The sea was calm under the pale light of early morning—the kind of calm that made sailors nervous. Taimur stood on the deck of the Lion of Yusuf, flagship of the Sea Wolves, his breath misting in the cool air.
The Coastal Wolves lurked to the south, hidden among the scattered islets off Damietta's coast. The trap was set.
The Merchant had been precise: a Venetian convoy, heavy with Crusader gold, would pass this way before noon. One hundred fifty thousand dinars' worth of cargo. Enough to armor every marine, every sailor—and still have coins left to grease the palms of informants from Cairo to Antioch.
Taimur's fingers drummed against the hilt of his dagger. The crews had their orders: no survivors, no witnesses. Let the Franks blame pirates. Let them waste their fury on ghosts.
The lookout's cry came just as the sun crested the horizon.
"Sails! Three galleys, two transports—heavy draft."
Taimur raised his hand. The Sea Wolves moved into position. The Night Arrows slipped ahead like silent predators, oars muffled with wrapped cloth. The Sea Lions and Sea Flames hung back, waiting for the signal.
The Venetian convoy sailed unaware, their decks crowded with armed guards. The lead galley flew the banner of the Doge—a proud display of arrogance. They thought the sea belonged to them.
They were wrong.
The Night Arrows struck first.
Ballista bolts shrieked through the air, slamming into the hull of the nearest galley. Zhuge crossbows followed, a storm of bolts cutting down guards before they could raise the alarm.
Then the Coastal Wolves emerged from the south, their scorpions already loosing chain-shot into the rigging of the second galley. Sails collapsed like wounded birds, tangling in the lines, dragging the ship to a halt.
The Venetian captain screamed orders. Too late.
The Flame Lancers moved in.
Greek fire arced across the water, splashing onto the decks of the transports. Men burst into screaming torches, armor cooking them alive. The Sand Vipers closed the noose, grappling hooks biting into the last galley. Marines poured across boarding bridges, curved axes flashing.
It wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
By midday, it was over.
The sea burned in patches where the transports had sunk, cargo spilling into the depths. The Sea Wolves and Coastal Wolves prowled the wreckage, crews finishing the wounded, looting the holds, scuttling what remained.
A young marine, face splattered with blood, handed Taimur a ledger pulled from the captain's cabin.
Taimur flipped it open. The numbers glowed like a promise.
One hundred sixty thousand dinars.
More than expected.
He closed the book and tossed it into the nearest fire.
The fleets returned to Damietta in triumph, their holds heavy with plunder. The Merchant waited on the docks, already flicking through a mental ledger.
"The Franks will call it piracy," he said, grinning.
Taimur shrugged. "Let them. By the time they realize it was us, their coast will be ash."
The gold was unloaded in secret, smuggled into the treasury under cover of night. With the earlier haul from the Fatimid wrecks, the total now stood at four hundred thousand dinars.
Enough to armor every man. Enough to build more ships. Enough to drown the Crusaders in their own blood.
Salahuddin received the news in silence. He stood by the window of his study, looking out over Cairo, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"You left no survivors?"
"None."
The Sultan exhaled slowly. "Good."
That was all.
But in the flicker of lamplight, Taimur saw the ghost of a smile.
The morning sun cast golden streaks across the harbor of Alexandria as Taimur stood on the docks, watching the 'Sea Wolves' return from their latest raid. The ships bore fresh scars—splintered wood, scorched sails, and the occasional bloodstain not yet scrubbed from the decks. But they also carried chests of captured gold, bundles of stolen silk, and crates of weapons seized from Crusader supply ships.
Taimur ran the numbers in his head. The raid had been successful. Very successful. The treasury would be pleased.
But as he watched the sailors unload their plunder, a troubling thought settled in his mind.
This isn't sustainable.
The navy was a beast that needed constant feeding. Ships required repairs. Sailors demanded wages. Weapons and armor had to be replenished. Raids brought gold, yes—but they also risked ships, men, and long-term stability. If Salahuddin's empire was to endure, they couldn't keep bleeding their own economy to fund the war at sea.
There had to be a better way.
That evening, Taimur sat in his private quarters, a map of the Mediterranean spread before him. The System's tactical display flickered in his vision, marking pirate strongholds, major trade routes, and vulnerable merchant lanes.
