The first ships appeared at dawn, their sails painted gold by the rising sun. Five thousand soldiers disembarked in perfect order—Syrian lancers leading their horses down the gangplanks, Egyptian marines securing the docks with quiet efficiency, Kurdish archers fanning out through the streets like shadows. At their head rode Al-Adil Sayf ad-Din, his polished armor gleaming, his face unreadable as he took in the conquered city.
Salahuddin met him at the gates, the brothers embracing briefly before stepping back to assess one another. The morning air smelled of salt and smoke, the remnants of yesterday's fires still lingering.
"You're late," Salahuddin said, his voice dry.
Al-Adil removed his helm, revealing sharp features that mirrored his brother's but carried a quieter intensity. "The roads were clogged with refugees fleeing your legend," he replied. "We had to clear a path."
A faint smile touched Salahuddin's lips. "Then you'll find Sidon lighter by its defenders. The Templars left little behind but empty storerooms and frightened merchants."
Al-Adil glanced past him to where Alam al-Din was already directing engineers to inspect the walls. "They won't stay frightened for long. Not once the markets reopen."
"See that they do." Salahuddin clasped his brother's shoulder. "I leave you five thousand men and a city that must not fall. The coast is ours now—hold it."
Al-Adil's gaze swept over the troops assembling in the square—lancers drilling their mounts, marines stacking crates of supplies, archers testing the tension of their bows. "And if the Franks return by sea?"
"Then remind them why they fled."
The brothers stood in silence for a moment, the unspoken weight of their roles settling between them. Finally, Al-Adil nodded. "Go. Damascus awaits its conqueror."
Salahuddin turned to leave, then paused. "The Sand Foxes have agents here. Use them."
Al-Adil didn't hesitate. "They're already waiting for my orders."
With that, Salahuddin mounted his horse and rode out, his army flowing behind him like a river of steel.
Al-Adil wasted no time. By noon, he had summoned Sidon's remaining merchants to the citadel hall. They came reluctantly, their faces wary, their postures tense.
"You have two choices," Al-Adil told them without preamble. "Rebuild your trade under my protection, or join the Templars in exile."
A Genoese spice merchant dared to speak. "And what guarantees our safety?"
Al-Adil gestured to the window, where Egyptian marines patrolled the docks in perfect formation. "My word—and the five thousand soldiers ensuring no Frankish ship will threaten this harbor again."
The merchant swallowed hard. "We'll need access to the Damascus road."
"Granted. But all cargo passes through my customs officers first."
The merchants exchanged glances. It was more mercy than they'd expected.
That night, the Sand Foxes moved through Sidon's backstreets like shadows. A drunken merchant was plucked from a tavern mid-sip. A blacksmith found himself dragged from his bed mid-snore. By dawn, the cells beneath the citadel held every known dissident.
Al-Adil observed the prisoners through the iron grate. "Exile or the gallows. Choose now."
Most chose exile. The few who didn't swung from the gates as a warning.
In the governor's chambers later, the Sand Fox operative laid a new list on Al-Adil's desk. "The remaining merchants are clean."
Al-Adil poured two cups of pomegranate nectar, pushing one toward her. "Tell Zahra her work is appreciated."
No conflict. No hesitation. Only ruthless efficiency.
Alam al-Din found Al-Adil inspecting the sea walls three days later. "The Greek fire launchers will be mounted by week's end," the engineer reported. "But the harbor chains need another fortnight."
Al-Adil nodded. "Prioritize the cannons first. The Franks won't try anything yet, but I want them seeing our teeth."
Below them, merchants haggled over Persian carpets in the revitalized marketplace. A ship from Cyprus unloaded olive oil under marine supervision. The city breathed again.
"That one's new," Alam al-Din noted, pointing to a Venetian galley.
Al-Adil smiled. "Our first tax payment arrives tomorrow."
Weeks passed in steady rhythm—walls strengthened, trade flourishing, patrols relentless. One evening, as Al-Adil reviewed troop rotations, his captain voiced the question haunting them all:
"When do we march on Jerusalem?"
Al-Adil didn't look up from his maps. "Not this year. Perhaps not next. For now, we make Sidon impregnable."
He rolled up the parchment, the sound echoing like a sword sliding into its sheath.
Let the Crusaders dream of reconquest. Sidon was no longer theirs to reclaim.
The first whispers reached Jerusalem at dusk, carried by a dust-covered merchant who stumbled through the gates with wild eyes.
"Ascalon has fallen!" he gasped to the guards. "Acre is lost! The Muslims have taken Tyre and Sidon!"
The news spread like wildfire through the city's narrow streets. By nightfall, the taverns buzzed with hushed voices, the ale tasting suddenly bitter on trembling lips.
"They say he walked through walls," a Templar sergeant muttered into his cup. "They say this 'Taimur' conjured fire from the sea itself."
Across the table, a Hospitaller knight crossed himself. "Sorcery. Plain and simple."
In the palace, King Amalric's physicians moved quietly between chambers, their faces grim. The old king had taken to his bed weeks ago, his body failing from wounds that never fully healed. Now, as the terrible news arrived, his breathing grew labored.
"The ports..." he whispered, his hand clutching at the sheets. "Without them, Jerusalem will starve."
His advisors exchanged glances. No one dared say what they all knew—the kingdom was being strangled, one city at a time.
