Kamel knelt in the brittle roadside grass, sweat beading beneath the rim of his cavalry cap. The morning sun was sharp, clear, and merciless, bleaching the world until even shadows looked thin. Chalky dust clung to his boots, to the knees of his faded green uniform, to the edges of everything that moved.
A soft wind came off the road and brought smells in layers: manure, crushed weeds, stale wool—and beneath it, that faint sour scent of too many people moving the same way for too long.
The refugee column passed him like a slow, exhausted river.
Men with hollow cheeks and cracked lips. Women with veils pulled tight against the sun. Children who did not cry anymore, because crying required energy. Carts squeaked under bundles tied with rope and desperation. Now and then a donkey brayed, then fell silent again as if even the animals understood that noise was a luxury.
Kamel let them pass, eyes flicking between faces and the tree line, and then back to the checkpoint post.
A sign had been nailed to it—warped wood, weather-bleached, hung crookedly as if even the nails had been driven in with contempt. Someone had painted a crude pistol beside twisted script, the letters uneven, the paint dripped and ugly. It looked like the work of infidels, a cheap warning meant to scare the superstitious.
And yet—something about it made the skin at the back of his neck tighten.
Kamel opened his leather-bound notebook and turned to a clean page. He brushed dust from the paper with a gloved thumb, and began to sketch the sign precisely, like a clerk copying scripture. Time. Place. Shape. The angle of the nail. The odd little flourish in one letter.
As he copied the words, he read them out loud without meaning to.
"Warning," he murmured. "Crossing this border without permission will be considered an act of hostility. Trespassers will be shot… survivors will be shot again."
A sharp laugh cracked behind him.
Ali sat tall on his black-coated horse like a boy pretending to be a conqueror—and half-believing it. Reins slack in one hand, the other resting easy on the saddle pommel. His collar was open to the heat, a bandolier of clean brass rounds strapped across his chest as if he wanted the world to see he had plenty of killing left in him. A Winchester was slung across his back—American steel, foreign and proud.
He tipped his head toward the sign and smirked.
"Shot?" he said, as if the word itself was amusing. "By whom, brother? By the Christian god? By ghosts in the trees? These Moss Men?"
He spat lightly to the side, not quite in disgust—more in dismissal.
"If the infidels had wisdom, they would already be running. And if not—" Ali lifted his hand and chopped it through the air, a clean, theatrical motion, as if his palm were a blade. "Then they will learn what it means to awaken the faithful. We will drag them from their hiding places. We will hang their heads like lanterns. Let their churches hear it. Let their bells choke on silence."
Ali's eyes shone when he said it.
Not with madness.
With youth.
With certainty.
But nearby, the refugees did not laugh.
They walked past in silence, heads bowed, as if the road itself demanded humility. Some didn't even look at Ali. Others did—and their eyes carried something worse than fear.
Recognition.
One older man—already gray-bearded, already worn down to the bones of himself—stepped forward again to warn them. He held his cap in both hands like a man holding an offering. His voice was low and cracked, the sound of someone who had shouted too many prayers, and drank too little.
"I warn you yet again, beyim," he said, and his gaze went not to Ali's face but to the dark line of trees. "No matter how righteous your cause… you must be careful."
Ali's grin hardened, impatient.
The old man swallowed and continued anyway, because people who have lost everything sometimes stop fearing arrogance.
"Those… things in the green—they are not men. They move like shadows and vanish like mist. I saw them. We all saw them. Four only—but large. Wrong. Like the earth stood up and watched us."
He licked dry lips, eyes haunted.
"Bushes with rifles. Eyes behind bark. They did not speak. They only pointed."
His hand shook as he pointed vaguely down the road, into the hush.
"And when they pointed, we understood."
Kamel's pencil slowed. His attention sharpened against his will.
The old man glanced at the border sign as if it might bite him.
"They drove us out. Not only us—others too. Muslim or kafir, it made no difference to them. Except that the Kafir were sent west, while we came east. Whole villages have emptied. Towns emptied. The land looks untouched because no one is left to touch it."
He swallowed again, quieter now.
"These Moss Men… they are not men at all. Wallahi, they are Shayāṭīn—devils made of smoke and earth, sent to hunt the proud. I tell you, they walk without sound, and vanish when you try to fix your eyes upon them. And I believe they have come not for peasants or women—but for soldiers, for warriors like you who carry iron and pride. Perhaps it is a test from Allah, or perhaps a punishment. But know this: the ground itself seems to protect them. And any whom dare chase them into the wilderness, do not return."
