The marble halls of Topkapı Palace carried the rhythmic echoes of Kapıcıbaşı's (chief chamberlain) footsteps as he led Şehzade Selim toward Sultan Mustafa III private chamber. This was not the Divanhane, where viziers and generals debated matters of war and governance. No, this room—tucked away within the palace's heart—was a place for private discussion, where power was wielded not with a council's decree but through quiet words exchanged between father and son.
Selim entered, offering a deep bow. "Father."
Mustafa III sat behind a low cedarwood desk, his face illuminated by the flickering glow of oil lamps. The scent of burning oud and ink lingered in the air, mingling with the weight of war reports strewn across the table. Among them, a sealed letter rested atop the parchment—a report from Aydın Burcu himself, which he has request beforehand, the detailed report regarding the operation.
The Sultan gestured toward the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Selim did so, smoothing his kaftan as he studied his father's expression. The Sultan was unreadable, his dark eyes sharp yet distant, his fingers idly tapping against the polished wood of his desk.
Then, Mustafa exhaled and met his gaze.
"Tell me, Selim." His voice was measured, yet there was an unmistakable edge to it. "When exactly did you decide that my navy was yours to command?"
Selim held back a smirk. The tone was light, but the weight is still carries the burden.
"With respect, Hünkârım, I do not command the navy." He tilted his head slightly. "I merely… redirected existing forces to where they were most needed."
Mustafa's brow twitched, but his amusement was fleeting. "Most needed, you say?" He leaned forward slightly. "And this conclusion—this belief that the navy had overlooked such a crucial target—you arrived at it on your own?"
Selim met his father's gaze, unwavering. "With careful study, Hünkârım. Our focus has always been on the Mediterranean and the Danube. The northern waters remained neglected because the Russian fleet had yet to pose a direct threat there. But Taganrog—it was the weak link in their defenses, the heart of their naval expansion. Without it, their Black Sea ambitions would falter."
The Sultan remained silent.
Selim continued, his voice calm but firm. "I gave Aydın Burcu 100 altın from my own coffers. I authorized him to discreetly use my seal to ensure he could gather the resources necessary for success. I knew the risk, and I accepted it. And it paid off."
Mustafa drummed his fingers against the desk.
"You are eight."
Selim nodded slightly. "I am aware of that, father."
"And yet," Mustafa murmured, his gaze narrowing, "you move like a man twice your age—sending orders, allocating funds, launching raids." A moment passed before his voice dropped lower. "Tell me, my son… How did you know to strike at Taganrog?"
Selim inhaled deeply before answering.
"The Russians expect the Ottomans to be defensive. They assume we will protect, not strike. I thought… what if we made the first move? What if we didn't wait for them to attack, but instead took away their ability to do so?"
Mustafa studied him for a long moment.
"And?"
Selim exhaled slowly. "I read the reports—their supply routes, their reliance on Taganrog for shipbuilding, their logistical weaknesses. I knew the city was poorly defended, that the Russians did not expect a naval strike from the south. A single decisive blow would do more damage than a dozen skirmishes along the Danube." Of course I wouldn't want to tell the secrets.
The Sultan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "And if you were wrong?"
Selim's voice remained steady. "Then Aydın Burcu would have died, and we would have alerted the Russians to our Black Sea weaknesses."
"And?" Mustafa pressed further.
Selim met his father's gaze, unwavering. "And I would have taken full responsibility."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Then, to Selim's surprise, Mustafa let out a quiet chuckle. "You remind me of myself when I was younger." His lips curled slightly. "Impatient. Dangerous."
Selim smiled faintly. "Then perhaps it runs in the family."
Mustafa chuckled again, shaking his head. "Perhaps." He exhaled deeply. "You have done well, Selim. But next time—do not make decisions of war without informing me first."
Selim smirked slightly. "Of course, Hünkârım."
Just as Selim turned to leave, Mustafa sighed heavily, reaching for a small iron-bound chest beside his desk. With a quiet clink, he lifted its lid and withdrew a hefty leather pouch—far heavier than what Selim expected.
With a casual motion, Mustafa tossed it onto the table, the sound of coins shifting inside echoing through the chamber.
