The Mediterranean stretched calm under the afternoon sun, its surface shimmering like molten bronze. Beyond the horizon, hidden from view, the Sea Wolves waited. Their ships lay still in the water, sails furled, oars resting. Only the occasional creak of wood or the quiet murmur of sailors broke the silence. Captain Idris stood at the prow of the Tidebreaker, his sharp eyes scanning the empty sea. He didn't need to look behind him to know his fleet was ready— twenty sleek warships, each carrying death in their hulls.
"Any moment now," he muttered, fingers tapping against the hilt of his curved sword. The breeze carried the scent of salt and tar, familiar comforts to a man who'd spent more of his life on water than land.
Then, just as predicted, the lookout's cry came from above. "Sails to the north!"
Idris's grin split his sun-weathered face. "Right on time."
The Crusader galleys from Jaffa came into view, their square sails bulging with wind. Heavy and slow, they plowed through the waves like fat merchant vessels rather than warships. Idris could almost pity them. Almost.
He raised a fist, and across the silent fleet, crews sprang to action. Oars dipped into the water as one, the Sea Flames - the fastest ships in the Egyptian navy - shooting forward like arrows loosed from a bow. The Crusaders never saw them coming until it was too late.
Greek fire arced through the air, streams of liquid flame that caught the sails of the lead Crusader ship. The fire took hold with terrifying speed, climbing the mast, consuming the deck. Screams carried across the water as men became living torches, leaping into the sea to escape the unbearable heat.
The second galley fared no better. A barrage of ballista bolts punched through its hull, the heavy iron-tipped projectiles tearing through wood and flesh alike. The ship listed sharply, its deck tilting as seawater rushed in. Within minutes, it was gone, swallowed by the hungry sea.
Chaos erupted among the remaining Crusader vessels. Some turned to fight, others to flee. One ship, quicker than the rest, broke away, its oars churning the water in desperate strokes.
Idris laughed, the sound carrying over the waves. "After them!"
The Tidebreaker surged forward, cutting through the water like a shark scenting blood. They closed the distance with terrifying speed, coming alongside the fleeing vessel close enough for Idris to see the fear in the Crusaders' eyes.
"Surrender," Idris called across the narrowing gap between the ships, his voice carrying the weight of certain victory, "or burn."
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, with a clatter that echoed across the water, the Crusaders lowered their swords. The sound was sweet music to Idris's ears.
The Sea Wolves had feasted again.
The gates of Ascalon groaned as they swung open, their iron hinges protesting after weeks of siege. The once-proud city now stood broken, its people hollow-eyed and gaunt, its defenders slumped against the walls in exhaustion. The stench of smoke and starvation clung to the air, mixing with the salt breeze from the sea.
At the head of his army, Salahuddin waited. His horse stamped impatiently beneath him, sensing the tension in the air. Behind him, the ranks of the Asad al-Harb stood silent, their banners limp in the still morning. The only sound was the distant cry of gulls and the slow, shuffling footsteps of the man approaching from the city.
Reynald, the Frankish lord who had ruled Ascalon, was barely recognizable. His fine surcoat hung loose on his frame, his face sunken from weeks of hunger. His once-proud bearing was gone, replaced by the slow, defeated steps of a man who had lost everything. He stopped before Salahuddin and knelt in the dust, his head bowed.
"The city is yours," he said, his voice cracked and hoarse.
Salahuddin studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifted to Taimur, who stood slightly to the side, his arms crossed, his face as calm as ever.
"You promised me this would be bloodless," Salahuddin said, his voice low.
Taimur's smile was thin, almost imperceptible. "I promised you the city would be intact," he replied. "The blood was optional."
A silence settled between them. Salahuddin's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He knew the truth of it. The riots, the executions, the desperate last stands—none of that had been part of the plan, but war was never clean. The city was theirs, and that was what mattered.
He turned back to Reynald. "Rise," he commanded.
The Frankish lord hesitated, then slowly pushed himself to his feet. His eyes, dull with exhaustion, flickered up to meet Salahuddin's.
"You will be treated with honor," Salahuddin said. "Your people will be fed. Those who swear allegiance will keep their homes. Those who do not may leave in peace."
Reynald swallowed hard, then gave a stiff nod. There was no fight left in him.
Salahuddin nudged his horse forward, his army moving with him as they entered the city. The streets were eerily quiet, the citizens peering from doorways and windows, their faces wary. The port, however, was untouched—the warehouses still stood, the docks unharmed. The Sea Wolves had seen to that.