Ali listened—truly listened—for perhaps two heartbeats.
Then he chuckled.
Not mockery exactly. Not cruelty.
The confident laughter of a man who believed God had already decided the outcome.
"Four men," he repeated, shaking his head. "Then let them come. Behind us rides a nation reborn. Behind us comes the thunder of the faithful. No devils in leaf and grass will stop us from what is ours."
Kamel looked up from his notebook, squinting toward the treeline.
The silence out there felt… arranged.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
Even birds seemed reluctant to sing.
He had heard the rumors too. Not just from this old man. More refugees had whispered the same thing, in different accents, with different trembling hands: green men, quiet men, men who were not men. Always appearing in small numbers. Always leaving the land empty behind them.
And then, the sound of hooves came from behind.
Not the scattered clop of refugees' animals, but the tight, controlled rhythm of cavalry moving with purpose.
Second Lieutenant Hasan arrived astride a bay mare, posture rigid, chin lifted as if he could bully the landscape into obedience. Nine men followed him in a neat line, lightly armed, alert. Their uniforms were muted grey-green, jackets dulled, boots caked in dust. Faces were darkened with charcoal. Rifles were wrapped with cloth to kill glint. A few wore ragged cloaks stitched with brush and scraps—crude imitations of what the Moss Men were rumored to be, as if copying them would give them an edge if they ever fought.
Hasan's eyes flicked to the sign, then to the refugees, then to Kamel—cold and impatient.
"Why have you stopped?" he barked. "Report."
Kamel stood and gave his observations the way he'd been taught: precise, calm, careful.
"The sign appears newly placed. Likely by whoever these refugees call 'Moss Men.' Refugees confirm sightings—four seen by multiple accounts. Unknown strength, unknown allegiance. The sign warns of lethal engagement."
Hasan didn't even let the sentence land.
"Rumors." He spat the word like it tasted bad. "Superstition. Old women's tales dressed in soldier's boots."
He waved a hand, as if dismissing not just the warning but the possibility of consequence.
"Four men here, four men there—however many they are, they are not many enough to stop an army. Other scout units are already advancing. Scouts from the Second and Third Army too. We will not crawl because peasants shake at shadows."
His voice cut sharp and impatient, charged with the need to be moving—to be first.
"Mount up, and begin advancing towards Edirne—at the double. I want ground taken before the scout company and the battalion close in behind us. Move. And don't go galloping off again. Keep your distance, yes—but never so far that we lose you from sight. If something happens, I want eyes on you at all times."
Ali nodded to Hasan in acknowledgment. Then he grinned wide, exhilarated by the command—by permission, by the scent of revenge—and felt no apology at all for the urge to charge ahead.
He leaned down and clapped the old refugee on the shoulder with the careless intimacy of a man who still believed promises mattered.
"We will see your village returned, uncle," he said. "I swear it by the blood of Edirne."
The old man nodded.
But there was no hope in his eyes—only the dull resignation of a man who had watched too many young soldiers ride toward certainty.
Kamel swung into his saddle, tightening the strap of his satchel. His Winchester sat heavy against his back, foreign weight against familiar fear. Ali rode beside him, still smiling, still hungry, eyes fixed forward as if he could already see the city.
The road ahead lay open—wide, pale, dry—flanked by abandoned fields and green trees. The land looked untouched, almost peaceful, like a painting.
And that was what made it worse.
Because it wasn't peace.
It was emptiness with no certainty of where the enemy hid.
And further ahead, beyond the bend in the road, lay Adrianople, as the Christians called it—Edirne to the Ottomans: the old jewel, the ancient capital, the wound that still bled in every Ottoman prayer.
Kamel and Ali crossed the border line together—the first scouts of the First Army's forward element to breach the Bulgarian frontier since the last war.
The refugees behind them kept walking toward Constantinople.
Some murmured prayers for the young men's safety.
Not because they believed the prayers would save them.
Because praying was the last thing they could still do.
And somewhere out there, beyond the hush of wind and the reluctant birdcall, the Moss Men waited.
Still.
Watching.
***
Author's Note:
From this point onward, the narrative becomes darker. War—especially civil and religious war—was not restrained, clean, or humane, and this story does not attempt to make it so.
The intent here is historical honesty rather than provocation. These scenes are written to show how ordinary people are shaped, hardened, and sometimes broken by the violence around them—not to glorify it.
Reader discretion is advised.
Also I have loads of content lined up, but polishing takes time. So be patient.