An idea began to take shape.
The next morning, he requested an audience with Salahuddin.
The Sultan received him in the palace gardens, where the scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air. Salahuddin sipped from a cup of spiced tea, his expression unreadable.
"You have that look," he said. "The one that means you're about to ask for something expensive."
Taimur smirked. "Not this time. This time, I'm offering a way to make the navy pay for itself."
Salahuddin raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
Taimur laid out the plan.
Egyptian merchant ships were already paying bribes to pirates for safe passage. Why not offer something better? Naval escorts—for a fee. And if those escorts 'happened' to encounter pirates along the way, they'd seize the ships and cargo. The merchants would get safety. The navy would get live training. The treasury would get a cut of the reclaimed loot.
Salahuddin listened in silence. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"You're suggesting we turn our navy into privateers."
Taimur shook his head. "Not privateers. Privateers serve themselves. This would be state-sanctioned. Controlled. Profitable."
Salahuddin leaned back, thoughtful. "And if the merchants refuse to pay?"
"Then they take their chances with the pirates."
The Sultan chuckled. "Cruel."
"Practical," Taimur replied.
After a long pause, Salahuddin nodded. "Do it."
The decree went out within the week.
Merchant captains were summoned to the harbormaster's offices in Alexandria and Damietta. There, they were presented with a new option:
'Pay a fee for naval protection.'
In return, their ships would sail under the banner of the Royal Navy. Any pirate attack would be met with overwhelming force. Any loot recovered would be split—half to the navy, half to the merchants.
At first, there was hesitation. Some grumbled. Others whispered that this was just another tax.
Then the first convoy set sail.
Three merchant ships, escorted by a 'Sand Viper' and a 'Fire Lancer'.
They didn't make it halfway to Crete before pirates struck.
Five fast raiding vessels emerged from a fog bank, their decks crowded with armed men. The merchants braced for death.
But the 'Fire Lancer' and 'Sand Viper' struck back.
Greek fire lit the sea. Scorpion bolts punched through wooden hulls. Marines stormed the pirate ships with brutal efficiency.
By sunset, all five raiders were sinking or captured. The merchants watched in stunned silence as the Coastal Wolves hauled chests of stolen goods from the pirate holds.
That night, over a shared meal, the naval captain handed the merchants a heavy purse.
"Your share," he said.
The merchants counted the coins. Then they immediately signed up for another voyage.
Word spread quickly.
Within a month, every major merchant guild in Egypt was clamoring for naval escorts. The fees poured into the treasury. The Sea Wolves and Coastal Wolves were constantly at sea—hunting pirates, seizing ships, and training new recruits in live combat.
The system worked.
Taimur stood on the docks of Alexandria, watching another merchant fleet depart under the protection of his ships. The harbor was busier than ever, filled with traders from as far as Venice and Constantinople.
Rasheed strolled up beside him, chewing on a date. "You know, some of the men are starting to call this the 'Golden Patrol'."
Taimur snorted. "As long as the gold keeps coming, they can call it whatever they want."
Rasheed grinned. "Oh, it's coming."
And it was.
The navy no longer drained the treasury. It fed it.
And the Mediterranean?
It was becoming an Egyptian lake.
In Tyre, Crusader merchants cursed as their profits dwindled. Pirate attacks on Egyptian ships had all but vanished. Worse, the few pirates still daring to strike now avoided Crusader ports entirely—fearing retaliation from the Sea Wolves.
In Venice, the Doge's council debated in hushed tones. Egyptian trade was booming. Their own merchants were paying for protection. And whispers told of a new horror—ships armed with 'Greek-fire lances' that could spew flames farther and deadlier than anything the Byzantines ever fielded.
A scarred captain, one of the few survivors of a raid, trembled as he described it:
"Their fire does not die in water. It clings like tar, burns like the sun. And their lances... they spit it farther than any arrow can fly!"
The Doge's admiral scoffed. "Greek fire is nothing new."
The captain's voice dropped to a whisper.
"This is not the Greek fire we know. This is something... worse."
And in Cairo, Salahuddin reviewed the latest reports and allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction.
The sea belonged to Egypt now.
And it would stay that way.