Dawn broke over the conquered castle, its battered walls still smoldering from the final assault. The first rays of sunlight glinted off the helmets of the approaching column—3,000 garrison troops marching from Damascus, their boots kicking up dust along the road. At their head rode Baha al-Din Qaraqush, a grizzled Kurdish warlord whose scarred face bore witness to countless battles. His beard was streaked with gray, and his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned Kerak's broken gates with cold appraisal.
Behind him, a team of craftsmen and engineers trudged alongside mule-drawn carts laden with tools and supplies. Two newly forged cannons, their dark metal gleaming ominously, rumbled along on heavy wagons, each one guarded by a squad of wary soldiers.
Qaraqush reined in his horse before Salahuddin and Taimur, offering a curt nod. "The castle looks worse than my first wife's cooking," he grunted.
Salahuddin smirked. "Then you'll feel right at home."
Taimur stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the arriving troops. "The walls can be repaired. The real question is whether the people inside can be controlled."
Qaraqush spat into the dirt. "Give me a month. They'll obey or they'll hang."
Salahuddin clasped the warlord's shoulder. "Kerak is yours, then. Hold it well."
With that, the formalities were done. Orders were barked, and the garrison troops dispersed—Kurdish swordsmen taking up positions along the battlements, Nubian lancers patrolling the outer courtyards, and archers securing the towers. The craftsmen and engineers set to work immediately, their hammers and chisels ringing through the morning air as they repaired shattered stone and reinforced weakened sections.
By noon, the first cannon was being hauled up to the battlements, its weight straining the ropes as soldiers heaved it into position. Qaraqush watched from below, arms crossed.
"That one," he called out to the engineer in charge, "point it toward the eastern road. Any fools who think to attack will regret it before they even reach the gates."
The engineer nodded and adjusted the mounting.
As the day wore on, Salahuddin's main army prepared to depart. Tents were collapsed, supplies packed, and horses saddled. Taimur stood near the command pavilion, reviewing scrolls handed to him by a Sand Fox operative.
"The last of Reynald's loyalists?" he asked quietly.
The spy nodded. "Gone by morning. The people will learn quickly who rules here now."
Taimur handed the scroll back. "See that they do."
With a final glance at the bustling fortress, Salahuddin mounted his horse. The army began its march, leaving Qaraqush and his garrison to their work.
One Month Later
Kerak stood transformed.
The breaches in its walls were now sealed with fresh stone, stronger than before. Hidden pits lined the approaches, their sharpened stakes concealed beneath thin layers of dirt. The newly mounted cannons loomed over the main roads, their muzzles promising death to any who dared attack.
Inside the castle, Qaraqush held court with brutal efficiency. The few remaining dissidents had been dealt with—publicly. The message was clear: defiance meant death. The people obeyed.
In the armory, an engineer tested the mechanism of a newly installed ballista, its iron-tipped bolts stacked neatly beside it. Across the courtyard, Nubian lancers drilled under the watchful eyes of their Kurdish commanders.
Qaraqush stood on the battlements, looking out over the land now under his control. One of his lieutenants approached, saluting.
"The scouts report no movement from the Franks. They seem to have accepted the loss."
Qaraqush grunted. "For now. But they'll test us eventually. They always do."
Below, the Sand Foxes moved unseen through the city, their whispers ensuring no new rebellion would take root.
Kerak was secure.
And the war would continue.
The morning sun cast long shadows across the war camp as Salahuddin's army prepared to march. Tents collapsed like falling leaves, their canvas folds gathered by squires. Horses stamped impatiently, their breath misting in the cool air. At the center of the bustle, Salahuddin studied the map laid across a campaign table, his finger tracing the route north.
"Tiberias first," he said. "Then Belfort. Neither will expect us to move so quickly after Kerak."
Beside him, Taimur nodded. "Speed is our weapon now. The longer we wait, the more time they have to prepare."
A Kurdish captain, his beard streaked with gray, frowned. "Tiberias is no Kerak. Its walls are strong, and Count Raymond is no fool."
