The morning air hung heavy with tension as the siege engines creaked into position. Master Engineer Yusuf wiped sweat from his brow, shouting over the din. "Bring that trebuchet five paces forward! I want the exact range!"
A young carpenter hammered the final braces into one of the siege towers. "Will it hold against their arrows?" he asked nervously.
Yusuf gave the structure a firm shake. "It'll hold better than their walls will hold against our stones," he chuckled darkly.
Nearby, sappers prepared for their dangerous night work. "Remember," their captain warned, "dig silent, dig deep. One wrong strike and we all meet Allah tonight."
As the sun reached its zenith, Salahuddin gave the signal. "Loose!"
The cannons roared first. Their thunder shook the earth as iron balls smashed into the northern wall, sending chips of stone flying.
On the battlements, a Zengid captain ducked as debris rained around him. "By the Prophet's beard!" he swore. "What devilry is this?"
His lieutenant squinted through the dust. "Egyptian sorcery! Their machines spit fire and iron!"
For three days and nights, the bombardment did not cease.
"Reload! Faster!" Taimur urged the cannon crews. A young soldier fumbled with the heavy shot. "The metal burns my hands!"
"Then use your cloak, fool!" Taimur snapped. "Would you rather their arrows burn your heart?"
Inside the city, panic spread like wildfire. A merchant grabbed the governor's arm. "We must surrender! The walls won't last!"
The governor shook him off. "Hold fast! Reinforcements from Mosul—"
A tremendous crash cut him off as another cannonball slammed into the wall.
On the fourth morning, as dawn touched the battlements, a strange silence fell. The defenders peered cautiously over the walls.
"Have they given up?" a young archer asked.
His captain's eyes widened in horror. "No… the wall! It moves!"
With a groan that echoed across the plain, a massive section of the northern wall shuddered. Cracks spiderwebbed through the stone. Then, with a roar that drowned all else, thirty feet of wall collapsed outward in an avalanche of rubble.
From the Muslim lines came a triumphant cry: "Allahu Akbar!"
Salahuddin turned to his commanders, face grim with purpose. "Prepare the assault. The breach is open."
Taimur already had his sword drawn. "The Desert Hawks will go first. We'll secure the flanks."
As the army surged forward, the defenders scrambled to erect a barricade behind the shattered wall. An old veteran grabbed his spear with trembling hands. "Today we dine in Paradise, lads."
The war horns sounded. Their deep bellow cut through dust and screams. Salahuddin raised his sword, the sun glinting off steel. "For Allah and victory!" he roared.
The 'Asad-al-Harb' needed no further urging. With a thunderous cry of "Allahu Akbar!", the elite cavalry charged the breach, armored hooves pounding like thunder.
"Hold the line!" screamed a Zengid captain, his voice cracking. "Push them back before—"
His words vanished beneath the fury of the impact. Armored horsemen smashed into the defenders, scattering men like leaves in a gale. Blades flashed. Blood painted stone. The streets of Aleppo became a warzone.
In the alleys beyond the breach, fighting turned brutal. The Asad-al-Harb dismounted, advancing in tight formations, their heavy armor making them nearly invincible.
"Shields up!" barked Captain Rafiq. A hail of arrows rattled off raised shields. "Archers above! Take them down!"
From the rooftops, Zengid bowmen rained death. One Egyptian soldier collapsed, an arrow through his throat. His comrades dragged him to cover as crossbowmen returned fire.
"Clear that building!" Rafiq ordered. A squad kicked in the door. Screams echoed from within—then a body crashed through an upper window.
Meanwhile, near the eastern gate, Taimur moved like a ghost through the chaos. At his signal, fifty Desert Hawks scaled a poorly-guarded section of wall using grappling hooks. They dropped silently into the city, blades drawn.
"Remember," Taimur whispered in a shadowed courtyard, "we are the knife in the dark. Strike fast, strike hard, then vanish."
The elite raiders scattered through backstreets. One team set fire to a grain storehouse. Another sabotaged the eastern gate's winch mechanism.
"Gate's jammed!" a Zengid soldier cried, yanking the chains. "They've trapped us in!"
Back at the breach, Salahuddin now led the charge. His sword danced like liquid silver, cutting down all in his path. Panic spread through the defenders as smoke curled into the sky and rumors of infiltrators raced through the ranks.
"My lord!" a breathless messenger gasped to the Zengid commander. "The eastern gate is sealed—and there are enemies inside the city!"
The commander's face paled. "How many?"
"Nobody knows! They're everywhere—and nowhere!"
With dread sinking into his bones, the commander looked to his crumbling lines. The Asad-al-Harb pushed forward, relentless. Smoke rose from fires across the city.
"Fall back to the citadel," he ordered grimly. "We'll make our stand there."
But the Desert Hawks were already moving to cut off retreat. The noose tightened with each passing hour.
By late afternoon, Taimur rejoined Salahuddin at the captured eastern gate. "The city is yours, my Sultan," he reported. "Only the citadel remains."
Salahuddin wiped his blade clean. "Then let us finish this." He turned to the trumpeter. "Sound the advance."
The horns sang once more. Thousands of voices answered. The final assault began.
The defenders, exhausted, surrounded, and outmatched, could only watch as their doom swept toward them.
Aleppo would fall before nightfall.
The sun dipped below Aleppo's broken skyline, casting long shadows across the conquered city. Salahuddin stood before the towering citadel gates, his armor dented and bloodied from the day's brutal fighting. Around him, his army waited in tense silence, their torches flickering in the evening breeze.
