The sun hung heavy over the plains outside Mosul, its light turning the city's high walls into a jagged silhouette against the pale sky. Taimur stood atop a low ridge, his brass farseeing tube extended as he studied the defenses. Beside him, Salahuddin waited in silence, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword.
"They're weaker than we thought," Taimur said at last, lowering the tube. "The gates are patched, not rebuilt. The men on the walls look half-starved."
Salahuddin exhaled slowly. "Then we proceed as planned?"
Taimur nodded. "Why fight when hunger will break them for us?"
Salahuddin's gaze darkened. "And if they sally out in desperation?"
A faint smirk touched Taimur's lips. "Then we crush them in the open desert."
The moon was a pale sliver in the sky when the Sand Foxes began their work. Like shadows given form, they slipped past Mosul's outer defenses, their boots silent on the dry earth. Only the occasional glint of moonlight on a dagger's edge betrayed their movement.
"Remember," their leader whispered, his voice barely audible. "The granaries first. Leave nothing."
A younger operative, his face wrapped in dark cloth, nodded. "And the guards?"
The leader's teeth flashed in the dim light. "Only if they see us."
They moved like ghosts through the night. The sentries at the grain silos never stood a chance—one moment they were leaning on their spears, the next, their throats were slit, their bodies dragged into the shadows.
The first torch arced through the air, landing in a pile of dry straw. Flames licked upward, hungry, devouring the wood with a crackling roar. Soon, the entire storage complex was ablaze, the fire lighting up the night like a false dawn.
By morning, the sky was choked with smoke. The people of Mosul woke to the acrid stench of burning wheat, their stomachs already growling with hunger.
Izz al-Din Mas'ud, last of Nuruddin's bloodline, stormed through the halls of his palace, his robes billowing behind him. The captain of the guard trailed in his wake, his face streaked with soot, his hands trembling.
"Who did this?" Izz al-Din snarled, slamming his fist onto a wooden table. The impact sent a goblet of wine crashing to the floor.
The captain swallowed hard. "The Ayyubids, my lord. Their spies—"
"Spies?" Izz al-Din's voice rose to a shout. "You let spies walk into our city and burn our food?"
The captain flinched. "They were like shadows, my lord. We never saw them."
Izz al-Din's face twisted in rage. He seized the captain by the front of his tunic, dragging him close. "Then find them!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Drag them from whatever hole they're hiding in and hang their bodies from the walls!"
The captain stumbled back, bowing low. "At once, my lord!"
But the Sand Foxes were already gone.
The leader of the Sand Foxes crouched on a rocky outcrop, watching the distant glow of the burning silos. His second-in-command joined him, wiping soot from his hands.
"It's done," the younger man said. "They won't have enough grain to last the month."
The leader nodded, his eyes cold. "Good. Let them starve."
Behind them, the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold.
The siege of Mosul had begun.
The night air hung thick over Mosul as the Desert Hawks moved like shadows through the darkness. Their bows were strung, their arrows tipped with silence. A lone sentry stood at his post, yawning as he leaned against the cold stone wall. He never saw the arrow that took him in the throat.
"Another one down," murmured Khalid, the youngest of the raiders, as he lowered his bow.
Beside him, their grizzled commander, Rahim, grunted. "Don't celebrate yet. We've got six more posts to hit before dawn."
They melted back into the night, leaving only corpses and whispers in their wake.
In the Mercenary Camps
The Turkic horsemen huddled around their fires, their voices low. The stories had spread like wildfire—tales of Seljuk betrayal, of gold flowing like water in Salahuddin's camp.
"I heard the Sultan of Rum made a pact with the Ayyubids," one rider muttered, poking at the flames with his dagger.
Another spat into the fire. "Why fight for starving Zengids when the Lion of Islam pays in gold?"
A third man, older than the rest, shook his head. "Izz al-Din hasn't paid us in two months. What loyalty do we owe him?"
The seeds of doubt had been planted.
The Palace
The doors to Izz al-Din's chambers burst open as Captain Faris stormed in, his face pale beneath his helmet. "My lord, the men—they speak of betrayal!"
Izz al-Din looked up from his wine, his eyes bloodshot. "What nonsense is this?"
"The mercenaries whisper that the Seljuks have abandoned us," Faris said, his voice tight. "They say Salahuddin offers three gold dinars for every rider who defects."
With a snarl, Izz al-Din drew his dagger and plunged it into the table. "Then execute the cowards! Hang their heads from the gates!"
Faris hesitated. "My lord... if we start killing the Turks, the rest may—"
"I said execute them!" Izz al-Din roared, hurling his goblet against the wall.
The Morning After
As dawn broke, the people of Mosul awoke to a grim sight. A dozen Zengid banners hung limp outside the city walls, each one slashed with crude, bloody letters:
"Nuruddin's heirs failed you."
In the streets, men glanced at one another, their faces grim. In the barracks, the Turkic riders sharpened their swords in silence.
The damage was done.
The sun hung low in the sky when the Ayyubid vanguard appeared before Mosul's gates - a thousand men at most, their banners fluttering lazily in the hot wind. At their head rode Turan-Shah, Salahuddin's hot-headed brother, who spurred his horse forward and shouted up at the walls.
"Where are your warriors, dogs of Zengi? Have they all fled like women?" His voice carried across the silent battlefield. "Come out and fight, if you have any honor left!"
