Midnight draped itself over Acre like a burial shroud, the moon veiled behind thick clouds that promised rain but delivered only silence. The city slept—or tried to—unaware of the shadows moving through its alleyways with the patience of death itself.
Al-Muallim stood atop a crumbling watchtower, his dark robes blending into the night. Below him, his Assassins flowed through the streets like black water, their footsteps softer than a whisper against the cobblestones.
"Remember," he murmured to the young initiate beside him, his voice barely stirring the air. "The throat. The heart. The silence."
The initiate nodded, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. Then he was gone, melting into the darkness like smoke.
At the main gate, two Templar guards leaned against the heavy doors, their breaths fogging in the cool night air. They spoke in hushed tones about the recent violence between the Italians, their laughter coarse and tired.
They never saw the shadows behind them.
The first guard gasped as cold steel slid between his ribs, his cry cut short by a gloved hand over his mouth. The second turned—just in time to meet his brother's dagger. They died without a sound, their bodies lowered gently to the ground by unseen hands.
One by one, the bolts were drawn. The chains, heavy with rust and disuse, groaned as they were loosened.
Then—a horn blast shattered the night, its mournful cry echoing through the sleeping city.
The gates of Acre groaned open, and hell poured through.
Salahuddin's army moved like a flood through the streets, their boots pounding against the stones in perfect unison. The Asad al-Harb, their polished armor blackened for the night assault, flowed into the city with the precision of a surgeon's blade.
The first Crusader knights died in their beds, their dreams cut short by cold steel. A young squire woke to the sound of his lord choking on blood, his last sight the curved sword that took his head.
In the streets, the second wave of defenders stumbled from their barracks, their armor half-fastened, their eyes wide with panic.
"To arms!" a Frankish captain bellowed, his voice cracking with fear. "To arms!"
The Asad al-Harb gave them no time.
The elite cavalry cut through the disorganized knights like a scythe through wheat, their blades flashing in the torchlight. A Templar sergeant managed to raise his shield—only for it to be split in two by a single stroke. He fell to his knees, staring in disbelief at the ruined metal before the killing blow came.
"Allahu Akbar!" the cry went up, echoing through the streets as the Muslim forces pushed deeper into the city.
The inner citadel, that last bastion of Frankish pride, held out the longest. Its defenders barred the gates, raining arrows and boiling oil down on the attackers below.
From the rear lines, Taimur watched the assault stall, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword. Then he turned to the artillery captain.
"Bring up the Executioner."
The massive cannon, its iron barrel still warm from the harbor assault, was rolled into position with agonizing slowness. The gunners worked with practiced efficiency, loading the powder, ramming home the shot.
"Fire."
The world exploded.
The Executioner's roar shook the very stones of Acre, its shot smashing through the citadel gates like they were made of parchment. Splinters of wood and shards of iron scythed through the defenders, cutting men in half where they stood.
Inside, the survivors stumbled through the smoke, their ears ringing, their eyes streaming with tears. A young squire clawed at the rubble, trying to free his trapped lord—only to look up and see the shadows moving through the dust.
The Asad al-Harb advanced without mercy.
By the time the sun rose over Acre, the last resistance had crumbled. The citadel's banner, that proud red cross on white field, lay trampled in the dirt. In its place, the green standard of Islam fluttered in the morning breeze.
Salahuddin stood amidst the ruins, his sword still wet with blood. Around him, his men cheered, their voices hoarse from battle.
Taimur approached, his face unreadable. "The city is yours."
The sultan nodded, his eyes scanning the broken gates, the smoldering ruins, the bodies being piled for burial. "At what cost?"
Taimur's smile was thin. "Far less than the Crusaders paid."
In the streets below, the people of Acre peered from their windows, their faces pale with shock. The Brothel Mistress watched from her balcony, her lips curving in satisfaction.
Somewhere, a child began to cry.
The storm had passed. But the reckoning was just beginning.
The first light of dawn painted the execution square in pale gold as the Templar leaders were dragged forward, their fine robes—once symbols of their sacred office—now torn and stained with dirt and blood. The crowd that had gathered did not cheer or jeer; they stood in heavy silence, their faces unreadable. Some clutched their children close, turning young faces away from what was to come. Others stared with hollow eyes, their expressions caught between relief and terror.
The Grand Master of the Templars, a man who had once commanded fear with a single glance, stumbled as the guards shoved him to his knees. His silver hair was matted with sweat and grime, his face a mask of defiance barely concealing the tremor in his hands.
"You will burn for this," he spat, his voice hoarse from the night's fighting. "God will not forget what you have done here."
Salahuddin, watching from the citadel's high balcony, did not flinch. Below him, the executioner—a broad-shouldered man with a face like weathered stone—adjusted his grip on the axe.
The crowd held its breath.
The blade fell.
A single, clean stroke. The sound—wet and final—echoed across the square. A woman in the crowd gasped. A child began to cry. The body slumped forward, the head rolling just far enough that the dead man's eyes seemed to stare up at the citadel, at the conqueror who had ordered his death.
One by one, the remaining Templars met the same fate. Some begged. Some prayed. Some died silent, their lips pressed tight against the pain.
When it was done, the executioner wiped his blade on a scrap of Templar white and bowed to the citadel.
