The morning air rang with the rhythm of hammers and chisels as workers toiled to mend Aleppo's shattered walls. Salahuddin stood atop the battlements, watching masons carefully set new stones into the centuries-old ramparts.
"This will take months," sighed Captain Idris, wiping sweat from his brow.
Salahuddin nodded. "Then we best begin today."
Below them, Taimur moved with quiet authority, directing teams of laborers through the rubble-strewn streets.
"The eastern market first," he called to a foreman. "The people need bread before they need gates."
One evening, as the city hummed with the sound of reconstruction, a Sand Fox slipped into Salahuddin's chambers.
"My Sultan," the agent whispered, bowing low. "Baalbek refuses to yield. Nuruddin's nephew has taken command and is rallying troops behind its Roman walls."
Salahuddin's fist slammed onto the table. "After Aleppo?" he said, voice low and dangerous. "They still dare defy us?"
Taimur scanned the parchment. "The fortress is strong but isolated. Let them rot behind their pride while we secure the rest of Syria."
"No," Salahuddin said, eyes cold. "This defiance cannot stand. But Aleppo must be secured first."
Six months later, with its walls restored and its streets once again echoing with life, Salahuddin summoned his uncle to the citadel.
"Shirkuh," he said, placing a hand on the old warrior's shoulder. "I entrust Aleppo to you."
Shirkuh's eyes gleamed with pride. "You honor me, nephew."
"The Kurdish elders will be your council," Salahuddin continued. "Five thousand of our finest will remain to hold the city."
Taimur handed him a scroll. "The Sand Foxes have marked certain elements for observation. Handle them...discreetly."
Shirkuh grinned, his teeth white in his gray beard. "I haven't forgotten how to rule a city."
At dawn, the army assembled beyond Aleppo's gates. Salahuddin rode along the ranks, inspecting the lines.
"Remember Baalbek's defiance!" he called out. "Today, we snuff out the last embers of rebellion!"
A roar of approval swept through the troops. At the head of the column, the Asad al-Harb sat astride armored steeds, their polished mail gleaming in the morning sun.
Taimur rode beside Salahuddin. "That fortress has stood since Roman times," he remarked.
Salahuddin smiled grimly. "Then it's time a new chapter was carved into its stones."
Behind them, Aleppo's rebuilt walls stood tall. Its people watched in silence as their Sultan rode to war once more.
The march through the Bekaa Valley was grueling. The air grew cooler as the army climbed, and soon, Baalbek loomed ahead—its massive Roman ramparts rising like a challenge cast in stone.
Salahuddin reined in at the edge of bowshot, eyes narrowed on the fortress.
"By Allah," muttered General Barsbay, shading his eyes. "The Romans built for eternity."
Taimur studied the walls. "There," he said, pointing. "The western flank—see the fractures in the mortar? Time has done half our work for us."
Salahuddin nodded. "Then let us finish what time began."
At dawn, siege engines rolled into position. Master Engineer Karim, a battle-scarred veteran with a hawk's glare, directed the trebuchets.
"Load the stone!" he bellowed. A massive rock was winched into the sling. "Loose!"
The boulder screamed through the sky, crashing into the western wall. Dust and rubble exploded outward as the fortress groaned.
From the battlements, a Zengid captain shouted, "Archers! Aim for their engineers!"
A storm of arrows descended—but the Egyptian shield crews were ready.
"They'll need better aim than that," Karim muttered, unfazed.
That night, sappers began their deadly crawl. Led by a wiry man named Rafiq, they dug in silence, their picks biting into the soil beneath Baalbek's walls.
"One wrong strike," Rafiq whispered, "and we all meet our maker."
Above, the bombardment never ceased. Stones, firepots, and thunder echoed through the hills, masking the sappers' progress.
Within the fortress, Prince Iskandar—Nuruddin's nephew—rallied his men.
"Stand firm!" he shouted. "These walls have stood for centuries—they will not fall today!"
A young soldier trembled beside him. "But my lord, their machines—"
"Would you die on your feet or live on your knees?" Iskandar snapped.
The boy said nothing—only gripped his spear tighter.
On the seventh day, the wall gave a final, groaning cry—and collapsed in a thunderous avalanche. Dust swallowed the courtyard as defenders screamed beneath the falling stone.
"Now!" Salahuddin raised his sword.
The Asad al-Harb surged through the breach, their battle cries echoing in the dawn. The Desert Hawks scaled the walls like shadows, hooks and ropes flashing in the smoke.
In the courtyard, Prince Iskandar stood defiant.
"For my uncle's name!" he cried, felling two men before Barsbay's spear pierced his ribs.
He collapsed to his knees, blood seeping into his fine robes.
"You...will never...hold Syria..." he rasped.
Salahuddin stepped forward, gaze steeled. "Syria already kneels."
By nightfall, Baalbek had fallen.
[System Notification: Conquest of Baalbek Complete]
[+3,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 43,800 / 100,000]
As the sun dipped behind the broken towers, Salahuddin moved among the wounded, offering words of comfort to the frightened citizens.
"None shall be harmed who surrender," he vowed.
Taimur approached, robes dusty, eyes bright with victory.
"Syria is yours, my Sultan."
Salahuddin looked south—toward Jerusalem.
"Then let us prepare," he said softly, "for the true battle."
The first light of dawn crept over the broken walls of Baalbek, painting the ancient stones in pale gold. Salahuddin stood atop the battlements, his breath misting in the cold morning air. Below him, the city stirred—workers hauling rubble, masons mixing mortar, soldiers standing guard. Three months had passed since the siege ended, and still, the scars of war lingered.
"Another week," said Master Engineer Karim, wiping sweat from his brow despite the chill. "The western wall will hold by then, God willing."
