For two long months, Salahuddin's forces worked to secure Homs. Though the city had surrendered, its loyalty had to be earned. Two thousand veteran troops arrived from Damascus to garrison the walls. New officials—handpicked from among Salahuddin's most trusted men—took their posts in the governor's palace and city administration.
Taimur oversaw the transition with meticulous care. The Sand Foxes remained vigilant, rooting out any lingering Zengid loyalists. The markets reopened. The people returned to their daily lives. Slowly, Homs became not just a conquered city—but a willing part of Salahuddin's growing realm.
Meanwhile, a reserve force arrived from Egypt: one thousand elite light infantry and five hundred Desert Hawks. They came bearing gifts—two newly forged cannons and enough ammunition to level Aleppo.
Once the roads were secure and supply lines established, the army turned its gaze northwest. Hama awaited—a city famed for its towering walls and stubborn defenders. Unlike Homs, there would be no easy surrender here.
The journey took five days. The countryside grew greener as they neared the Orontes River, vineyards and orchards replacing the dry plains behind them. The walls of Hama appeared suddenly—massive, unyielding, their pale stones glowing in the morning light.
Salahuddin rode forward under a banner of truce. His terms were simple: open the gates, swear fealty, and no blood would be shed. A garrison commander leaned over the battlements, his face twisted in contempt.
"We've held these walls against greater armies than yours!" he shouted. "The Zengids still rule in Aleppo! Come back when you've grown a real beard, boy!"
Laughter echoed from the walls.
Salahuddin turned his horse without another word.
The siege engineers went to work with terrifying efficiency. Trebuchets rose with practiced speed. The new Egyptian cannons—Taimur's terrible gifts—were positioned with deliberate care.
At dawn, the assault began. The Tower of Eagles, proudest of Hama's defenses, was the first target. The cannons spoke first, iron balls smashing into ancient stone. Then came the trebuchets, hurling their fiery payloads.
For an hour the bombardment raged. Then, with a groan that echoed across the battlefield, the Tower of Eagles cracked. For a breathless moment it seemed to hang in the air—then collapsed in an avalanche of stone and dust.
The defenders' laughter died in their throats.
By noon, the gates lay shattered. The Desert Hawks poured through the breach, their curved swords flashing. The Asad-al-Harb followed, their heavy armor making them unstoppable as they cleared the streets.
The Zengid garrison fought bravely, but the tide had turned. One by one, their commanders fell. By dusk, the survivors threw down their weapons.
The captured officers were brought before Salahuddin in chains. Their fate was swift. But for the people of Hama, who had long suffered under Zengid misrule, the day turned into celebration.
As the executions took place in the city square, another scene unfolded. People poured from their homes, cheering Salahuddin's men. Women ululated from the rooftops. Children darted through the crowds, wide-eyed at the warriors who had freed them.
[System Notification: Conquest of Hama Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 35,800 / 100,000]
Taimur watched from the walls as the sun dipped below the horizon. Hama was theirs. The road to Aleppo lay open.
The battle for Hama had been won in a single day—but the true challenge came after. The city lay wounded: its walls broken, its people uncertain. Salahuddin understood that conquest meant nothing without control. Three long months of labor awaited before Hama would truly be his.
The first priority was the walls. The Tower of Eagles lay in ruins, its stones scattered like broken teeth. The Engineer Corps got to work immediately. Craftsmen from Damascus arrived—men who had shaped that city's mighty defenses. Stonecutters carved new blocks, masons laid mortar, carpenters rebuilt platforms along the ramparts. Day by day, the walls rose again, stronger than before.
With the defenses under reconstruction, attention turned inward. A thousand elite light infantry arrived from Homs, battle-hardened and disciplined. They were joined by five hundred Desert Hawks—perfect for rooting out hidden threats. Reserve troops from Egypt reinforced the city's defenses.
The surviving Zengid soldiers were offered a choice: swear loyalty to Salahuddin or face imprisonment. Most chose wisely. These men had seen enough war to recognize a victor. Under new commanders, they were retrained, rearmed, and put to work beside the Egyptian troops.
While soldiers patrolled the streets, Salahuddin focused on governance. The old officials had fled or been executed. In their place came new administrators—men tested in Damascus and Homs. The city's new governor was a grizzled Asad-al-Harb veteran, a man of discipline who understood both warfare and justice.