Salahuddin turned away from the sight, the morning sun glinting off the sword at his hip. "Acre is ours," he said, his voice quiet.
At his side, Taimur said nothing. His gaze lingered on the square below, on the growing pool of blood seeping between the cobblestones. His expression was unreadable—not satisfaction, not regret. Calculation.
In the streets, the people began to disperse, their footsteps hesitant. The merchants would return to their stalls soon, the fishermen to their boats. Life would go on. But the shadow of the axe would linger.
Salahuddin exhaled, long and slow, then turned to his commanders. "Secure the gates. Double the watch. I want no surprises from Jaffa or Tyre."
The men bowed and hurried to obey.
Taimur finally spoke, his voice low enough that only Salahuddin could hear. "They will call this cruelty."
The sultan's jaw tightened. "Let them. The road to Jerusalem is almost clear. I will not let pity cloud our purpose now."
A breeze stirred the banners above them, the green silk snapping like a whip. Somewhere in the city, a dog barked. The smell of smoke and salt and iron hung thick in the air.
The road to Jerusalem was almost clear.
But the cost of walking it grew heavier with every step.
[System Notification: Conquest of Acre Complete]
[+5,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 57,800 / 100,000]
The morning sun cast long shadows across the conquered city of Acre as Salahuddin stood atop the citadel, his commanders arrayed before him. The air still carried the faint scent of smoke from the final battles, mingling with the salt breeze off the sea. Below them, the streets teemed with activity—Damascene garrison troops marching in disciplined columns, their lances gleaming in the light, while the people of Acre watched from doorways and windows, their faces a mix of fear and cautious hope.
Salahuddin turned to his advisors. "The city is ours, but holding it will require more than swords." His gaze settled on two men—Sharaf al-Din Barqash, his spymaster, and Saif al-Din al-Mashtub, the grizzled Kurdish commander. "Barqash, you will handle what lurks in the dark. Al-Mashtub, you will stand in the light."
Barqash inclined his head slightly, his hooded eyes unreadable. "It will be done."
Al-Mashtub, his beard streaked with gray, gave a firm nod. "The people will learn that justice under your rule is fair—and absolute."
Salahuddin's expression was grave. "Acre must not rebel. Nor can it starve. Alam al-Din," he said, turning to the siege engineer, "stay long enough to fortify the gates and train the garrison in the cannons. Then rejoin us."
Alam al-Din Sulayman, a man whose hands were more accustomed to blueprints than swords, bowed. "The walls will be unbreakable before I leave."
That evening, Barqash slipped into the dimly lit chambers beneath the governor's palace, where the Brothel Mistress awaited him. The air was thick with the scent of incense and secrets.
"You have the list?" she asked, her voice smooth as poisoned honey.
Barqash unfolded a parchment, its surface covered in precise script. "Thirty-two names. Templar sympathizers, Venetian agitators, and a few fools who think they can resist in the shadows."
She took the list, her fingers brushing against his. "And their fate?"
"Al-Mashtub will exile them publicly. The Sand Foxes will ensure they never reach the border."
She smiled. "The people will thank him for his mercy."
Barqash's expression did not change. "Mercy is a useful illusion."
At dawn, al-Mashtub stood in the central square, the garrison troops arrayed behind him. A crowd had gathered—locals, merchants, even a few Franks who had chosen to stay.
"Hear me!" his voice boomed across the stones. "Acre is under new rule, but it need not be a rule of fear. Those who lay down their arms and swear allegiance will be pardoned. Those who do not…" He let the silence hang for a moment. "Will be removed."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. A burly Frankish blacksmith stepped forward. "And our churches? Our trade?"
Al-Mashtub's gaze was steady. "Your churches will stand. Your trade will flow—under the watch of those who ensure peace." He gestured to the Brothel Mistress, who stood at the edge of the square, her network of informants already weaving through the crowd.
The blacksmith hesitated, then nodded. "Better than slaughter."
Alam al-Din Sulayman stood atop the seaward wall, directing crews of laborers—some free, some captured Crusaders—as they reinforced the gates with steel-banded timber. Nearby, garrison troops practiced loading and aiming the newly installed ballistae under the watchful eyes of his engineers.
One soldier fumbled with a cannon's fuse. Alam al-Din sighed and strode over. "Like this," he said, adjusting the man's grip. "Or do you wish to blow off your hand?"
The soldier swallowed hard. "Apologies, master engineer."
Alam al-Din clapped him on the shoulder. "Learn quickly. The Franks will test these walls sooner than we'd like."
As the sun set, he surveyed his work—the gates strengthened, the artillery crews trained well enough. It would have to suffice. Salahuddin was already marching, and Alam al-Din had another war to engineer.
Two days later, a column of "exiled" rebels trudged beyond Acre's gates, their hands bound, their heads bowed. The crowd watched as al-Mashtub, ever the merciful governor, provided them with waterskins and a single cart of supplies.
"May God guide you," he called, his voice carrying just enough to be heard.
The people murmured in approval.
That night, beyond the first hill, the Sand Foxes descended. There were no screams—only the quiet efficiency of knives in the dark. By dawn, the cart and its supplies were back in Acre's storerooms. The rebels were gone.
Barqash stood atop the walls, watching the horizon. "Acre is secure," he said to no one.
Al-Mashtub, joining him, grunted. "For now."
The road to Jerusalem stretched before them all.