Dawn broke over the Mediterranean in streaks of crimson and gold, the calm waters shimmering as the Sea Wolves' fleet emerged from the morning mist. Their black sails, emblazoned with the silver crescent of the Ayyubids, stood stark against the pale horizon. On the towering sea walls of Tyre, the defenders stirred, their shouts of alarm echoing across the harbor as they scrambled to their posts.
"To arms! To arms!"
Crossbowmen lined the battlements, their weapons loaded, their fingers tense on the triggers. Below them, servants heaved cauldrons of boiling oil over roaring fires, the acrid scent of burning fat mixing with the salt air. The governor of Tyre, a grizzled Templar veteran clad in a mail hauberk, climbed the steps to the watchtower, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the rising sun.
"Hold your fire until they're in range," he barked. "Let them come closer—then drown them in flames."
But then, something unexpected happened.
Just as the Muslim fleet approached the outer markers of the harbor, their sails suddenly billowed as they turned sharply away, their oars cutting through the water in retreat.
"They flee!" a young sentry shouted, his voice cracking with excitement.
The governor's jaw tightened. He gripped the stone railing, his knuckles whitening. "Too easy..."
Beside him, his captain of the guard grinned. "They saw our defenses and lost their nerve! Let's chase them down before they escape!"
The governor hesitated, his instincts warring with the temptation before him. The Muslim ships were retreating in apparent disarray, their formation breaking apart as they fled northward. It was too perfect.
But the men around him were already cheering, their bloodlust rising. The captain turned to the signalman. "Sound the pursuit! Launch the galleys!"
The horns blared, their deep notes reverberating across the water. From Tyre's harbor, the Crusader galleys surged forward, their oars churning the sea into froth. The crews, hungry for glory after weeks of siege, roared as they gave chase, their sails swelling with the wind.
On the cliffs overlooking the coast, Taimur stood motionless, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the unfolding spectacle. Beside him, Captain Yusuf adjusted the spyglass, his lips curling into a wolfish smile.
"They took the bait," he said.
Taimur didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The Crusader galleys, driven by reckless fervor, sailed straight into the kill zone.
A single cannon shot cracked across the water.
The Executioner, positioned on a hidden outcrop, fired first. Its iron ball smashed through the lead galley's hull with a thunderous crash, splintering wood and bone alike. The ship listed violently, its mast snapping as it began its swift descent into the depths.
Then the Greek fire struck.
Clay pots, hurled from smaller, faster vessels, shattered against the Crusader decks. The liquid flames erupted, clinging to sails, ropes, and flesh. Men screamed as they became living torches, their bodies writhing before they plunged into the sea—only to find the fire burned even beneath the waves.
The remaining galleys floundered, their captains shouting conflicting orders. Some tried to turn back, only to collide with their own ships in the chaos. Others, realizing too late the trap they had sailed into, raised their shields as if they could ward off the inferno.
From the cliffs, Taimur watched impassively as the Sea Wolves closed in, their sleek war vessels circling the burning fleet like sharks around wounded prey. The water itself seemed aflame, the reflection of the fire dancing on the waves like hellish light.
One Crusader galley, its sails torn but its hull intact, tried to break free, its oarsmen rowing with desperate strength. A single ballista bolt, fired from a hidden position on the shore, punched through its deck, pinning the captain to the mast like a butterfly to a board.
Yusuf lowered the spyglass. "Not a single ship will return."
Taimur exhaled slowly, his breath a whisper in the morning air. "Now," he said.
The final phase could begin.
The moon hung like a sliver of silver over Tyre's eastern cliffs, casting just enough light to reveal the sheer drop into the churning sea below. Waves crashed against the jagged rocks, sending up sprays of white foam that glittered in the faint starlight. No torches illuminated this stretch of wall—no sentries patrolled its edge. Why would they? No sane commander would expect an attack from this direction.
The Elite Light Infantry were not sane.
Silent as ghosts, they gathered at the base of the cliffs, their dark robes blending into the night. Among them moved the Bedouin guides, their lean bodies coiled with tension as they scanned the rock face for the hidden path they had scouted weeks before.
"Here," whispered Khalid, the eldest of the guides, his calloused fingers tracing an almost invisible crack in the stone. "This is where we begin."
Jamal, the infantry captain, nodded and turned to his men. "Grapples ready."
The ropes uncoiled with barely a sound, the iron hooks wrapped in cloth to muffle their impact. One by one, they arced upward, their lines whispering through the air before catching on the battlements above with soft thuds. The men tested their weight, then began to climb.
Hand over hand, foot over foot, they ascended the cliff face like spiders scaling a wall. The Bedouin went first, finding holds where none seemed to exist—a tiny ledge here, a protruding stone there. The infantry followed, their muscles straining but their movements precise. Below them, the sea roared, but not a single man looked down.