"One last chance," Salahuddin called up to the defenders on the battlements. "Lay down your arms, and you shall live. Continue this fight, and you choose death."
A gaunt-faced commander appeared atop the wall, his once-fine robes torn and stained. "We serve the memory of Nuruddin!" he shouted hoarsely. "We will never yield to his usurper!"
Taimur stepped forward, his voice cold as winter steel. "Then you will die with him."
As darkness fell, the siege engines groaned into their final positions. Master Engineer Yusuf wiped soot from his brow as he adjusted the elevation of his largest cannon.
"Load the special rounds," he ordered grimly. "Let's see how they sleep with hell knocking at their door."
The night erupted in thunder and flame.
Stone after stone slammed into the citadel walls, each impact rattling the ancient stones. Fire arrows arced across the black sky, their burning trails illuminating the horror etched on the faces of the defenders.
Inside the citadel, panic spread like wildfire.
"The eastern towers collapsed!" a soldier screamed as dust rained from the ceiling.
"Hold fast!" their captain bellowed, though his sword hand trembled. "Morning will—"
A deafening crash silenced him as part of the ceiling caved in with a roar.
At first light, a terrible groan echoed through the courtyard. The citadel gates—battered, burned, and warped by bombardment—buckled and gave way with an earsplitting crack.
"They're breaking!" someone shouted from the walls.
The 'Asad-al-Harb' needed no orders. With a roar that shook the very stones, they charged through the smoke and rubble.
"Allahu Akbar!" cried Captain Rafiq, leading the first wave. His blade flashed, slicing through a defender's throat before the man could raise his shield. Behind him surged the lion-hearted elite, relentless and unstoppable.
The Zengid loyalists fought with the desperation of doomed men. Step by bloody step, Salahuddin's army pushed deeper into the citadel's heart.
In the great hall, the last defenders formed a ragged circle around their commander.
"Make them pay for every step!" he snarled, raising a notched sword.
The doors burst open with a groan. Salahuddin stepped inside, his blade still dripping from the battle below.
"Enough," he said, his voice echoing against the marble. "Your bravery does you honor, but this slaughter serves no purpose."
The commander spat blood on the floor. "Then kill us and be done with it."
From the shadows, Taimur emerged. His Desert Hawks fanned out around the room, silent as wraiths.
"There's no need for that," he said smoothly. "Swear loyalty, and you may keep your lands and titles. Resist, and we bury you where you stand."
A long silence followed. Then, with a sound like a dying breath, the commander's sword clattered to the floor. One by one, his men followed.
By midday, Salahuddin's banner flew from the highest tower.
The people of Aleppo crept from their homes, blinking in the morning light, their faces pale with fear. They looked out upon a broken city—and a new future.
"Will they slaughter us now?" whispered a baker's wife, clutching her children close.
Her husband shook his head and pointed to the square, where Egyptian soldiers were already clearing rubble.
"Look—they repair what they broke."
Near the shattered gates, General Barsbay barked orders.
"No looting! No harm to civilians! The Sultan's orders are clear!"
A young soldier paused before the door of a wealthy merchant's home, hand on the hilt of his sword.
"But what if they're hiding Zengid loyalists?"
Barsbay tapped the soldier's knuckles with the flat of his blade.
"Then we wait for the Sand Foxes to flush them out. Now help with the wounded."
In the marketplace, physicians worked tirelessly under colorful awnings. Muslim and Christian doctors treated wounded soldiers from both sides.
"Hold him down," muttered an old physician, preparing to extract an arrow from a Zengid soldier's shoulder.
The young man screamed as the barbed tip came free. "Why help me?" he gasped. "I fought against you."
The physician dabbed the wound with wine-soaked cloth. "And now you'll live to serve a greater cause."
Deep in the citadel's bowels, the Sand Foxes moved like shadows through torchlit halls. Their leader, a wiry man named Jalal, paused before a thick oak door.
"This is the one."
With a kick, the lock splintered. Inside, chained to the damp wall, sat Shirkuh. He was thinner now, worn by captivity, but the old warlord's presence still filled the room.
"Well?" he growled. "Come to gloat, or free me?"
Jalal bowed. "The Sultan awaits your counsel, my lord."
The chains clattered to the floor. Shirkuh rubbed his raw wrists, his eyes narrowing.
"Salahuddin is Sultan now?"
"Yes," came a familiar voice.
Salahuddin stood framed in the doorway, his armor streaked with soot and blood. For a long moment, uncle and nephew simply stared at one another.
Then Shirkuh grinned wide.
"You took your damned time," he rasped, pulling Salahuddin into a crushing embrace.
"I came as soon as I could, uncle," Salahuddin whispered.
By evening, the first market stalls reopened. A spice merchant hesitantly arranged his jars, jumping as a Desert Hawk approached.
"How much for the saffron?" the soldier asked, fingering his coin purse.
The merchant blinked. "You… you want to buy it?"
The soldier laughed. "What, did you think we'd just take it?" He tossed a silver dinar on the table. "My wife makes excellent lamb stew."
Word spread quickly. More merchants opened their shops. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the lingering smoke of battle.
On the citadel's highest balcony, Salahuddin stood with Taimur and Shirkuh, gazing south across the rolling hills.
Below, a city began to breathe again—hammers thudding against wood, merchants haggling, children laughing for the first time in days.
[System Notification: Conquest of Aleppo Complete]
[+5,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 40,800 / 100,000]
Aleppo had fallen. Syria stood united.
And somewhere beyond those southern hills… history waited.