The scent of salt and rotting fish clung to the air like a disease as the Brothel Mistress moved through the crowded docks of Acre. Her silk veil, embroidered with golden thread, fluttered slightly in the humid breeze as she adjusted it with practiced fingers. Beneath the fine fabric, hidden in the folds of her sash, the forged parchment lay heavy against her hip. Around her, the port seethed with its usual midday chaos—Venetian merchants shouting over the price of Cypriot wine, Genoese sailors swinging fists at each other over some drunken insult, and the ever-watchful Templar knights standing like stone sentinels at every major crossing, their disdain for the rabble evident in their cold stares.
A fishmonger's cart rattled past, its wooden wheels splashing through the foul puddles that never seemed to dry between the cobblestones. The Brothel Mistress sidestepped the filth with the grace of a cat, her slippers barely making a sound as she slipped into the shadows of a narrow alley. The stench here was worse—urine and spoiled meat—but the darkness provided cover.
A figure detached itself from the wall. The Sand Fox operative was young, barely more than a boy, but his eyes were old. "It's done?" he murmured, keeping his voice low enough that even the rats scurrying in the garbage wouldn't hear.
The Brothel Mistress smirked, her painted lips curling in satisfaction. "The Venetians will receive their 'warning' by nightfall," she said, her voice a velvet whisper. "And the Genoese already believe their rivals plot against them." She tilted her head slightly, listening to the distant sound of another brawl breaking out near the customs house. "The seeds are planted."
The operative exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that might have been amusement. "Let them tear each other apart."
She studied him for a moment, noting the fresh bruise on his jaw. "You've been busy."
He touched the mark absently. "A Genoese quartermaster needed convincing. He'll be missing two fingers by tomorrow."
"Good." The Brothel Mistress adjusted her veil again, her gaze flicking toward the mouth of the alley. "The Templars?"
"Still oblivious. Too busy counting their bribes to notice the knives at their backs."
A shout echoed from the docks, followed by the sound of splintering wood. The Brothel Mistress didn't need to see it to know what was happening—another "accident" arranged by her network, another reason for the Italians to blame each other.
She reached into her sash and produced a small, sealed vial. "For the Venetian consul's wine," she said, pressing it into the operative's hand. "He'll be dead before sunset, and his successor will find letters implicating the Genoese in his murder."
The operative pocketed the poison with a nod. "And the ship manifests?"
"Already altered. The 'San Giovanni' now carries weapons instead of silk. When the Templars inspect it tomorrow..." She let the sentence hang, the implication clear.
Another crash sounded from the docks, louder this time. The Brothel Mistress didn't flinch. "Go," she said. "The dance begins."
The operative melted back into the shadows, leaving her alone in the alley. She took a moment to compose herself, smoothing her robes and schooling her face into the placid mask of a harmless courtesan before stepping back into the chaos of the port.
A group of Venetian merchants rushed past, their faces flushed with anger. One of them was shouting about stolen goods. Near the customs house, a Genoese captain had drawn his dagger. The Templars were moving in, but slowly—too slowly to stop what was coming.
The Brothel Mistress walked on, her slippers whispering against the stones. By nightfall, Acre would be burning. And no one would suspect the fire had been set by her hand.
The Venetian merchant's hands shook as he clutched the damning parchment, his knuckles whitening against the expensive vellum. Around him, the noise of Acre's bustling docks faded into a dull roar as his vision tunneled on the words before him.
"To the Most Noble Genoese Council," he read aloud, his voice cracking. The ink seemed to pulse on the page, each stroke of the pen a knife twisting in his gut. "The Venetians have paid the Templars to seize your warehouses on the 15th. Strike first, or lose everything."
A cold sweat broke across his brow. The seal - an unmistakable Templar crest pressed into red wax - looked authentic enough to make his stomach churn. He turned the letter over, searching for some sign of forgery, but found none.
"By God's teeth," he whispered. Then louder, his voice rising to a shout as he burst into the merchant consortium's meeting hall. "They mean to ruin us!"
The gathered Venetians looked up from their accounts and wine cups, their expressions shifting from annoyance to alarm as their colleague shoved the letter into the hands of the eldest among them. Old Manetti's spectacles slipped down his nose as he read, his face draining of color.
"This cannot be," Manetti murmured. But the evidence was there - the precise date, the specific warehouses mentioned, even the coded reference to their private arrangement with the harbor master. Details only an insider would know.
Across the city, as the sun dipped below the western walls, a Genoese captain named Doria broke the seal on his own missive. This one bore the crest of the Venetian Doge and contained an even more damning accusation:
"To Our Trusted Allies in the East - The silk shipment from Damascus has been poisoned by Venetian agents. Six of our men already lie dead. We urge immediate retaliation before more perish."
Doria's calloused fingers traced the words as if touching them might reveal some trick. But the watermark was correct, the phrasing impeccable. His first mate, peering over his shoulder, let out a low whistle.
"That explains why young Ricci took ill after supper," the mate muttered.
Doria's face darkened. "Fetch my sword," he growled. "And ready the men."
As twilight deepened into night, the first blows were struck. A Venetian guardsman, drunk on cheap wine, stumbled too close to a Genoese warehouse. The night watchman, already on edge, took the swaying figure for an attacker and put a crossbow bolt through his throat.