On the battlements, a young Zengid lieutenant gripped the stone until his knuckles turned white. "My lord, we cannot let this insult stand!"
Izz al-Din Mas'ud, his face dark with fury, turned to his Turkic mercenary captain. "Take your riders and crush these vermin. Bring me that insolent pup's head!"
The captain hesitated. "My lord, it could be a-"
"Do it!" Izz al-Din roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Or I'll find someone who will!"
The Zengid cavalry poured from the gates like a flood - four thousand strong, their hooves kicking up great clouds of dust. Nasir al-Din waited just long enough for them to see his grin before wheeling his horse around.
"Retreat!" he cried, though there was laughter in his voice.
The Ayyubid force broke formation with practiced ease, fleeing across the open plain. The Turkic captain, his face tight with suspicion, urged his men forward. "Stay together! Don't let them draw us too far!"
But his warnings were lost in the thunder of hooves and the bloodlust of his men. They chased the retreating force deep into the desert, where the heat shimmered like water and the sands swallowed all sound.
Back at Mosul, the walls stood nearly undefended.
Taimur, watching from a nearby ridge, lowered his farseeing tube. "Now."
The cannons roared to life, their iron rounds smashing into the gates with earth-shaking force. Wood splintered, metal groaned, and with a final, shuddering crash, the great doors collapsed inward.
"Allahu akbar!" The cry went up from a thousand throats as the Asad al-Harb charged through the breach, their scimitars flashing in the sun.
Izz al-Din fought like a man possessed, his sword cutting down two Ayyubid soldiers before they could blink. "To me!" he bellowed, rallying his remaining guards. "For the honor of Zengi!"
But it was no use. The Asad al-Harb came like a tide, their numbers overwhelming. One by one, Izz al-Din's men fell, until at last a Nubian warrior's club sent the last Zengid heir crashing to his knees.
The dust settled over the ruined palace courtyard. Izz al-Din, his fine robes torn and bloodied, knelt with his arms bound behind him. Before him stood Salahuddin, his face as impassive as stone.
For a long moment, there was only silence. Then Izz al-Din lifted his head, his eyes burning with hate.
"I should have killed you at Aleppo," he spat.
Salahuddin's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. When he spoke, his voice was colder than the desert night.
"Allah gave you mercy then." Steel whispered from its scabbard. "I won't."
The sun beat down mercilessly on Mosul's central square as the crowd gathered, their murmurs rising like the buzzing of disturbed bees. In the center of the square, a wooden platform had been erected, its timbers still fresh and pale against the weathered stones of the city. Izz al-Din Mas'ud, last of the Zengid line, stood bound upon it, his fine robes torn and stained, but his head held high.
At the foot of the platform, Salahuddin waited, his face unreadable. The crowd parted as Taimur approached, his boots kicking up small puffs of dust.
"You're sparing the family?" Taimur asked quietly, coming to stand beside his Sultan.
Salahuddin nodded once, his eyes never leaving the condemned man. "The sons are children. The widow has no power. Mercy costs us nothing and may buy loyalty."
Taimur's lips quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Practical as ever."
A hush fell over the square as the executioner mounted the platform, his great sword gleaming in the sunlight. Izz al-Din did not flinch as the man positioned himself, but his jaw tightened.
"Any last words?" Salahuddin called up to him.
Izz al-Din spat at the Sultan's feet. "My father should have burned your villages to the ground when he had the chance."
Salahuddin sighed and nodded to the executioner.
The sword fell.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the head tumbled into the waiting basket. In the front row, a veiled woman - Izz al-Din's widow - clutched her children to her, turning their faces away.
[System Notification: Conquest of Mosul Completed]
[+5,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 90,800 / 100,000]
That evening, in the palace that had once belonged to the Zengids, Salahuddin received the new governor of Mosul - a grizzled Kurdish warlord named Bahram, whose loyalty had been proven in a dozen battles.
"The city is yours to rule," Salahuddin said, handing him the seal of office. "But rule justly. No reprisals against those who supported the Zengids."
Bahram bowed deeply, his beard brushing the floor. "As you command, my Sultan."
Taimur, leaning against a pillar, spoke up. "And the garrison?"
"Three thousand," Salahuddin confirmed. "Two companies of Nubian spearmen, the rest Kurdish cavalry. Enough to keep order, not enough to tempt rebellion."
Bahram grinned, showing several missing teeth. "If any try, they'll find my sword speaks quite persuasively."
Dusk Over Mosul
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the city in shades of orange and purple, Taimur stood atop the western wall, his fingers tracing the rough stone. The sounds of the city below were muted - the occasional shout of a soldier, the distant cry of a child, the ever-present murmur of conquered people adjusting to new masters.
Behind him, footsteps approached. He didn't need to turn to know it was Salahuddin.
"It's done," the Sultan said, coming to stand beside him.
Taimur nodded. "Mosul is yours. The Zengid threat has ended."
Salahuddin sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly for the first time that day. "And yet I feel no triumph."
"You wouldn't be the man you are if you did," Taimur observed.
They stood in silence for a long moment, watching as the first stars appeared in the darkening sky. Somewhere below, a cook-fire was lit, the scent of roasting meat drifting up to them.
"What now?" Salahuddin asked at last.
Taimur turned his gaze south, toward the distant horizon where Jerusalem waited. "Now we prepare for the real war."