The morning sun glittered on the calm waters of Latakia's harbor as Salahuddin stood at the docks, his hands clasped behind his back. Six months had passed since the conquest of Syria's coastal cities, and now, before him, lay the fruits of that labor—a fleet reborn, stronger than ever.
The ports of Latakia, Tartus, and Jableh had been transformed. The once-crumbling walls now stood tall and reinforced, bristling with ballistae, Zhuge repeating crossbows, and Greek-fire launchers. Two massive cannons, their dark iron barrels polished to a gleam, were mounted at the entrance of each harbor, their muzzles pointed seaward, a silent warning to any who dared approach with hostile intent.
Salahuddin's gaze swept over the ships anchored in the bay—twenty vessels at each port, their decks bustling with sailors and marines. These were no mere fishing boats or merchant cogs, but warships, each one crewed by veterans of the Sea Wolves and Coastal Wolves, men who had fought and bled to secure these waters.
A familiar voice broke his thoughts.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
Taimur stepped up beside him, his arms crossed, a faint smirk on his lips.
Salahuddin exhaled slowly, nodding. "More than impressive. You've built something formidable here."
Taimur shrugged. "It was necessary. The Franks won't sit idle forever. When they return, they'll find the sea no longer belongs to them."
The three governors—Red Yusuf of Latakia, Amir of Tartus, and Idris of Jableh—approached, bowing deeply before their Sultan.
Red Yusuf, a barrel-chested man with a thick red beard and a voice like rolling thunder, spoke first. "My Sultan, the harbors are secure. Every ship is battle-ready. The Franks won't take us by surprise again."
Amir, lean and sharp-eyed, added, "We've drilled the men daily. They know these waters better than their own homes now."
Idris, the youngest of the three but no less fierce, grinned. "And if the Crusaders dare show their faces, we'll send them to the bottom before they even see our cannons fire."
Salahuddin studied them, then nodded in approval. "You've done well. The coast is in good hands."
Taimur, standing slightly apart, watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction. This was his work—his strategy brought to life.
Salahuddin walked the docks, observing the marines at their drills. Two thousand strong at each port, they moved with precision, their training evident in every step.
"They're not just sailors," Red Yusuf explained as they passed a unit practicing boarding maneuvers. "They're fighters. Every man here can hold his own in a storm or a battle."
At the armory, Salahuddin inspected the weapons—stacks of javelins, barrels of Greek fire, and racks of Zhuge repeaters, their mechanisms oiled and ready.
"And the cannons?" Salahuddin asked, running a hand along the cold metal of one of the massive guns.
"Tested weekly," Amir replied. "We've ranged them to hit any ship before it even reaches the harbor mouth."
Salahuddin turned to Taimur. "You were right. This changes everything."
Taimur's smirk deepened. "I usually am."
As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Salahuddin gathered the men in the central square of Latakia. The marines, sailors, and archers stood in disciplined ranks, their faces turned toward their Sultan.
"Six months ago, these ports were in enemy hands," Salahuddin began, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Today, they are the backbone of our strength at sea. You have trained. You have built. You have prepared. And now, you are no longer just the Sea Wolves or the Coastal Wolves."
He paused, letting the anticipation build.
"From this day forward, you are the Asad al-Bahr—the Lions of the Sea. And like the lion, you will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies."
A roar erupted from the men, fists raised in salute. "Asad al-Bahr! Asad al-Bahr!"
[System Notification: Establishment of Asad-al-Bahar Completed]
[+5,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 85,800 / 100,000]
Taimur, standing at the edge of the square, allowed himself a rare, full smile.
The navy was ready.
And soon, Jerusalem would be next.
The moon cast a silver path across the black waters as the Asad al-Bahar fleet glided silently from Latakia's harbor. Twenty ships moved in perfect formation, their sails dyed pitch-black, their oars muffled with cloth to silence their passage. At the prow of the lead vessel, Red Yusuf stood like a carved statue, his massive hands gripping the rail as he stared into the night. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and the faint tang of oiled steel.
"Remember the orders," Yusuf's voice rumbled like distant thunder, low enough that only his immediate crew could hear. His eyes never left the horizon. "Burn their docks. Sink their ships. Leave nothing but ashes where the Franks once stood."
