike. He needed certainty, undeniable proof beyond intercepted letters. He ordered Selim to set another snare: a false memorandum describing a secret convoy of arms bound for Anatolia, written in the Sultan's own hand.
"If the serpent bites at this," Abdulhamid said, "then we know without doubt whose fangs they are."
The bait was laid in Halil's desk. Within three nights, Crescent Eyes intercepted the same details in a coded message carried by a Greek merchant to the Russian embassy. The trap had closed.
Selim placed the decoded message on the Sultan's desk. His eyes glinted in the lamplight. "There is no doubt now, Majesty. The serpent is Halil Pasha."
Abdulhamid stared at the words for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. His heart felt heavy, not triumphant. Halil had sat with him through the empire's early reforms, had spoken earnestly of loyalty. And yet beneath it all, he had sold his master to the enemy.
"Summon him to the chamber at midnight," the Sultan said at last. "And bring the rope."
The command lingered in the air like the toll of a death bell. Selim bowed and departed, his footsteps fading into the stone halls, while Abdulhamid remained alone in the chamber. The Sultan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the lamps guttering on the wall. The test was complete, the mask had slipped, and now only judgment remained. Outside, the Bosphorus rolled black and endless, as though waiting to bear witness to another secret cast into its depths. Midnight would come soon, and with it, the reckoning.
The palace slept under the moon's pale gaze, its domes silvered, its gardens hushed. But in the depths of Topkapi, in the chamber known only to the Sultan and his shadows, the air was thick with silence broken only by the crackle of oil lamps.
Halil Pasha was brought there at midnight, his robes disheveled, his eyes betraying both confusion and dread. Crescent Eyes flanked him, their hands firm on his arms, their faces expressionless.
Abdulhamid stood at the far end of the chamber, his silhouette stark against the lamplight. He did not wear the golden robes of state but a plain black kaftan, his presence more frightening than any regalia.
Halil bowed stiffly. "Majesty, I was told you summoned me to discuss matters of state. May I ask why I am… restrained?"
Abdulhamid raised a parchment, the very letter intercepted on its way to the Russian embassy. He let it fall open, the seal glistening in the lamplight. "Tell me, Halil Pasha. Have you seen this?"
Halil's eyes flicked to the page. A tremor passed across his features, quickly masked. "Majesty, I— I know nothing of this."
The Sultan's voice was quiet, cutting. "This is your hand. Your seal. Your words. Do not insult me with lies."
The chamber seemed to close in, heavy with expectation. Selim stepped forward, his voice like iron. "We laid the snare, Pasha. We placed words in your chamber and found them upon the lips of a Russian envoy within days. The game is over."
Halil swallowed, his face pale. At last, the mask cracked. "Majesty," he stammered, "you do not understand. I acted only to preserve the empire. Russia promised—"
"—Chains," Abdulhamid interrupted coldly. "They promised chains, and you chose to wear them. You betrayed your oath, your Sultan, your people. You would have sold us for their rubles."
The minister collapsed to his knees. "Mercy, Majesty! For the years I have served, for the counsel I gave, spare me! I beg you!"
Abdulhamid's eyes were unflinching. "You ask for mercy as though mercy would strengthen the empire. But betrayal cannot be forgiven. A single serpent in the council will birth a thousand if left alive."
He lifted his hand. Crescent Eyes stepped forward, their noose already prepared. Halil's pleas turned into frantic cries, then choked silence as the rope tightened. Moments later, his body hung limp, a shadow swaying beneath the lamps.
Abdulhamid turned away. "Remove him. His name will not be spoken again."
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The council chamber the following morning was steeped in dread. Halil's seat sat empty, the absence more telling than any proclamation. The ministers shifted uneasily, each man reminded that the Sultan's patience with treachery was measured in hours, not months.
Abdulhamid let the silence stretch before speaking. "The empire has no place for serpents. Remember this. Loyalty is not a word—it is life itself. Fail in it, and you forfeit both."
No one dared reply.
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Outside the palace walls, however, the empire moved forward as if untouched by the executions that thinned the court.
In Anatolia, smokestacks rose higher, black smoke drifting across the sky like banners of progress. New textile mills roared in Bursa, producing uniforms stitched in Turkish workshops rather than Manchester's mills. In Mesopotamia, the refineries expanded, oil flowing into locomotives that powered the Baghdad–Mosul line.
Assimilation pressed harder with each passing season. Children in Kurdish and Armenian towns now read only Turkish textbooks, their alphabets written in the new Latin script. Sermons were standardized in Turkish, prayers sung with new rhythm. Some communities resisted, but the Sultan's message was clear: One people. One empire. One tongue. The Crescent Eyes enforced that vision with unrelenting vigilance, their presence felt in every province.
And yet, for every success, Abdulhamid knew shadows lengthened beyond the empire's borders.
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That night, Selim entered the Sultan's study. His face bore the mark of grim discovery.
"Majesty," he began, "Halil Pasha's treachery was but one branch of a greater tree. Our informants in Paris, London, and Moscow speak of councils where your name is cursed. They are no longer working separately. They plan together now. Funds, weapons, agents—all coordinated. What we face is no longer scattered serpents, but a hydra with many heads."
Abdulhamid listened, silent, his fingers drumming upon the desk. He had expected as much. Of course they gather. The empire rises, and Europe fears what it may become. They will strike not only with whispers, but with fire.
At last, he spoke, his tone measured and resolute. "Then let them gather. Let them think themselves clever. We will tighten our own nets, harden our walls, and prepare the blow they do not expect. For every head they raise, I will cut two. This is not their century to own—it will be ours."
Selim bowed deeply. "And the Crescent Eyes will be your knife in the dark, Majesty."
The Sultan looked out across the sleeping city, the Bosphorus gleaming faintly in the night. His face was stern, but his eyes burned with unshakable fire. "Yes, Selim. They believe the empire is still the sick man. Let them cling to their illusions. When they awaken, it will be too late."