The morning sun burned mercilessly over Tyre, its golden light reflecting off the towering sea walls that had withstood countless sieges. The massive limestone blocks, worn smooth by wind and wave, rose from the Mediterranean like an impenetrable fortress. Below them, the harbor teemed with activity—fat-bellied merchant ships from Venice and Genoa unloaded spices and silks, while sleek war galleys patrolled the waters, their oars dipping in perfect unison. The city's defenders moved along the battlements with the relaxed confidence of men who had never known defeat, their eyes occasionally scanning the horizon out of habit rather than genuine concern.
On a rocky ridge nearly a mile from the city walls, Taimur stood motionless, his spyglass trained on Tyre's defenses. The heat made the air shimmer, distorting his view slightly, but he could still make out the details—the positions of the ballistae, the patrol routes of the guards, the weak points where the walls met the cliffs. Beside him, Salahuddin shifted his weight impatiently, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"You're certain this will work?" the sultan asked, his voice low and measured.
Taimur lowered the spyglass slowly, his expression unreadable. "Certain? No." He turned to face Salahuddin, his dark eyes reflecting the sunlight. "But their walls cannot stop what they do not see coming."
Salahuddin exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting back to the city. "They say Tyre has never fallen to siege. Not to Babylon. Not to Rome."
"And yet Rome took it in the end," Taimur replied, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Just not by force."
A gust of wind carried the distant sounds of the city—the shouts of merchants, the creak of ship timbers, the occasional bark of a dog. Salahuddin frowned. "You place much faith in rumors and whispers."
Taimur lifted the spyglass again, adjusting the focus. "Faith? No. I place faith in steel and fire. But fear..." He paused, watching as a group of guards changed shifts on the distant walls. "Fear is the weapon they have given us."
Below them, hidden among the rocks and scrub, the first of the child informants was already moving toward the city gates, his small frame wrapped in rags, his mind sharp with carefully planted lies.
Salahuddin studied Taimur for a long moment before speaking again. "And if they do not believe the rumors?"
"Then we make them believe." Taimur's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like a blade half-drawn. "By the time they realize the truth, it will already be too late."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and smoke. Somewhere beyond the ridge, the Sand Foxes were preparing, the cannons were being positioned, and the ropes were being tested.
Tyre stood unbroken.
But not for long.
The boy was no older than ten, his face smudged with dirt, his bare feet calloused from years of running the streets of Tyre. He moved like a shadow through the crowded marketplace, slipping between merchants haggling over spices and slaves, his eyes wide with manufactured terror. When he reached the fishmonger's stall, he let his voice rise in a shrill cry that cut through the morning bustle.
"Acre has fallen!" he shouted, his words dripping with panic. "The Muslims slaughtered everyone! They're marching on Sidon next!"
A fat merchant in Venetian silks grabbed his arm, his fingers digging into the boy's thin flesh. "What nonsense is this, rat?"
The boy wriggled free with practiced ease, his bare feet slapping against the sun-baked stones as he danced back out of reach. "Ask the fishermen!" he gasped, pointing toward the docks. "They saw the smoke from the sea! The harbor burned for three days!"
He didn't wait for a response. Turning, he vanished into the maze of stalls, his voice rising again as he repeated the lie to a group of wide-eyed sailors. By noon, the rumor had reached the wine shops near the docks. By evening, it was on every tongue in the city.
In the garrison's war room, the commanders stood around a massive oak table, their faces illuminated by flickering torchlight. Maps of the coast lay spread before them, marked with troop positions and supply routes.
"We must send reinforcements to Sidon at once," urged Sir Reynald, a grizzled knight whose scarred face bore witness to a dozen battles. His fist came down on the table, making the wine cups tremble. "If Sidon falls, we'll be cut off from the north!"
Governor Montferrat stroked his graying beard, his eyes troubled. "And leave Tyre undefended? The Muslims have taken Acre. Who's to say they won't turn their eyes here next?"
A younger knight, Sir Guy, laughed sharply. "Let them try! These walls have stood for a thousand years. Not even Saladin's entire army could breach them." He gestured toward the sea-facing battlements visible through the high windows. "What threat could there possibly be?"
"The threat of being trapped like rats," Reynald countered. "If Sidon falls, we lose our last link to Beirut. Our supply lines would be severed before winter."
Montferrat exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the map's edge. "How many men would you send?"