A young sailor—barely more than a boy—shifted nervously beside him, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his dagger. "And the people, Captain?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yusuf turned his head slowly, the moonlight catching the scars that crisscrossed his face. His teeth flashed in a grin that held no warmth. "The people will learn what happens when they side with our enemies."
The boy swallowed hard but nodded, steeling himself. Around them, the crew moved with quiet efficiency, checking weapons, tightening straps, readying the jars of Greek fire that would soon turn the enemy's harbor into a blazing tomb.
Dawn had not yet touched the eastern sky when the first fire arrows streaked through the darkness. They arced high over Famagusta's wooden piers like falling stars, their flaming tips igniting the dry timbers with a hungry crackle. Within moments, the docks were a roaring inferno, the flames leaping from ship to ship, their masts becoming torches that lit the harbor in an eerie, dancing glow.
Frankish merchants and sailors stumbled from their beds, their shouts of alarm drowned beneath the roar of the fire and the sudden, panicked ringing of bells. Some ran toward the water with buckets, only to be cut down by arrows. Others scrambled for swords, but the attack had come too quickly—there was no time to rally.
On the deck of his ship, Yusuf watched the chaos unfold with cold satisfaction. His men moved like shadows through the smoke, boarding the few Crusader vessels still moored in the harbor. Axes bit into hulls, splintering wood, while others hurled clay pots of Greek fire into holds, turning proud warships into floating pyres. The screams of burning men carried across the water, but Yusuf did not flinch.
Then came the prize.
A Frankish captain—his fine tunic singed, his face streaked with soot—was dragged before him, held fast by two of Yusuf's burliest marines. The man's eyes burned with defiance even as he coughed from the smoke.
"You'll pay for this, heathen!" the captain spat, his voice raw.
Yusuf's hand moved faster than the man could blink. The backhanded blow snapped the Frank's head to the side, sending a spray of blood across the deck. The captain staggered, but the marines held him upright.
"No," Yusuf corrected, his voice a low growl. He leaned in close enough that the Frank could smell the salt and iron on him. "You already have."
Behind them, Famagusta burned.
While the Asad al-Bahar sowed destruction along the coast, another kind of fire was being kindled in the heart of Nicosia.
The Sand Foxes moved like ghosts through the city's winding streets, their presence unnoticed by all but their intended target. Lord Alexios Komnenos, a Cypriot noble of ancient lineage, sat alone in his study, a half-empty cup of wine forgotten at his elbow. The maps before him were old, their edges frayed—maps that showed Cyprus as it once was, before the Franks came.
A shadow detached itself from the corner of the room.
Alexios did not startle. He had been expecting them.
"You have a choice," the Sand Fox operative said, his voice smooth, almost conversational. He placed a dagger on the table between them, its blade gleaming in the candlelight. "Rule Cyprus under Salahuddin's protection, or die here as a Frankish puppet."
Alexios' fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the wine, but his voice was steady. "And if I agree?"
The operative smiled, a flicker of teeth in the dim light. "Then when the time comes, your men will open the gates. And Cyprus will be yours in truth, not just in name."
A long silence stretched between them. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of screams carried on the wind—Famagusta, burning.
Alexios picked up the dagger, testing its weight. Then he nodded.
By the week's end, the eastern coast of Cyprus lay in ruins. The docks of Limassol were charred skeletons jutting from the water, their warehouses reduced to smoldering rubble. The few Crusader ships that had escaped the initial assault now huddled in Paphos, their captains whispering of the Asad al-Bahar's wrath.
In Nicosia, the Frankish governor paced his chambers, his usual arrogance frayed at the edges. His orders were met with hesitation, his knights glancing at one another when they thought he wouldn't notice. And everywhere, the name Alexios Komnenos was spoken in hushed tones.
Back in Latakia, Salahuddin listened to Yusuf's report with grim satisfaction. The sea wolf stood before him, still smelling of smoke and blood, his knuckles bruised from the fight.
"Good," Salahuddin said, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Let Jerusalem starve while its allies burn."
At the window, Taimur watched the horizon, his face unreadable. The first move had been made.
Somewhere beyond the sea, the holy city waited.