The morning after Tyre's fall, Salahuddin stood atop the citadel's battlements, watching his fleet's first ships glide into the conquered harbor. The water still carried traces of smoke from yesterday's fires, the scent of burnt timber mingling with salt air. Below, the city stirred uneasily—merchants peering from shuttered windows, fishermen hesitating at docks now patrolled by Ayyubid marines, children clutching their mothers' skirts as columns of lancers and archers marched through the streets.
He turned to the two figures waiting behind him. "Al-Mashtub. Zahra."
Saif al-Din al-Mashtub stepped forward first, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the dawn light. The Kurdish commander's beard was streaked with gray, his face lined from decades of war, but his spine remained straight as a spear. Behind him, the newly arrived garrison assembled in the square—five thousand strong, their lances gleaming in the morning sun, their marine contingents already securing the docks.
"You know why I've chosen you," Salahuddin said.
Al-Mashtub nodded. "Tyre must not become another Ascalon."
"Worse than Ascalon," Salahuddin corrected, gesturing to the archers taking positions along the sea walls. "This city is the gateway to Jerusalem. If it rebels..."
"It won't." Al-Mashtub's gaze swept over his troops—the Syrian lancers dismounting near the barracks, the Egyptian marines inspecting the harbor chains. "Five thousand men will ensure that."
Salahuddin clasped his shoulder, his grip firm. "Make them fear rebellion but love peace."
Behind them, Zahra stood silent, her arms crossed, her dark eyes scanning the city below. Unlike al-Mashtub, she wore no armor—just a simple traveler's robe, its hood pushed back to reveal the sharp angles of her face. The cavalry units shifted uneasily as she passed; they'd heard what her Sand Foxes could do.
"And you," Salahuddin said, turning to her. "The Sand Foxes have done their work well. Now you must ensure no one undoes it."
Zahra's lips curved, though it wasn't quite a smile. "Whispers cut deeper than swords."
Taimur, who had been observing from the shadows where marine officers unrolled harbor defense charts, finally spoke. "Let her turn their whispers into weapons."
The garrison's standard-bearer planted the green banner atop the citadel, its silk snapping in the wind. Below, the rhythmic clatter of lances being stacked echoed through the square as Tyre's new protectors settled in. The city was theirs now—not just taken, but held.
By noon, al-Mashtub had assembled the city's remaining leaders in the great hall—merchant lords, ship captains, even a few Frankish nobles who had chosen surrender over death. The air was thick with tension, the scent of sweat and fear clinging to the assembled men.
Al-Mashtub didn't sit on the raised dais. Instead, he stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back, his voice carrying easily across the silent room.
"Tyre is under new rule," he said. "But it need not be a rule of chains."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. A Venetian merchant, bolder than the rest, stepped forward. "And our trade? Our ships?"
"Will sail," al-Mashtub said. "Under new terms."
He laid out his conditions—taxes adjusted, curfews enforced, weapons surrendered. The merchants shifted uneasily, but none dared object. Not when Ayyubid soldiers lined the walls. Not when the harbor was already filling with Muslim warships.
One man, a Frankish noble with a bandaged arm, finally spoke. "And if we refuse?"
Al-Mashtub met his gaze. "Then you may leave. Today. With nothing but the clothes on your back."
The noble's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.
Outside, the city began the slow process of healing.
Zahra didn't attend the governor's assembly. She had more important work.
In a dimly lit basement beneath a brothel near the docks, she faced a line of her operatives—men and women who had spent months preparing for this moment.
"The real work begins now," she said. "I want every merchant, every ship captain, every noble watched. Especially the ones who smiled too brightly at al-Mashtub's speech."
A young spy—barely more than a boy—frowned. "And if we find traitors?"
Zahra's fingers traced the hilt of her dagger. "Then they disappear. Quietly."
That night, a Frankish wine merchant was found drowned in his own cellar, his pockets stuffed with Templar gold. The next morning, a Genoese ship captain vanished midway through loading his cargo. By week's end, the remaining nobles had learned the lesson—cooperation was the only path to survival.
Alam al-Din strode along Tyre's sea walls, the morning sun glinting off the newly installed iron cannon barrels. His engineers scurried behind him, unrolling scrolls and calling out measurements as they went. The salty breeze carried the scent of fresh timber and hot metal from the ongoing construction below.
"The harbor chains go here," Alam al-Din said, stopping at the narrowest point of the entrance channel. He kicked a pebble into the water to demonstrate the ideal placement. "And we'll mount the Greek fire launchers on those three towers." He pointed to the stone structures flanking the harbor mouth.
