"Night?" Muhtasin furrowed his brow. For a moment, he seemed uncertain, but deep down he admitted—Selim's idea was not without merit."Well… actually, a night attack does have its advantages. But why?"
"Here is the plan," I said firmly.
I laid everything out before them, step by step, from beginning to end. As the details unfolded, Muhtasin and the others sat in silence, listening intently. By the time I finished, they remained still, thoughtful, almost stunned.
At last, Muhtasin broke the silence."Actually… not a bad plan, Your Highness." His voice carried a quiet note of admiration he rarely showed. "If we carry it out as you've described, I believe we can win."
First Day
After weeks of preparations, the Ottoman host finally stirred. Fifteen thousand men under Muhtasin Pasha advanced steadily toward Corinth, their banners catching the morning light like flames against the sky. To the west, in a direction kept secret even from most of the ranks, a smaller force of two thousand moved under my own command, their steps silent, their purpose hidden.
Inside the walls of Corinth, unease had already begun to spread.
"Count Orlov!" a breathless messenger arrived at the ramparts, dust clinging to his cloak. "We have detected movement—enemy columns are on the march. Within hours they will be upon us."
Orlov stood at the battlements, surveying the horizon with narrowed eyes. His voice was calm, almost too calm."Ready the men. Britain has secured our supply lines. We will hold."
The clash came with thunder.
Ottoman cannons opened the assault, their iron throats roaring in unison. The earth trembled with each shot, and clouds of smoke rolled across the plain. Stone and dust flew from Corinth's ancient walls, yet the bastion stood defiant, its scars deepening but refusing to yield.
Near the siege lines, one of Muhtasin's officers approached, voice strained over the chaos."Muhtasin Pasha! Our guns—the ones we dragged across the valleys—they are not enough. The walls remain strong."
Muhtasin's face was grim, but his answer was steady."Then we pray the other efforts succeed. It is only the first day."
For two days the battlefield raged with thunder and smoke. Cannon fire painted the horizon in fire, and yet the proud walls of Corinth still loomed above the plain, battered but unbroken.
On the morning of the third assault, Muhtasin Pasha ordered his men forward. This time it was not heavy artillery, but a probing strike meant to test the defenders. Janissary riflemen advanced in disciplined lines, their muskets cracking in sharp succession, each volley echoing across the stone ramparts. Behind them came the provincial levies and the hardened Albanian skirmishers, their cries fierce as they rushed the base of the wall. Though the thing is, the difficulties is slim thanks to the project rifle I just did, but it was in small portion of the janissaries so most might still using muskets.
Arrows and musket balls rained from above, striking shields, helmets, and the earth itself. Men fell, but still the Ottomans pressed, scaling ladders, hammering at breaches that were not yet wide enough to swallow them. Dust and smoke filled the air, choking even the cries of the wounded.
And yet—the walls endured. Great fissures marred the ancient stones, rubble cascaded down in showers, but Corinth did not collapse. The defenders held their ground, answering musket fire with their own, hurling rocks and boiling oil upon those daring enough to climb.
Within the citadel, a runner arrived breathless at Count Orlov's command post.
"Count Orlov!" he cried, voice almost drowned by the roar of cannons. "Your tactics are working. The Ottomans cannot break us. Their artillery falters. Their assaults yield nothing. Thanks to Britain's supplies, our defenses hold strong."
For a moment, silence hung between report and reply.
Then Orlov's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. His eyes gleamed in the torchlight as he looked upon the map sprawled before him."Good… let them bleed against these walls. Let them believe brute force can bring Corinth down. When their spirit weakens—then we strike."
But even as he spoke those words, the night beyond the fortress stirred with movements he had not yet seen…
~~
The moon hid itself behind thick clouds, veiling the sea in shifting darkness. Waves lapped softly against the wooden hulls of two thousand men packed into dozens of small boats. They rowed in silence, every creak of the oars muffled with cloth, every whisper cut short by the weight of what they attempted. To any distant eye, they looked like fishermen braving the night—lanterns dimmed, nets draped across their cargo, their silhouettes lost to the Aegean gloom.