Salahuddin nodded, his eyes scanning the progress. The Roman stones, once shattered by his cannons, now rose again under the hands of skilled craftsmen. "See that it does. Winter comes, and I'll not leave this city defenseless."
Nearby, Taimur inspected a newly repaired tower, his fingers tracing the fresh mortar. "Bihruz will need more than walls to keep this place loyal," he remarked.
"Then he'll have them," Salahuddin replied.
That evening, in the great hall of the citadel, Salahuddin gathered his commanders. Emir Mujahid al-Din Bihruz stood before them, his back straight, his face unreadable. A former Zengid officer, he had defected early to Salahuddin's cause—a pragmatic man, but not without pride.
"Baalbek is yours," Salahuddin declared, his voice carrying across the silent hall. "Govern it well."
Bihruz bowed deeply. "You honor me, my Sultan."
Taimur, leaning against a pillar, arched an eyebrow. "Honor has little to do with it. This city is a dagger pointed at Damascus. See that it doesn't turn in your hand."
Bihruz met his gaze evenly. "I know the weight of this task. And the cost of failure."
Salahuddin stepped between them. "Enough. Bihruz, you'll have four thousand light infantry from Egypt. Veterans, all of them. And my advisors will assist you." He gestured to the men standing nearby—administrators, judges, and scholars, all handpicked for their loyalty.
Bihruz nodded. "They will be welcome."
The next morning, the Egyptian troops marched into the city, their boots ringing on the cobblestones. The people of Baalbek watched in wary silence as the soldiers took up positions along the walls and in the barracks.
Captain Idris, a grizzled veteran of a dozen campaigns, saluted Bihruz. "My men are yours to command, Emir."
Bihruz studied the troops. "You know this land?"
Idris grinned. "Well enough to know its people don't love us yet."
"Then we'll give them reason to," Bihruz said. "No looting. No harsh taxes. Just order."
Idris nodded. "As you say."
By the time the first snow dusted the orchards outside Baalbek, the city was secure. The walls stood strong, the markets bustled, and the garrison drilled daily in the squares.
Salahuddin stood at the city gates, his horse stamping impatiently in the cold. Bihruz stood beside him, wrapped in a heavy cloak.
"You've done well," Salahuddin said. "But the real test comes now. Hold this city, and Syria remains united. Lose it, and everything unravels."
Bihruz placed a hand on his chest. "On my life, my Sultan."
Salahuddin mounted his horse. "Then I leave it in your hands."
With that, he turned south, toward Damascus. Behind him, Baalbek's walls rose tall once more—a testament to his power, and a warning to any who might defy him.
The winter air was crisp as Salahuddin rode through the gates of Damascus, the cheers of the people rising like a wave around him. Snow dusted the orchards lining the road, their branches glittering in the pale sunlight. Behind him, his army marched in disciplined ranks, their banners fluttering in the cold wind.
"Damascus welcomes her conqueror!" a merchant shouted from the crowd, his breath fogging in the air.
Salahuddin raised a hand in acknowledgment, his face calm but his eyes weary. Three months in Baalbek had been long—rebuilding shattered walls, rooting out the last Zengid loyalists, appointing new officials. Now, at last, Syria was his.
Beside him, Taimur guided his horse closer. "The people love you," he remarked, his voice low. "But love is fickle. Power is what matters now."
Salahuddin glanced at him. "Power without loyalty is a brittle thing."
Taimur smirked. "Which is why you gave Baalbek to Bihruz."
A faint smile touched Salahuddin's lips. "He knows the Zengids better than anyone. And he knows the price of betrayal."
Weeks passed as Salahuddin consolidated his rule. City after city surrendered, their governors bending the knee rather than face his armies. But one thing remained—official recognition from Baghdad.
Then, on a frost-laced morning, the envoy arrived.
The man was dressed in the rich silks of the Abbasid court, his escort bearing the black banners of the Caliph. He dismounted in the palace courtyard, his boots crunching on the thin layer of snow.
"Salahuddin Yusuf ibn Ayyub," the envoy announced, his voice carrying across the silent courtyard. "The Commander of the Faithful, Caliph al-Mustadi, recognizes your victories. By his decree, you are hereby proclaimed Sultan of Egypt and Syria."
A murmur swept through the gathered nobles and soldiers. Salahuddin accepted the scroll, his fingers brushing the Caliph's seal.
Taimur stepped forward, his eyes sharp. "And what of Nuruddin's heirs? Does the Caliph dismiss their claims so easily?"
The envoy's smile was diplomatic. "The Caliph recognizes strength. And Salahuddin has proven himself the strongest."
The coronation was held in the grand Umayyad Mosque, its towering arches draped with banners of green and gold. The air was thick with incense, the flickering light of a thousand lamps casting long shadows across the marble floors.
Salahuddin knelt before the Abbasid envoy as the ceremonial sword was laid upon his shoulders.
"Rise, Sultan Salahuddin," the envoy intoned. "Ruler of Egypt and Syria, Sword of Islam."
The crowd erupted in cheers. Outside, the people of Damascus echoed the cry, their voices shaking the city walls.
As the celebrations spilled into the streets, Salahuddin retreated to the palace balcony, gazing over his new capital.
Taimur joined him, a cup of spiced wine in hand. "Damascus," he mused. "A fitting seat for an empire."
Salahuddin nodded. "Cairo gave me an army. Damascus will give me a dynasty."
Below them, the city pulsed with life—merchants, soldiers, scholars, all now his to rule. The road ahead was long. Jerusalem still lay in Crusader hands. The Franks would not surrender it lightly.
But for now, in this moment of triumph, Salahuddin allowed himself to breathe.
The Sultan of Egypt and Syria had arrived.