At noon, under the blazing Egyptian sun, Salahuddin's army began its march. Ten thousand warriors moved as one, their footsteps shaking the earth. At the head rode the Asad al-Harb—three thousand of the finest heavy cavalry in the world. Clad in Milanese plate armor, their lances gleaming in the sunlight, they were Salahuddin's personal guard, his unbreakable shield.
Behind them came the Desert Hawks, seven thousand swift riders who had become the terror of the Crusaders. Silent as shadows, deadly as vipers, they were the ghosts of the desert. Bringing up the rear were five hundred siege engineers—masters of destruction who could reduce castles to rubble.
The column stretched for miles, a river of steel and horseflesh flowing north toward Syria. There was no fanfare, no grand speeches. Only the steady rhythm of marching feet and the occasional snort of a warhorse. The men knew their purpose. They had trained for this moment.
For fifteen days they marched, following the ancient trade routes that linked Egypt to Syria. The journey was uneventful. No armies barred their path. No bandits dared attack such a host. Villagers along the way watched in silence as the army passed—some in awe, others in fear. A few brought offerings of food and water, hoping to earn the Sultan's favor.
Taimur rode near the front, his eyes constantly scanning the horizon. He had expected some resistance—a Zengid patrol, a defiant emir, anything. But the road remained clear. It was as if the land itself was waiting for Salahuddin's arrival.
When the minarets of Damascus finally appeared on the horizon, the army slowed. Scouts galloped ahead, expecting to find the gates barred and the walls manned. Instead, they returned with surprising news: the city was open.
As Salahuddin's forces approached, the massive gates of Damascus swung wide. The Sunni elite of the city, tired of endless Zengid infighting, had decided their future lay with the rising star of Egypt. Delegates in fine robes came forward, bowing deeply as they welcomed Salahuddin back to the city he had once governed.
The people of Damascus poured into the streets, their cheers ringing off the ancient stones. Flowers were thrown before the horses' hooves. Women ululated from the rooftops. Men shouted praises to Allah for bringing Salahuddin home. The city remembered him—remembered his justice, his strength, his vision.
Salahuddin entered Damascus not as a conqueror, but as a returning son. His face remained calm, but those who knew him could see the emotion in his eyes. This was the city where he had first risen to prominence, where he had learned the art of governance and war. Now it was his again.
Within hours, his Kurdish kinsmen began arriving—warriors and elders who had remained loyal despite the Zengid turmoil. They came with news—some good, some troubling. The most urgent concerned his uncle, Shirkuh. The old lion had been placed under house arrest in Aleppo, his supporters scattered or imprisoned.
That evening, in the great hall of Damascus' citadel, Salahuddin called his commanders together. The room was lit by flickering torches, their light dancing off the grim faces of the Asad al-Harb captains, the hawk-eyed Desert Hawk leaders, and the siege engineers with their maps and schematics. Taimur stood near the Sultan, his presence now unquestioned, even by the proudest emirs.
Salahuddin spoke first. "Damascus is ours. But Syria remains divided. Aleppo still holds out. My uncle is imprisoned there. The Zengid princes squabble like children while our enemies grow stronger."
A murmur of agreement ran through the room. Every man there knew the stakes. United under Salahuddin, they could finally turn their full attention to the Crusaders. Divided, they were vulnerable.
Taimur studied the maps spread across the table. Aleppo was the key. Take it, and the rest of Syria would fall in line. But it would not be easy. The city was a fortress—its walls high, its defenders desperate.
As the debate swirled around him, Taimur's mind raced ahead, already plotting their next move. The pieces were falling into place exactly as he had foreseen. Nuruddin's death had created the opportunity. Now, they would seize it.
Outside, the sounds of celebration still echoed through Damascus' streets. But in the citadel, the mood was all business. The real work was just beginning.
That night, as the council broke up and the commanders went to their quarters, Taimur stood on the citadel's walls, looking north toward Aleppo. Somewhere out there in the darkness, Shirkuh waited. The old warrior would not remain caged for long.
The campaign for Syria had begun. Salahuddin's army—hardened in Egypt, tested in battle—was ready. The Asad al-Harb would break enemy lines. The Desert Hawks would harry and confuse. The siege engineers would reduce strongholds to dust.
And Taimur? He would ensure that every move, every decision, brought them closer to their ultimate goal—Jerusalem.
The moon rose over Damascus, its pale light washing over the sleeping city. Down in the streets, the people dreamed of peace, of unity, of victory. They did not know the storm that was coming.
But Taimur knew. And he was ready.
The morning sun streamed through the arched windows of Damascus' grand council chamber as Salahuddin's commanders gathered around the massive oak table. Maps of Syria lay unfurled, their edges held down by daggers and cups of strong black coffee. The air smelled of parchment and leather, of steel recently polished and men ready for war.
Taimur stood at the head of the table beside Salahuddin, his fingers tracing the route north from Damascus.
"Syria will be ours in three moves," he began, his voice calm but carrying to every corner of the room. "Homs first. Then Hama. Finally, Aleppo. Take these, and the rest will fall like ripe fruit."
His finger stopped at Homs. "The governor here is a greedy coward who changes loyalties like other men change robes. He cares only for his coffers and his skin."
A murmur of disgust rippled through the commanders.