At the top, a lone sentry leaned against the parapet, his chin drooping to his chest as he fought off sleep. The night had been quiet, like every night before it. Tyre was impregnable. What was there to fear?
A shadow detached itself from the darkness behind him.
The sentry's yawn was cut short as a blade slid across his throat, so sharp he barely felt it. His hands flew up instinctively, but by the time they touched the wound, his knees were already buckling. The last thing he saw was another shadow—then another, then another—pulling themselves silently over the wall.
By the time the alarm sounded, it was too late.
A horn blared somewhere in the distance, its note shrill with panic. "Attack! Attack from the east wall!"
But the Elite Light Infantry were already moving. Jamal's team split off toward the gatehouse, their knives flashing in the dim light as they cut down the guards before they could raise the portcullis. The heavy chains groaned as the gate began to rise, inch by inch.
In the streets, chaos erupted. Half-dressed soldiers stumbled from their barracks, their weapons still sheathed, their eyes wide with confusion. The infantry cut through them like a scythe through wheat, their movements fluid and merciless.
In the governor's palace, the old Templar jerked awake at the sound of shouting. He reached for his sword—the fine, jeweled blade he had carried since his youth—but the door burst open before his fingers could close around the hilt.
Three men stood in the doorway, their faces shadowed, their weapons dripping red.
The governor sighed and leaned back in his throne. "So this is how it ends."
Jamal stepped forward, his own blade steady. "It doesn't have to."
For a moment, the governor hesitated. Then his shoulders slumped. "No. I suppose it doesn't."
He made no move to resist as the knife found his heart.
By dawn, Tyre belonged to Salahuddin.
[System Notification: Conquest of Tyre Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 60,800 / 100,000]
The first light of dawn crept over Tyre's battlements, painting the silent streets in pale gold. The air smelled of smoke and salt, of blood drying on stone. Taimur walked alone through the conquered city, his boots clicking softly against the cobblestones. Around him, the evidence of his victory lay scattered—broken weapons, trampled banners, the occasional body not yet cleared away. The harbor stood empty, its waters undisturbed by enemy ships. Tyre had fallen without a single vessel breaching its defenses.
At the citadel gates, Salahuddin waited, his hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable in the morning light. The sounds of the city waking—or perhaps just learning to breathe again—drifted up to them: the clatter of carts, the murmur of voices, the occasional cry of a child.
"They will call this a miracle," Salahuddin said at last, his voice low.
Taimur pulled a cloth from his belt and wiped the blood from his dagger, the motion slow and deliberate. "Call it what you like," he replied. "Jerusalem is next."
A breeze stirred the banners above them, the green silk snapping like a whip. Somewhere below, a group of soldiers laughed, their voices too loud in the quiet. Salahuddin exhaled, long and slow, his gaze drifting over the city—his city now.
"You make it look easy," he murmured.
Taimur sheathed his dagger. "It was never easy."
But the stories would say otherwise.
By noon, the whispers had already begun. In the markets, merchants huddled together, their voices hushed.
"Did you hear?" a spice trader breathed to his neighbor. "They say he walked through the walls like smoke."
A woman selling olives crossed herself. "They say he spoke a word, and the gates opened on their own."
In the barracks, the soldiers told darker tales. "The cliffs?" one young recruit muttered, his eyes wide. "No man could climb those. No mortal man."
His companion spat into the dirt. "Then what does that make him?"
The answer came soon enough.
By evening, the name had spread through the streets like wildfire, passing from lips to ears to hearts already half-convinced of its truth.
Taimur's Mirage.
The sorcerer-general. The shadow that walked through walls. The man who conquered cities without lifting a sword.
In the governor's chambers, now stripped of its former occupant, Taimur listened to the reports of his officers with the same detached calm he always wore. The city was secure. The garrison was established. The people, though fearful, would learn to obey.
When the last man had left, Barqash stepped from the shadows, his hands tucked into his sleeves. "They're calling you a magician," he said, his voice dry.
Taimur didn't look up from the map spread before him. "Let them."
"It's dangerous."
"All power is dangerous."
Barqash studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Jerusalem won't fall to stories."
Taimur's fingers traced the lines of the map, the roads leading south. "No," he agreed. "But fear will clear the path."
Outside, the wind carried the sound of the city—alive, uneasy, already reshaping itself around the legend of its conqueror.
The truth, of course, was far simpler. And far more dangerous.
There was no magic. No miracles. Only a man who understood the weight of fear, the power of a well-placed lie, and the exact moment to strike.
But let them whisper.
Jerusalem awaited.