Selim raised an eyebrow. "Father?"
Mustafa leaned back, rubbing his temple. "350 altın. Consider it… an encouragement."
Selim blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He had expected recognition, perhaps approval—but this was substantial.
"Father, this is—"
Mustafa held up a hand. "Do not mistake this for approval of recklessness." His voice was calm, but edged with authority. "You took a risk, and it paid off. But risks have consequences. This time, you succeeded. Next time, ensure your boldness does not bring ruin. Just make sure you tell me first before everything you decide ok?"
Selim picked up the pouch, its weight a testament to both his success and the expectations now placed upon him.
He met his father's gaze and bowed deeply. "As you command, father."
As he exited the chamber, he couldn't help but smirk slightly. Not only had he crippled Taganrog, but now he had 350 altın to fund his next move.
~~
Selim stepped into the chamber, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His usual confidence was present, but beneath it, there was a quiet anticipation. Sa'id Hoca stood by a small writing table, his quill scratching lightly over paper. For a man so strict in his methods, there was always an air of calm wisdom in his presence — a calm that Selim knew wouldn't last long after today's events.
"Hoş geldiniz, Şehzadem." Sa'id Hoca's tone was polite but flat. Not cold—just measured. The way a teacher speaks to a pupil who has wandered a bit too far off the prescribed path. "I was wondering if my student still remembers his way to the study."
Selim gave a polite bow, though the corner of his lips twitched with amusement. "Forgive me, Hocam. The empire has been quite… demanding of my time."
Sa'id Hoca set down his quill, turning fully to face him. "So I've heard." He gestured toward the open window, from which the faint sounds of military drills could be heard echoing from the palace courtyard. "It seems the whole palace now speaks of the child admiral, who sends fleets to destroy Russian harbors without his father's formal command."
Selim's smile froze. He should've known the news would reach his tutor faster than anyone. "It was not without thought, Hocam," Selim answered, his tone respectful but firm. "Every move was calculated."
Sa'id Hoca folded his hands behind his back, stepping closer. "Calculation is good, my prince. But calculation is not wisdom." His brow arched slightly. "Do you know the story of Yıldırım Bayezid, when he rushed to battle at Ankara without proper council?"
Selim stiffened. He knew the story well — Bayezid's impatience had led to a catastrophic defeat at the hands of Timur.
"I understand the lesson, Hoca. But surely you are not comparing Taganrog to Ankara."
"No," Sa'id Hoca said, his expression softening slightly. "But I am reminding you that even the brightest minds stumble when they confuse boldness for foresight."
Selim took a deep breath. "The Russian navy had grown comfortable in Taganrog, thinking the Ottomans would never strike so far north. They underestimated our reach. Now they will think twice before sailing into our waters."
"And yet," Sa'id Hoca added, "you gambled not just with ships, but with the reputation of the Ottoman navy itself. Had Aydın failed, the world would not blame your courage. They would mock the House of Osman."
That point struck deeper than Selim expected. He lowered his gaze briefly before answering. "I trusted Aydın. I trust my vision." Actually, yeah it did strike deep in my heart. Why I didn't count for that.
The tutor regarded him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, Sa'id Hoca smiled—faint, but unmistakable.
"You have grown sharper than I expected, my prince." He walked back to the writing table, retrieving a leather-bound book. "But you still owe me something."
Selim blinked. "What?"
"Your essay on The Importance of Intelligence in Warfare—the one you promised weeks ago." Sa'id Hoca placed the book on the table before him. "It seems you preferred to show it in practice rather than theory."
Selim could not help but laugh softly. "Hoca, I will write it tonight."
"You will write it now," Sa'id Hoca corrected, his smile fading into his usual sternness. "Even the brightest stars must still respect their tutors."
Selim sighed dramatically but took the quill and paper, sitting down beside the book. "Very well, Hocam. But I expect my grade to reflect the success of Taganrog."
"Write first, negotiate later," Sa'id Hoca muttered. "You are not a merchant."
As Selim began writing, Sa'id Hoca returned to his seat, quietly observing his student with a mix of pride, exasperation, and caution—for the boy who sat before him was no longer just a student, but a prince whose actions were already leaving ripples across an empire at war.