By the time the moon reached its zenith, the docks had become a battleground. Venetian mercenaries stormed a Genoese counting house, their blades flashing in the torchlight. The Genoese retaliated by setting fire to a Venetian galley, the flames reflected a hundred times in the dark waters of the harbor.
From her vantage point in the House of Azure Veils, the Brothel Mistress watched the chaos unfold through stained glass windows. The reflection of the burning ship danced in her dark eyes as she sipped her spiced wine.
"Fools," she whispered to the empty room.
Below her, the streets ran with more than seawater. A Venetian trader - the same who had first sounded the alarm - lay sprawled across the cobblestones, his fine robes sodden with blood from a slit throat. His dead fingers still clutched a scrap of parchment, now stained crimson.
At the city gates, the Templar guards yawned at their posts, making no move to intervene. Their commander had received his own letter that afternoon - one promising substantial donations to their order if they "allowed the merchants to settle their differences."
As dawn's first light crept over the burning city, the Brothel Mistress finally turned from the window. Her work was done. The Italians would spend the next three days slaughtering each other, too busy with their petty vengeance to notice the real threat gathering beyond their walls.
She dipped a quill in ink and began composing her report to Taimur. The first phase was complete. The coffin of Acre had been built. Now it only remains to nail it shut.
The setting sun painted Acre's harbor in hues of blood and gold as the fishing boats bobbed lazily on the evening tide. To any casual observer, they appeared as nothing more than the usual fleet returning with the day's meager catch - their hulls weathered, their sails patched, their crews the same sun-baked fishermen who had worked these waters for generations. But beneath the piles of stinking nets lay coiled ropes of twisted hemp, blades honed to razor sharpness, and clay pots filled with the dreaded Greek fire that could burn even on water.
Captain Yusuf adjusted his tattered headscarf, the coarse fabric scratching against his unshaven jaw. The disguise was perfect - his normally well-oiled beard now matted with salt and fish guts, his warrior's physique hidden beneath layers of stained wool. Even his hands, usually clean enough for court, now bore the callouses and scars of a lifelong fisherman. He spat into the water and watched the approaching Crusader galleys with hooded eyes.
"Right on time," he muttered to his first mate, a hulking Nubian who currently played the role of a simple deckhand. The man grunted in response, his fingers casually brushing against the hidden blade at his waist.
The lead galley cut through the waves with arrogant ease, its oars moving in perfect unison. At its prow stood a Templar knight in full regalia, his surcoat bearing the crimson cross that marked him as one of Acre's elite guards.
"You there!" the knight called across the water, his Frankish accent thick with disdain. "What business do you have so close to the harbor after curfew?"
Yusuf made his voice tremble as he called back, "Only poor fishermen, my lord! The currents were against us today!" He gestured to the pitiful haul of fish visible in the bottom of their boat. "We mean no trouble!"
The Templar exchanged glances with his sergeant. "Search their boats," he ordered. "We've had reports of smugglers using fishing vessels."
As the galley drew nearer, Yusuf's men tensed imperceptibly. The Nubian's fingers tightened around his weapon. A young sailor near the mast shifted his weight, ready to spring. Yusuf caught each man's eye in turn, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not yet.
The galley bumped against their fishing boat with a hollow thud. Two armored knights made to board, their swords already drawn.
Then - a whistle, sharp and clear as a seabird's cry, cut through the twilight.
Chaos erupted.
Nets flew aside like discarded spiderwebs, revealing the deadly arsenal beneath. The Nubian's blade found the first knight's throat before the man could raise his sword. Arrows whistled through the air from hidden bows, finding their marks in the galley's oarsmen with deadly precision. The screams began before the first body hit the water.
"Now!" Yusuf roared, hefting one of the clay pots.
The Greek fire arced through the air, shattering against the galley's deck with a sound like breaking bones. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the world exploded in fire.
The flames spread with unnatural speed, clinging to wood and flesh alike. Men became living torches, their screams rising to the darkening sky as they threw themselves into the sea. But the water brought no relief - the Greek fire burned even beneath the waves, turning the harbor into a vision of hell.
The second galley, slower to approach, now frantically tried to turn about. Their captain's shouts of retreat turned to cries of alarm as new shapes emerged from the gathering darkness - the sleek war galleys of the Sea Wolves, their black sails emblazoned with the silver crescent of the Ayyubids.
"Fire at will," Yusuf murmured, watching as the Destroyer, their largest cannon, was rolled into position.
The shot came like the wrath of God itself.
The massive iron ball smashed through the galley's hull with the sound of splintering bones, sending up a geyser of wood and seawater. The vessel listed sharply, its mast snapping like a twig as it began its swift descent to the harbor's bottom.
Yusuf wiped the spray from his face and turned to his men. "Signal the others. The harbor is ours."
As the last of the Crusader ships slipped beneath the waves, the Sea Wolves raised their banners over Acre's burning docks. The water reflected the flames like liquid gold, illuminating the faces of the dead as they drifted slowly toward the shore.
Somewhere in the city, the Brothel Mistress would be watching. But for now, Yusuf allowed himself a moment to savor the victory. He removed his fisherman's headscarf and let the sea breeze cool his brow. The disguise was no longer needed.
By morning, every soul in Acre would know - the Coastal Wolves had come. And nothing would ever be the same again.