The breakfast chamber overlooked the inner gardens of the palace, a place of manicured symmetry where fountains whispered softly and cypress trees stood like silent sentinels. The Ottomans had always believed that order in space reflected order in rule, and the garden embodied that belief perfectly. Paths cut with mathematical precision, hedges trimmed to identical heights, water flowing in controlled, measured rhythms.
Morning light filtered through latticed windows, breaking into geometric shadows that drifted slowly across the marble floor. The patterns shifted with the passing minutes, reminding anyone who noticed that time here moved whether one wished it to or not.
Abdul Aziz walked in with measured steps, his posture instinctively regal, shoulders straight, chin level. The body remembered what the mind had not yet fully accepted. Only yesterday, no, a lifetime ago; he had been a powerless man guarding a truck in a frozen wasteland, fingers numb, breath fogging the air, waiting for orders that barely mattered.
Now the palace parted around him.
Servants bowed low as he passed. Doors opened before he reached them. His name carried weight that could bend lives without effort.
Khalid moved ahead of him silently and pulled out the chair at the head of the table. Abdul Aziz paused for the briefest moment, just long enough to remind himself where he was, then sat.
The table was lavish but restrained. Warm bread lay beneath folded cloths, steam still escaping at the edges. Honey from Anatolia gleamed like amber in shallow bowls. Olives, cheese, figs split neatly in half, and a silver tray bearing eggs cooked slowly in butter completed the setting. Nothing was excessive, nothing careless. Even abundance followed rules here.
As Abdul Aziz reached for the bread, a realization settled quietly in his mind.
This was not indulgence. It was routine.
The Ottoman court prized order as much as excess, discipline as much as luxury. Princes were shaped by ritual long before they were shaped by power. How they woke. How they ate. How they listened in silence while others moved around them. Authority began not in commands, but in habits.
He ate slowly. As he did, he listened, not only with his ears, but with a mind sharpened by a lifetime of observing patterns. Servants moved quietly, exchanging murmured words that never rose above politeness. Outside the chamber, distant footsteps echoed as guards changed shifts, the sound of boots on stone steady and practiced. Somewhere deeper in the palace, officials arrived for morning duties, their presence felt more than heard. Every sound fed his awareness.
One year, he had to prepare himself in this period. He knew what awaited Abdul Aziz in history. He had taught it himself. A reign marked by ambition and pride, by grand projects built on borrowed money, by reforms attempted without securing foundations. A ruler remembered less for what he achieved than for how he fell.
He also knew the empire he would inherit. Bloated. Indebted to European banks. Technologically behind the great powers. Politically fragile beneath a polished surface. The Tanzimat reforms had reshaped institutions but hollowed authority. The Janissaries were gone, erased by necessity, but nothing truly strong or loyal had replaced them.
History had judged Abdul Aziz harshly. Umair Alvi had judged him harshly too, pacing lecture halls and shaking his head at the inevitability of decline. Now, he was him.
"Your Highness," Khalid said quietly, standing a respectful distance away, his voice careful not to intrude on thought, "Today's schedule includes your lessons in statecraft before noon, followed by a private audience with the Sultan in the afternoon."
Abdul Aziz's hand paused for a moment above the table.
A private audience. Those words altered the entire shape of the day.
"Very well," he said calmly, his voice even. But the food no longer held any taste.
He first attended the lesson as usual, which mostly described mastering the art of governance and diplomacy. Time Passed, His meeting time with Sultan Abdülmecid I finally arrived. He arrived at the palace with Khalid and guard's around.
In 1860, the Ottoman palace was a breathtaking blend of artistry and authority, where white and gold walls rose gracefully above the Bosphorus, courtyards opened into serene gardens with singing fountains, manicured flowers, and towering cypress trees, and pavilions glimmered with hand-painted motifs, carved lattice windows, and silk-draped divans. Sunlight spilled through the lattices, casting golden patterns on polished marble floors, while reflecting pools mirrored the sky and minarets, and the faint scent of jasmine and orange blossoms filled the air. Every stone, every fountain, every carpet spoke of luxury tempered by precision, making the palace both a sanctuary of beauty and a living stage for the empire's power and order.
The corridors leading to the Sultan's chambers felt different from the rest of the palace. Wider. Older. The air itself seemed heavier, as if the walls had absorbed centuries of decisions and were reluctant to release them.
These were not halls of comfort. They were halls of consequence.
Abdul Aziz walked steadily, though his heartbeat betrayed him. He could feel it in his chest, in his throat, in the faint tightening of his fingers. He had faced death before, sudden and impersonal. This felt different.
This was not a formal audience before ministers and scribes. This was his elder brother.
The guards announced him. Their voices echoed briefly, then fell silent. The doors opened slowly, deliberately, as though even the palace wished to emphasize the moment.
Inside, Sultan Abdülmecid I sat beneath a canopy embroidered with gold thread. The light from high windows caught in the fabric, giving it a muted glow. He looked thinner than the portraits suggested, his shoulders slightly drawn inward, his posture careful rather than relaxed. Illness clung to him, not as visible weakness, but as constant fatigue, the kind that settled into the bones.