When dawn came, so did the final blow. The king was found cold in his bed, his face frozen in a rictus of pain. The physicians murmured of old injuries and a weakened heart, but the people needed no such explanations.
"Taimur's curse," the baker's wife whispered to her neighbor. "They say he can kill a man just by speaking his name."
The city descended into panic.
In Constantinople, the news arrived by imperial courier. Emperor Andronikos Komnenos read the report with growing disbelief, his fingers tightening around the parchment.
"Four cities," he murmured. "Four cities taken in less than a year."
His spymaster, a gaunt man with ink-stained fingers, leaned forward. "Our agents say this Taimur used no ordinary tactics. The Franks claim he—"
"I know what the Franks claim!" the emperor snapped. "That he walks through walls, that he commands fire and shadow." He rose abruptly, his robes swirling. "Whatever he is, he's no mere general."
The courtiers shifted uneasily. In the flickering torchlight, shadows seemed to dance along the walls.
"They're calling him 'The Weaver of Shadows' now," the spymaster said quietly.
Andronikos turned to the window, his gaze drifting toward the distant sea. "Then pray he never turns his gaze toward us."
The messenger from Baghdad arrived in Damascus on a rain-swept evening, his robes sodden but his back straight with pride. He knelt before Salahuddin in the great hall, presenting a scroll sealed with the Caliph's own mark.
"The Commander of the Faithful sends his congratulations," the messenger announced. "He praises your victories and names you the Sword of Islam."
Salahuddin accepted the scroll with a nod. "And what of my advisor?"
The messenger's eyes flicked to Taimur, who stood silently nearby. "The Caliph has heard... remarkable things. Some say you have been blessed with a disciple of Khidr himself."
A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers. Taimur's expression remained impassive, but Salahuddin noticed the slight tightening of his jaw.
"The Caliph is generous," Salahuddin said smoothly. "But it is Allah's will that grants victory, not miracles."
Later, in the privacy of the war room, Salahuddin unrolled the scroll again, his eyes scanning the elaborate script. "They're calling you a sage now," he said dryly.
Taimur poured himself a cup of pomegranate nectar. "Let them call me what they like. Jerusalem won't fall to stories."
"But fear will clear the path," Salahuddin murmured, echoing Taimur's own words from months before.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the dust from Damascus' streets. The city buzzed with celebration, but in the shadows, the work was far from over.
The evening air in Damascus was thick with the scent of orange blossoms and victory. Salahuddin sat in the courtyard of his palace, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the maps spread before him. The sounds of the city—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves on stone, the call of the muezzin—drifted over the high walls, a reminder of the peace they had fought so hard to secure.
Taimur entered without announcement, his boots silent on the polished marble. He carried a scroll under one arm, his expression unreadable.
"You're late," Salahuddin remarked, though there was no reproach in his voice.
Taimur set the scroll on the table, weighing it down with a dagger. "I was finalizing the reports from Sidon. The city is secure. Al-Adil has everything in hand."
Salahuddin nodded, his fingers tracing the lines of the map—the coastline they had conquered, the ports now flying their banners. "And Jerusalem?"
Taimur leaned over the table, his shadow falling across the parchment like a blade. "Let them starve. Let them panic. Every day their granaries grow emptier, their people more desperate. When we finally march, the gates will open without a fight."
Salahuddin studied him for a long moment. "You're certain?"
"Fear is a weapon sharper than any sword," Taimur said. "And we've given them plenty to fear."
A servant brought spiced milk, pouring it into silver cups. Salahuddin took his but did not drink. "Then what next? We cannot sit idle while Jerusalem withers."
Taimur unrolled the scroll, revealing a detailed sketch of Kerak Castle—its towering walls, its narrow approaches, its vulnerabilities marked in red. "Kerak. Reynald's stronghold. The thorn in our side."
Salahuddin's jaw tightened at the name. Reynald de Châtillon—the man who had violated treaties, slaughtered pilgrims, and threatened the holy cities themselves. "You think Kerak will fall easily?"
"No," Taimur admitted. "But it will fall. And when it does, the other strongholds will tremble."
Taimur laid out his strategy with cold precision.
Phase 1: The Silent Stranglehold
Sand Foxes would infiltrate the castle disguised as traders, bribing guards to overlook their movements.
Grain supplies would be poisoned or spoiled—not enough to kill, but enough to weaken.
Bedouin allies, long oppressed by Reynald's cruelty, would be armed to raid supply caravans.
Phase 2: The False Retreat
Ayyubid forces would stage a feigned assault, then "retreat" in disarray, luring Reynald's knights into an ambush in the surrounding valleys.
Phase 3: The Final Blow
Once the garrison was depleted and demoralized, siege engines would move in, their approach shielded by sandstorms stirred up by timed explosives.
Salahuddin listened without interruption, his eyes fixed on the map. When Taimur finished, he exhaled slowly. "Reynald will not surrender. Not even at the end."
Taimur's smile was thin. "Then he will die screaming in his own hall."
At dawn, the orders were given. Messengers rode out to summon the army's commanders. The Sand Foxes melted into the shadows, their missions already assigned.
In the palace courtyard, Salahuddin stood with Taimur, watching the sun rise over the city.
"Kerak first," Salahuddin murmured. "Then Tiberias & Belfort. Then Gaza."
Taimur nodded. "By the time we turn to Jerusalem, they will beg us to take the city."
The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of hammers from the armory—the steady, rhythmic beat of war being forged.