"Five hundred. Our best."
"And if this is a trick?"
Reynard's smile was grim. "Then five hundred will hardly be missed from a garrison of three thousand. But if Sidon falls because we did nothing..." He let the implication hang in the air.
Dawn found the gates of Tyre swinging open, five hundred knights and men-at-arms marching out in tight formation, their banners fluttering in the morning breeze. The citizens lined the streets to watch them go, some cheering, others whispering prayers.
From his hidden vantage point high in the coastal hills, Taimur observed the column's progress through his spyglass. The morning sun glinted off their armor as they wound their way north along the coastal road.
"Right on schedule," he murmured, lowering the glass.
Beside him, Zahra - his most trusted Sand Fox - arched an eyebrow. "You sound surprised."
Taimur's lips quirked. "Merely pleased. Men are so wonderfully predictable when frightened."
Zahra nodded toward the city. "And now?"
"Now we let the fear fester." He turned his gaze back to Tyre, where the remaining defenders patrolled walls they believed impregnable. "By the time they realize their mistake, it will be far too late."
The first phase was complete. The unbreakable city had already begun to crack.
The aqueduct stood like a silent sentinel in the moonlight, its graceful arches spanning the dry riverbed that separated Tyre from the mainland. For generations, it had been the city's lifeline, carrying fresh mountain water through stone channels to its fountains, baths, and cisterns. Tonight, it would become its noose.
Zahra crouched in the shadows, her dark eyes scanning the structure. Beside her, three Sand Fox operatives waited, their hands steady, their breaths shallow. The only guards visible were two old men—veterans of wars long past—and a boy no older than fourteen, his spear leaning against the stone as he dozed.
"Pathetic," murmured Rafiq, his fingers tracing the clay pot of gunpowder in his hands. "They don't even post real soldiers."
Zahra didn't answer. She had learned long ago that overconfidence was the greatest weakness of all.
She gestured forward, and the team moved like ghosts along the base of the aqueduct. The tunnels beneath were narrow, barely wide enough for a man to crawl, but they had memorized every turn, every loose stone.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone and old mortar. Zahra ran her fingers along the wall until she found the weak point—a fracture in the arch where the mortar had crumbled with age.
"Here," she whispered.
Rafiq placed the first charge, his hands steady as he packed the gunpowder deep into the crack. The others followed, their movements precise, their silence absolute.
When the last charge was set, Zahra unspooled the fuse, a thin cord of treated hemp that would burn slow and steady. She looked at her team, their faces smeared with dirt and sweat, and nodded.
"Ready."
The fuse hissed to life, a tiny spark in the darkness.
They retreated swiftly, slipping back through the tunnels just as the first explosion tore through the night.
The sound was deafening. Stone shattered like glass, the aqueduct's arches collapsing inward in a roaring cascade. Water burst free, a torrential flood that surged through the riverbed, carrying chunks of rubble and dust into the darkness.
Zahra watched from a safe distance, her face expressionless. The boy who had been guarding the aqueduct was screaming now, his voice lost in the chaos. One of the old men tried to run, his legs unsteady with age and terror.
It didn't matter. The damage was done.
By dawn, the first signs of panic had already taken root. The fountains in the city square sputtered dry. The bathhouses stood empty. The great cisterns, once brimming with clear water, now echoed with hollow drips.
In the marketplace, a woman clutched her child to her chest, her voice shrill. "There's no water!"
A merchant slammed his stall shut, his face grim. "The aqueduct's gone. The wells will turn foul within days."
He was right.
By the next morning, the first cases of sickness appeared. A child, feverish and weak, died in his mother's arms. An old woman, too frail to fight the thirst, succumbed next. Then a knight—a proud Templar who had laughed at the idea of siege—collapsed in the courtyard, his lips cracked, his skin burning.
The governor's orders came too late.
"Ration what remains!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse. "Guard the wells! Any man caught hoarding will hang!"
But fear had already spread, faster than the sickness, faster than the thirst. The people whispered in the streets, their voices trembling.
"They say Salahuddin's sorcerers did this..."
"They say the water is cursed..."
In the governor's palace, the council argued, their voices rising in desperation.
"We must send for aid from Jerusalem!"
"And how?" snapped the governor. "With what ships? With what men?"
No one had an answer.
Zahra, watching from the shadows, allowed herself a small, cold smile.
Phase Two was complete.
Now, the real terror would begin.