His eyes, however, were sharp. They moved immediately to Abdul Aziz, searching, measuring.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
His gaze lingered longer than courtesy required, tracing not just form, but presence.
"You have changed," Abdülmecid said at last.
Abdul Aziz met his eyes and did not look away.
"Not only physically," the Sultan continued, his voice thoughtful rather than accusatory. "You have grown quieter."
He paused, as if choosing whether to continue. Then he added softly, "Heavier."
The word carried no rebuke. Only concern. Perhaps even fear.
"I think more than I speak now," Abdul Aziz replied after a moment.
The Sultan gave a faint smile, tired but genuine. "That can be wisdom," he said. "Or it can be isolation."
He gestured to the seat opposite him. "Sit."
Abdul Aziz obeyed.
For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was not awkward. It was familial, shaped by shared childhood memories and years of unspoken understanding. The kind of silence that existed only between those bound by blood and fate.
Then Abdülmecid leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees.
"Tell me what you see," he said. "Not what you think I want to hear."
Abdul Aziz inhaled slowly. He felt the weight of the moment settle fully now. This was not a test of loyalty. It was a request for truth.
"I see an empire that still frightens others," he said at last, "but no longer reassures its own people."
The Sultan did not interrupt. He did not even shift.
"Our finances reveal this most clearly," Abdul Aziz continued. "We live on borrowed money. Interest payments drain the treasury before funds ever reach the provinces. Customs revenues are pledged to foreign creditors before they are collected."
Abdülmecid closed his eyes briefly, as though the words pressed physically against him.
"The loans were meant to modernize us," he said quietly. "Railways. Shipyards. Schools. Without them, we would have fallen behind entirely."
"You were right to borrow," Abdul Aziz replied without hesitation. "But debt has replaced sovereignty. Today, foreign ambassadors speak as creditors first and diplomats second."
The Sultan exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible.
"And administration?" he asked.
"Expanded, but weakened," Abdul Aziz said. "Power is centralized on paper, but obedience is fractured in reality. Governors bargain instead of ruling. Officials follow regulations, not direction. Corruption is not punished, it is managed."
"The Tanzimat," Abdülmecid murmured, almost to himself.
"Yes," Abdul Aziz said. "The reforms reshaped institutions faster than they built loyalty. Law expanded. Authority shrank."
They turned then to the military.
"Our army looks modern," Abdul Aziz continued. "Uniforms, drills, manuals translated from Europe. But belief is thin. Soldiers obey ranks, not purpose. Furthermore, our equipment is exported from Europe."
"And before?" the Sultan asked quietly.
"Before, loyalty was dangerous," Abdul Aziz replied. "The Janissaries became untouchable. Destroying them was necessary. But we replaced devotion with paperwork."
Silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Then Abdülmecid spoke, his voice lower.
"And inside the Empire?"
Abdul Aziz understood what he meant immediately.
"Division," he said. "Nationality has begun to replace allegiance. Christians look outward to Europe. Muslims feel the state slipping from their hands. Balkan peoples are encouraged to imagine futures without us."
"Encouraged by whom?" the Sultan asked, though he already knew the answer.
"By everyone," Abdul Aziz said honestly. He leaned forward slightly.
"Russia presents itself as protector of Orthodox Christians. Every unrest in the Balkans becomes an excuse to interfere. They seek influence over the Straits and warm-water access. They do not need to conquer us outright, only weaken us until intervention seems justified."
The Sultan's jaw tightened.
"And Austria-Hungary," Abdulaziz continued, "fears both our collapse and our survival. They rule many peoples as we do. Balkan instability threatens them, yet they exploit it to expand influence."
"What about Britain and France?" Abdülmecid asked.
"They prefer us weak but alive," Abdulaziz said. "Strong enough to block Russia. Weak enough to depend on them. They speak of sovereignty while tightening economic chains."
The room fell quiet once more. At last, Abdülmecid spoke again.
"My health is failing," he said simply. "I feel it every day."
Abdulaziz felt his chest tighten, but he said nothing.
"You will succeed me," his brother continued. "But before that day comes, you must rule."
Abdul Aziz looked up.
"I am appointing you Governor of the Eyalet of Rumelia."
The name carried weight like a physical force.
Rumelia, the Empire's European heart. Thessaloniki's ports. Skopje's crossroads. Kosovo's unrest. Albanian defiance. Borders pressed by Russia's influence, Austria-Hungary's ambitions, and Europe's watchful eyes.
"I am not sending you there to remove you from Istanbul," Abdülmecid said firmly. "Nor to protect you."
"This is a test," he continued. "If you can govern Rumelia, impose order without cruelty, authority without arrogance, then the people will accept you not as a prince, but as Sultan."
Fear rose slowly in Abdul Aziz. Honest. Unavoidable.
But beneath it was clarity. He stood and bowed deeply.
"I accept."
The Sultan's shoulders eased, just slightly.
"Then go," he said. "Learn how the Empire truly lives beyond these walls."
As Abdul Aziz left the chamber, the palace felt unchanged. But he was not. History was no longer something written about him. It was something waiting for his hand.