Taimur's lips curled slightly. "Raymond is a politician, not a warrior. He'll talk first, fight second. By the time he decides to act, it will be too late."
Salahuddin straightened. "Then we ride at noon."
The army moved like a river of steel across the land. The Asad al-Harb cavalry rode at the van, their banners snapping in the wind. Behind them, the Desert Hawks fanned out in loose formations, their bows strung and ready. Siege engines rumbled along the flanks, their massive frames pulled by teams of oxen.
On the second day, scouts returned with news.
"Tiberias has closed its gates," reported a Bedouin rider, his face dust-streaked. "But their fields are still unharvested. The villagers flee as we approach."
Taimur exchanged a glance with Salahuddin. "They mean to starve behind their walls."
Salahuddin's expression darkened. "Then we take what they've left behind."
For the next three days, the army stripped the countryside bare. Grain stores were seized, livestock driven into camp, and wells secured. By the time they reached the walls of Tiberias, the city was already cut off from its supplies.
Count Raymond stood atop the battlements, his face grim as he watched the Muslim forces array before him. Beside him, a Frankish knight spat over the parapet.
"Cowards. They dare not even challenge us properly."
Raymond shook his head. "No. They're smarter than that."
Below, Taimur rode forward, just out of arrow range. His voice carried clearly across the field.
"Count Raymond! You know this is pointless. Open your gates, and your people will be spared."
Raymond's jaw tightened. "And if we refuse?"
Taimur shrugged. "Then we wait. But ask yourself—how long before your people start eating their horses? Their dogs? Each other?"
A murmur rippled through the defenders on the walls. Raymond's hands clenched on the stone.
"You would starve women and children?"
Salahuddin spurred his horse forward. "We would avoid bloodshed. Surrender, and no one dies needlessly."
Silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, Raymond turned to his captains. "Lower the gates."
The knight beside him grabbed his arm. "My lord, you cannot—"
"I can," Raymond snapped. "And I will. This fight is already lost."
[System Notification: Conquest of Tiberias Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 69,800 / 100,000]
Word of Tiberias' surrender reached Belfort before Salahuddin's army did. When the Muslims arrived, they found the gates barred, but the defenders uneasy.
From the walls, a grizzled sergeant shouted down. "We've heard what happened at Tiberias! Do you expect us to roll over as well?"
Taimur studied the fortress. Unlike Tiberias, Belfort was a true stronghold, its walls thick, its position formidable. A direct assault would be costly.
He turned to Salahuddin. "Let me try something."
Salahuddin nodded. "Do what you must."
Taimur rode forward, a white banner raised. "You know who I am," he called. "You know what happened at Kerak. But I am not here to destroy you. I am here to offer you a choice."
The defenders shifted. "What choice?" someone yelled.
"Leave," Taimur said simply. "Take your weapons, your families, and go. The fortress is ours, but your lives are your own."
A long pause. Then, from within, the sound of arguing voices. An hour later, the gates creaked open. A column of soldiers marched out, their heads low, their weapons still in hand.
As the last Frank disappeared over the horizon, Salahuddin turned to Taimur. "No siege. No bloodshed. How?"
Taimur watched the retreating figures. "Men will fight for land. For gold. For God. But when they know they've already lost? Most would rather live to fight another day."
[System Notification: Conquest of Belfort Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 72,800 / 100,000]
Salahuddin shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "Gaza next?"
Taimur's eyes gleamed. "Gaza next."
With Tiberias and Belfort secured, the army paused to regroup. Garrison troops moved in, their numbers bolstered by local recruits. The Sand Foxes slithered into the cities, their knives ready for any who might think to rebel.
In Tiberias, Salahuddin met with the remaining Christian leaders, his tone firm but fair. "You will keep your churches. Your laws. But you will pay the jizya, and you will not take up arms against us."
They agreed. What choice did they have?
As night fell, Taimur stood on the walls of Belfort, looking south toward the distant glow of Jerusalem's lights.
The final prize awaited.