As the Ayyubid banner was raised over the citadel, fluttering in the morning breeze, Salahuddin reined in his horse and looked east, toward the distant hills.
The road to Jerusalem was open.
The morning after Ascalon's fall, the city stirred uneasily under its new masters. The smoke from burned fields still lingered in the air, mixing with the salt-tang of the sea. Taimur stood atop the broken northern wall, surveying the damage. The cracked stones were still warm from yesterday's cannon fire.
"They'll come for it back," came a voice behind him. Salahuddin climbed the rubble to join him, his boots scattering pebbles. "The Franks won't surrender this harbor lightly."
Taimur didn't turn. "Which is why we prepared."
As if summoned, the thunder of hooves echoed from the eastern road. A column of riders approached beneath fluttering green banners - Taqi al-Din at its head, his polished helm gleaming in the dawn light. Behind him marched rank upon rank of fresh troops from Damascus, their spears a forest of steel against the morning sky.
"Five thousand," Taimur said. "As promised."
Salahuddin exhaled through his nose. "My nephew arrives precisely when needed."
Below them, the city gates groaned open once more. Taqi al-Din rode through the shattered portal, his voice booming across the courtyard. "Clear these corpses! I want this rubble shifted before noon!" His men fanned out through the streets, their boots crunching on broken pottery and spent arrows.
Taimur descended to meet him, Salahuddin following at a measured pace. The young commander dismounted with a clatter of armor.
"Uncle." Taqi al-Din bowed his head briefly before turning to Taimur. "Your messages said the granaries were poisoned?"
"Purged them yesterday," Taimur replied. "The Sand Foxes have lists of collaborators. Start with the bakeries - reward those who resisted, punish those who distributed tainted flour."
Salahuddin placed a hand on his nephew's pauldron. "This city is the dagger at Jerusalem's throat. Keep it sharp."
Taqi al-Din's jaw set. "It will be done."
By nightfall, the first repairs were underway. Teams of laborers hauled fresh-cut timber from the docks, while masons mixed mortar in the squares. The rhythmic clang of hammers on stone would continue unabated for weeks.
One Month Later
The crack of a whip echoed through the pre-dawn gloom. "Faster!" barked an overseer as prisoners hauled blocks of limestone up wooden ramps. The northern wall now stood whole again, its new stones pale against the weathered originals.
Taqi al-Din inspected the work, his boots leaving prints in the dew-damp dust. A shadow detached itself from an alleyway - Zahra, her face half-hidden by a veil.
"The last cell was rooted out near the docks," she murmured. "Three Frankish knights hiding in a wine merchant's cellar."
"Alive?"
She shook her head. "They chose fire over capture. Burned the warehouse trying to escape."
Taqi al-Din grunted. "See the merchant's family is compensated. We need the trade routes open."
Above them, carpenters swarmed over the framework of a new watchtower. The sound of saws biting into cedar wood filled the air.
Three Months Later
The first merchant ship in twelve weeks eased into the harbor, its sails emblazoned with the red lion of Venice. On the newly-built sea walls, ballistae and heavy cannons tracked its progress, their iron barrels gleaming in the sunlight. Armed guards lined the quay, their hands resting on sword hilts as they watched the vessel approach.
Taqi al-Din observed from the citadel balcony, his sharp eyes missing nothing. Below him, the markets buzzed with renewed activity—Egyptian grain exchanged for Italian glass, Syrian silks traded for Anatolian iron. The scent of spices and saltwater mixed in the air, carrying the sounds of haggling merchants and creaking carts.
A Sand Fox slipped through the crowd, moving like a shadow between the stalls. He reached the citadel stairs and delivered his report in a low voice. "The Venetian captain asks permission to establish a permanent warehouse."
Taqi al-Din didn't hesitate. "Granted," he said. "But his crew stays under watch. And double the guards on the armory." His gaze flicked toward the harbor, where the ship's sailors unloaded their cargo under the watchful eyes of his men.
The messenger bowed and disappeared back into the throng.
Taqi al-Din turned his attention northward, where Salahuddin's banners now flew over Acre. The road to Jerusalem was opening, stone by stone, ship by ship. And Ascalon stood ready—no longer a conquest, but a fortress, its walls bristling with weapons, its harbor guarded by cannon and steel.
The next phase of the war was coming. And Ascalon would be waiting.