Taimur oversaw the transition with his usual precision. The Sand Foxes moved like ghosts through the alleys and taverns, listening, watching. Any whisper of rebellion was crushed before it could take root. Slowly, order returned. The markets buzzed with trade, the wells were cleared, and the law was enforced with fairness.
Hama was no longer just occupied—it was becoming part of an empire.
As summer faded into autumn, the work in Hama neared completion. The walls stood tall once more, new stones pale against the weathered old ones. In the city squares, the garrison drilled daily, their shouts echoing off rebuilt towers. Hama had become a fortress again—but now it flew Salahuddin's banners.
One crisp morning, horns sounded across the camps outside the city walls. Tents were folded, supplies loaded onto carts, armor strapped tight. The army formed up on the road north, their spears rising like a forest against the dawn sky.
Salahuddin rode at their head, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Beyond the hills lay Aleppo—the heart of Zengid power, the city that held his uncle prisoner. The final challenge awaited.
The march to Aleppo began.
The army moved like a slow river through the Syrian hills, their boots kicking up dust that hung in the still air. The autumn sun burned overhead as scouts rode ahead, eyes sharp on every ridge and valley.
"See anything?" asked Captain Yusuf, squinting at the horizon.
The lead scout shook his head. "Nothing yet. But they're out there. Watching."
Behind them, the main column stretched for miles. The Asad-al-Harb rode at the front, armor gleaming. The Desert Hawks flanked the army, silent and alert. The siege engines rumbled in the center, pulled by teams of oxen.
As they crested the final hill, Aleppo rose before them like a sleeping giant. Its golden walls shimmered in the afternoon light, towers cutting the sky.
"By Allah," muttered one soldier, "I've never seen walls so high."
His companion spat into the dust. "High enough to break your neck if you try climbing them."
General Barsbay rode up beside them. "Then we'll break them first," he growled.
Salahuddin called a halt just beyond arrow range. He stood in his stirrups, studying the city's defenses.
"What do you think, Taimur?" he asked.
Taimur shaded his eyes. "The northern wall looks weak near that tower. The stonework doesn't match—hasty repairs."
Salahuddin nodded. "We'll start there."
As dusk fell, the army made camp. Thousands of tents sprang up across the plain, surrounding the city in a ring of firelight. Cookfires crackled and smoke curled into the purple sky.
Inside his command tent, Salahuddin gathered his commanders. Maps of Aleppo lay spread across a table.
"Tomorrow, we offer them peace," he said.
"If they refuse," Taimur finished, "we'll give them war."
Outside, soldiers sharpened swords and swapped stories of past battles. Some prayed. Others gambled with dice. All knew that by morning, the real fight would begin.
The siege of Aleppo was about to start.
At first light, the walls of Aleppo glowed pale gold. Salahuddin rode forward with his escort, the cool air sharp with dust and stone. Behind him, the army stood ready—thousands of men waiting for the signal.
"Make the offer," Salahuddin told his herald.
The herald rode ahead and called out, his voice ringing in the morning stillness. "Hear the words of Salahuddin, Sultan of Egypt and Syria! Open your gates and swear loyalty, and no blood shall be spilled this day!"
For a heartbeat, silence. Then an arrow thudded into the dirt before Salahuddin's horse. The stallion reared, but Salahuddin held firm.
"I believe that's their answer," Taimur remarked dryly.
Salahuddin nodded. "So it seems." He turned and rode back, eyes cold.
Taimur remained, lifting a polished brass scope to study the walls. Morning light revealed every crack and flaw in the ancient stones.
"The northern section," he murmured. "That mortar's fresh. A rush job."
Beside him, the chief engineer narrowed his eyes. "And listen."
From the eastern gate came a metallic groan as the portcullis shifted slightly—rusted hinges whining.
Taimur smiled. "They've been lax. Their neglect will cost them."
Back in the command tent, the war council gathered around the maps.
"They mean to fight," Barsbay growled, slamming a fist down.
"Of course they do," said Taimur. "They still hope for reinforcements from Mosul."
Salahuddin traced a finger along the map. "Here. The northern wall is their weakness. That's where we strike."
The siege master nodded. "The cannons will be ready by noon."
"Good." Salahuddin looked around. "Prepare the men. Today, we test their walls. Tomorrow, we break them."
As the council dispersed, Taimur lingered, eyes fixed on the map. Outside, the army bristled with motion—the clang of steel, the bark of orders, the thunder of siege engines rolling into place.
Aleppo had chosen war.
Now, it would pay the price.