"We'll offer him safe passage and a chest of gold," Taimur continued. "Enough to retire comfortably in Baghdad or Mecca. His officials can keep their positions—if they swear allegiance to Salahuddin."
General Barsbay scowled. "And when they betray us?"
Taimur smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "The Sand Foxes will be watching. If he tries to double-cross us, they'll remind him why cowards make poor conspirators."
The unspoken promise hung in the air—the governor would die screaming if he proved troublesome.
Moving his finger northwest, Taimur tapped Hama. "Here we face real soldiers. The Zengid garrison is proud, well-supplied, and protected by high walls."
He turned to the chief siege engineer. "This is where your corps earns its keep. We'll give them one chance to surrender honorably. When they refuse…"
The engineer grinned, already imagining the destruction his cannons and trebuchets would unleash.
"Their walls will be rubble by noon," he promised. "By sundown, they'll beg to swear fealty."
Finally, Taimur's finger came to rest on Aleppo. The room grew still. Aleppo was the jewel of northern Syria—a city that had resisted conquerors for centuries.
"Once Homs and Hama are ours, Aleppo will stand alone. Its people already chafe under Zengid misrule. When they see Salahuddin's banners approaching, many will open the gates themselves."
Salahuddin studied the map thoughtfully. "And my uncle Shirkuh?"
Taimur nodded. "Our first priority after taking the city. The Sand Foxes have already located his prison. He'll be free before the fighting ends."
Here's your polished version with grammatical corrections, smoother dialogue, and cleaned-up narration. No plotlines were added or altered:
By noon, orders were flying across Damascus. The army would split into three forces:
The main host of 7,000, under Salahuddin's personal command, would march on Homs. The Desert Hawks would ride ahead, securing the countryside. The siege train began its slow, methodical preparations—checking every rope, every timber, every iron bolt.
As the commanders dispersed to their units, Taimur remained behind with Salahuddin. The Sultan stared at the map, his fingers tracing the path to Aleppo.
"You make it sound so simple," he murmured.
Taimur poured them both cups of spiced wine. "The plan is simple, my Sultan. The execution will require your wisdom and leadership." He raised his cup. "To a united Syria."
Salahuddin clinked his cup against Taimur's. "To a peaceful Syria."
Outside, the army was already stirring, the first columns forming up at the city gates. The campaign for Syria had truly begun.
The road to Homs stretched long and dusty beneath the relentless summer sun. Salahuddin's cavalry moved like a river of steel, their hooves kicking up golden clouds that hung in the still air. The Asad al-Harb rode at the front, their polished armor gleaming, their spears catching the light like sharpened teeth. Behind them came the Desert Hawks—silent and watchful, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of treachery.
The walls of Homs appeared on the horizon by midday. They were high and well-maintained, though not as formidable as those of Damascus or Aleppo. The city had prospered under its current governor, Ibn al-Muqaddam—a man known more for his love of gold than for courage in battle.
Salahuddin rode forward with a small escort, his banner fluttering in the hot wind. At the gates, he called for the governor. Ibn al-Muqaddam appeared on the battlements, his face pale beneath his fine robes.
"I come not as a conqueror, but as a unifier," Salahuddin declared, his voice carrying across the silent walls. "Swear loyalty to me, and you shall keep your wealth. Your officials may retain their positions. You will be granted safe passage to wherever you wish—Mecca, Baghdad, or beyond."
The governor hesitated, eyes flicking toward his advisors. He licked his lips, weighing his options. Then Salahuddin gestured behind him.
The siege engines rolled forward—newly built in Damascus, their timbers still smelling of resin. The crews moved with practiced precision, setting them up just beyond bowshot. It was not a threat spoken aloud, but it didn't need to be.
Ibn al-Muqaddam swallowed hard. "We will discuss terms," he called down.
That evening, Salahuddin feasted in the governor's palace—now his by right of surrender. The city had opened its gates without bloodshed, though the air still hummed with tension. The governor and his officials sat stiffly, their smiles thin and forced.
A servant poured wine into Salahuddin's cup. Taimur, ever watchful, caught the flicker of hesitation in the man's hands. Before the Sultan could drink, Taimur seized the cup and sniffed. His face darkened.
"Poison," he hissed. "Gumushtigin's work."
The governor turned white. His officials froze. Salahuddin, however, only smiled. He reached for another cup—one that had sat untouched—and drank deeply. Then he turned the poisoned chalice over, letting the wine spill onto the floor. The stone hissed where the liquid touched.
"Let them fear my luck," Salahuddin said softly, "as they do my sword."
That night, the Sand Foxes moved like shadows through Homs. They found the servant first, his throat slit before he could scream. Then they turned their attention to the governor and his treacherous officials.
Ibn al-Muqaddam was dragged from his bed, still bleary with sleep and wine. He begged, offered gold, swore it hadn't been his idea. The Sand Foxes did not listen. By dawn, the governor and his conspirators hung from the city walls, their bodies swaying in the morning breeze.
When the people of Homs awoke, they found the city secure, the streets patrolled by Salahuddin's disciplined soldiers. There had been no riots, no looting—only swift, silent justice.
[System Notification: Conquest of Homs Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 32,800 / 100,000]
Taimur stood on the palace balcony, watching the sun rise over the conquered city. Homs was theirs. Now, the real work began.