May 1772 — Athens Eyalet, Governorate Palace
Several months had passed since the flames of rebellion were extinguished in Athens. Progress was steady, if not yet complete. The city's heart beat slower, but with purpose—granaries had been stocked, roadworks continued across districts, and Darul Hikmetion was entering its foundational stage. Though scaffolds still crowned fractured domes and some homes remained roofless, order had returned.
The provincial troops had undergone reorganization under Muhtasin's command, and new watchposts had been established across the outer districts. Civil unrest had all but ceased—for now.
Our focus now turned south—to Corinth.
I had been receiving dispatches from the front lines daily, and they painted a picture that was neither dire nor promising. The war had entered its greyest phase: a war of patience. A war of attrition.
The Russians, stalled in Moldavia after their failed southern surge, had regrouped and advanced cautiously into Wallachia—but not far. Meanwhile, in the Balkans and Aegean, Ottoman resistance had held firm. Small skirmishes flared along the Danube, with villages changing hands more from exhaustion than conquest. The coasts echoed with reports of sporadic naval encounters—not decisive engagements, but swift strikes, disrupted supply routes, and the rumble of sails over stormy waves.
"So we've entered a war of attrition," Cemil said from beside the fire, arms crossed. "I would argue it's the most dangerous phase of any war. It's not won by soldiers, but by who runs out of bread and coin first."
"You're right," I replied, setting aside a map. "But I'd still take attrition over a breakthrough by the enemy. At least this way, we hold the tempo. And from what I've heard—Aydın-effendim has kept that tempo quite well."
"Oh, Aydın the Corsair?" Cemil grinned. "That name's been passed around more than a tavern cup lately. The way sailors speak of him, you'd think he commands the Black Sea with nothing but wind and prayer."
I smirked, reaching for the unopened letter on my desk, the wax still bearing my tughra—the same one he'd asked to carry into every engagement, as a mark of trust and title.
I broke the seal.
____________________________________________________________________________________
To Shehzade Selim,
It has been some years since you gave me a cause, and a seal to carry with it. I write to report—not out of duty, but out of debt. The Black Sea still breathes, but we've taught it to speak in Ottoman tongue again.
After your last instructions, I've continued to wage disruption where it hurts them most: convoys, supply chains, and morale. We move swiftly, always between the cracks. No fleet of ours lasts forever, but no Russian ship rests easy anymore.
The Crimean allies have honored the pact—more than I expected. Their riders watch the northern coastlines while I sweep the southern routes. Even the Cossack skiffs hesitate now. The fear of what may strike them in the fog is stronger than any bullet.
We've taken six transports in the last month alone—one carrying Polish rifles, another with French wine (I kept a bottle for celebration—if I may).
As you commanded, I still carry the tughra, wrapped and pressed against my chest before every raid. The men call it the seal of the sea prince. I let them believe it, for it steadies their hands.
When this ends, I will return it to you—God willing, not soaked in salt or blood.
In your service,
Aydin Burcu
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
Cemil glanced over my shoulder as I read.
"Six transports and a bottle of French wine. Truly, a man of balance."
I gave a soft laugh, eyes still on the closing line.
"Aydın was never after glory," I said. "Only purpose. We gave him that. And he returned with storms."
Eastern District Road Ceremony, Athens
The morning breeze was clean, warmed by the dust of progress. Stone layers stretched in a perfect line down the eastern district road—our first completed segment using the revived Roman method. Brass plaques were ready to be unveiled, and small crowds had begun to gather.
It was meant to be a symbol of restoration. A simple ribbon, a few prayers, and a walk through the district with the guildmasters.
Cemil stood by my side, reviewing the speech I barely intended to read. Şahin was nearby—too nearby. His posture had been tight all morning.
"You're pacing like there's an ambush in the bushes," Cemil muttered to him.
"There might be," Şahin replied, without humor.
I adjusted the collar of my coat and stepped toward the gathering crowd. The guildmasters greeted me, the muezzin recited a short dua, and a boy was prepared to hand me the ceremonial shears to cut the ribbon.
And then I saw him.
Or rather—I saw nothing where something should have been.
A man in the crowd. Unmoving. Wrapped in a layered cloak, despite the sun. No sweat. No blink. No chant or cheer. My hand twitched. A signal. Şahin saw him at the same time. The moment broke.
Then, the man surged forward with dagger flashing low and silent.
Screams erupted. The shears fell from the boy's hand. Cemil shouted, guards moved too slow—but Şahin moved first, drawing his blade mid-lunge.
Steel flashed again. The blade arced toward me, low and quick.
But I had seen this angle before. My instincts didn't scream—they whispered. A half-step back, right foot pivoted. My hand moved before I commanded it—guiding the momentum of the blade just past my waist with the edge of my cloak. The sound of metal brushing cloth was sharp and thin.
He lunged again. I shifted. Parried.
He moved like a duelist, short blade in reverse grip, meant for close work.
A tight swing came for my ribs—I twisted, elbow up, and struck his wrist just enough to break the arc. He grunted.
I could feel it. He was trained. Not fanatic. Not suicidal.
Professional. Another feint, this time upward, aimed for my neck.
Too predictable.
I stepped in—not out. My right forearm caught his slash mid-arc, my other hand gripping his wrist, forcing it down. A blur of motion behind— Şahin.
His curved blade caught the assassin's elbow from the side—just a grazing slice, but enough to break his balance.
The man staggered. That moment was all the guards needed.
Boots thundered.
Two Janissaries slammed into him from behind, tackling him to the stone. The dagger spun out of reach and skidded near the ribbon line. Another guard stomped down on his ankle before he could rise. The crowd screamed but did not scatter—frozen.
Blood seeped from the man's mouth, but he stayed conscious.
And silent.
Şahin stood between me and the downed man, breathing calmly, blade still lowered.
I stepped forward slowly, reclaiming my breath. A thin line of crimson ran across my sleeve—not mine, I realized. His. From where I'd turned his own blade on his forearm in that brief struggle.
Cemil caught up, panting. "Are you—?"
"I'm fine," I replied, never taking my eyes off the assassin. "He wasn't here to make a scene."
Şahin's expression darkened. "Assassins. we have to alert the Payitaht."
I nodded slowly.
~~
At Governorate Palace
We apprehended the assassins in the underground cell. The assassin had spoken only once. Once—and only once—before silence wrapped around him like a cloak.
"Even a clean fruit rots from within."
Cemil stood with folded arms, pale and furious. "According to the intel we received, it was not either from inside or outside parties."
Şahin's voice was lower. "His boots were foreign. The steel too. He was trained—not raised."
I sat by the fire, hand resting on my chin.
"They are watching."
Cemil turned. "Who?"
I looked at the blood-stained sleeve of my coat, still laid across the chair.
"The ones who don't need empires to win. Just enough fear to keep one from rising."