At their head, Selim kept low, cloak wrapped tight, eyes fixed on the faint outline of Corinth's harbor. The salt air stung his lips, but his mind remained steady. Five days of waiting—five days of keeping Muhtasin's main army pressing against the fortress from the front—had finally bought them this chance.
He remembered his words to the pashas before they departed:
"Five days is all I need. Muhtasin will siege the fortress and keeps Orlov's eyes fixed on the walls. By then, Britain's supplies will have given them confidence, but the heavens grant us something greater—darkness. We use it as our shield, as our ally. Stealth will be our sword. May Allah guide our hands and grant us victory."
Now, as the boats slipped closer to shore, the glow of Corinth's watchfires flickered faintly in the distance. The defenders above laughed and shouted, their confidence bolstered by British powder and unbroken walls. They did not see the shadows sliding across the waves beneath them.
Selim's hand tightened around the grip of his musket. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with the strange exhilaration of walking a path no prince was ever meant to tread.
Tonight, we are not fishermen. Tonight, we are the storm they never saw coming.
The first boat nudged against the worn stones of the small harbor. One by one, men leapt ashore, blades drawn, muskets ready. The infiltration had begun.
Back to original.
So this is how it unfolds…
The Orlov rebellion, on paper, should have been simple enough. A spark ignited by Russian gold, carried on the backs of desperate men who thought the Tsarina would march to their rescue. Left to its own devices, it would have burned bright for a moment, then choked itself on smoke and hunger. Easy to smother. Easy to end.
And yet—Britain.
I had not expected them to slip their fingers into this fire, not here, not in this way. Supplies hidden in barrels, weapons wrapped in cloth, smuggled under the guise of trade. Not a bold declaration, not a fleet flying the Union Jack, but whispers moving in the dark. Subtle. Dangerous. Typical.
I almost laughed at the realization. Yes… as expected of the British Empire. Never the straightforward conquerors. Always the merchants of chaos. They did not need to win Corinth; they only needed us to bleed for it.
For a moment I let the bitterness sit on my tongue like seawater. Then I exhaled. No matter. Let them play their games. I've seen this before—in another life, in another age. And if history repeats itself, then I already know the rhythm of their dance.
~~
Two thousand men slipped like shadows into the harbor of Corinth, their oars wrapped in cloth to silence the strokes, their hulls disguised as humble fishing boats. Lanterns were extinguished, voices hushed. The night became their cloak, the sea their accomplice. By the time the moon vanished behind the clouds, we were already beneath the walls.
Disguises cast aside, steel flashed in the dark. Orders moved hand-to-hand without a sound. Grappling hooks bit into stone, and bodies ascended like phantoms. The sentries never felt death until it was already at their throats.
The gate chains groaned. Slowly—stubbornly—the massive doors creaked open, inch by inch, until the gap widened into destiny.
From the hills beyond, Muhtasin Pasha watched with a hawk's patience. The instant the shadowed gates began to part, a rare smile broke his stern face."It seems our prince is made of stronger steel than they know," he murmured. Then, raising his sword high, his voice thundered across the night:"Soldiers—forward! Charge!"
As the gates finally open, fifteen thousand men surged at once. The earth itself seemed to tremble under the stampede of boots, hooves, and the rumble of rolling artillery.
Within the city, the rebels woke too late. The stillness of night shattered beneath the roar of an army.
"What the hell—?! Sound the alarm!" a panicked guard cried from the walls. Bells clanged, dogs barked, torches flared—but it was already too late.
Arrows fell like rain from the darkness, striking down defenders before they could rally. Men tumbled screaming from the battlements, their cries drowned beneath the war drums pounding like thunder.
The gates yawned wide, and the Janissaries poured through like a flood. Screams echoed in the narrow streets, steel met steel in flashes of sparks, but resistance crumbled almost as quickly as it formed.
By dawn, the banner of the Empire flew above Corinth's battered walls. The city had fallen.
The Orlov Rebellion had lost its jewel.