Al-Mashtub walked beside him, his boots scuffing against stone still warm from the morning sun. The governor ran a hand along one of the two newly positioned cannons, its blackened muzzle pointing seaward. "And these?"
"The Sultan's fangs," Alam al-Din said with grim satisfaction. "Twenty-four pounders. Any ship trying to force the harbor will eat stone and iron before they reach the chains." He patted the cannon's cold barrel. "We're casting two more for the southern wall."
Al-Mashtub studied the defenses with a critical eye. "And the cliffs?"
"Ballistae here, here, and here." Alam al-Din tapped the map. "No one will climb them again."
As they walked the battlements, the sounds of construction echoed from below - hammers ringing on metal, saws biting through timber, and the shouts of workers hoisting another cannon into position. The massive weapon swung precariously before settling into its carriage with a final, satisfying thud.
By the time Alam al-Din departed to rejoin Salahuddin's army, Tyre's sea walls bristled with deadly new armaments. The Crusader-era defenses now seemed laughably primitive compared to the fortress rising in their place - a fortress that would make any attacker think twice before testing its teeth.
A month later, Tyre functioned like a well-oiled machine. Ships came and went, their cargoes inspected, their crews watched. The markets bustled, the people adapting to their new rulers with the weary resilience of those who had seen empires rise and fall before.
At night, whispers still spread—of the governor's fairness, of the shadow regent's ruthlessness, of the sorcerer-general who had made the impossible happen.
And in Jerusalem, the Crusader kings began to sweat.
The messenger arrived in Tyre's war council just as the evening lamps were being lit, his robes still dusty from the road. He dropped to one knee before Salahuddin, his breath coming fast.
"My lord—Sidon's garrison has abandoned the city."
A murmur rippled through the assembled commanders. Taimur, standing near the map table, didn't look up from the chess piece he was turning between his fingers.
"How many fled?" Salahuddin asked.
"Nearly all, sire. Our scouts report only a handful of merchants and local militia remain."
Captain Yusuf barked a laugh. "They learned from Tyre's fate!"
Salahuddin stroked his beard, considering. "Then we take Sidon without bloodshed. Al-Mahmud—"
The Kurdish commander stepped forward. "Desert Hawks are ready, my lord. Two thousand men should suffice."
Taimur finally set down the chess piece—a black knight. "Send the Bedouin scouts ahead. Let them spread word of our approach."
The army moved at dawn, their column stretching along the coastal road like a serpent uncoiling. Farmers in the fields paused to watch them pass, their faces unreadable.
"Think they'll fight?" Yusuf asked, riding beside Taimur.
Taimur shook his head. "The Templars already ran. These people know which way the wind blows."
By midday, the first refugees appeared—families trudging south with bundles on their backs, their eyes darting nervously at the soldiers.
A boy, no older than ten, broke from the crowd and ran toward the column. "My lords! The city gates stand open!"
Salahuddin reined in his horse. "And the governor?"
"Gone, sire. Sailed for Cyprus last night with all the knights."
Taimur exchanged a glance with Salahuddin. The game was already won.
Sidon's walls rose before them at dusk, but no banners flew from its towers. No archers lined its battlements. The only movement came from a flock of gulls wheeling above the deserted harbor.
Al-Mahmud's advance guard returned with their report: "The aqueducts have been cut—by their own people. They feared we'd poison it like in Tyre."
Salahuddin sighed. "Tell the engineers to restore the water flow. And find who remains in charge."
They discovered the city's acting ruler in a dim wine shop near the docks—a fat Greek merchant named Leo, who nearly spilled his cup when the soldiers entered.
"I-I've no quarrel with you, my lords!" he stammered.
Taimur took the man's chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Then you'll swear allegiance before sunset. And your people will hand over any Crusader stragglers hiding in their cellars."
Leo swallowed hard. "It will be done."
By nightfall, Salahuddin's banner flew over Sidon's citadel. No siege engines had rolled, no cannons had roared. The conquest had been quieter than a market closing.
[System Notification: Conquest of Sidon Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 63,800 / 100,000]
In the governor's hall—now stripped of its Crusader finery—Salahuddin accepted the city's surrender documents from a trembling scribe.
"Your mercy honors us, great lord," the scribe whispered.
Al-Mahmud snorted. "Mercy had nothing to do with it. They knew resistance was suicide."
Outside, the sounds of an occupied city carried through the open windows—the tramp of garrison boots, the calls of muezzins, the nervous laughter of locals already adapting to new masters.
Taimur stood at the balcony, watching the moon rise over the silent harbor. Jerusalem's lights glittered in the distance.
"The last stepping stone," Salahuddin said, joining him.
Taimur nodded. "Now comes the real war."