CHAPTER 03: THE DOSSIER

The command tent thrummed with tension, the air thick with the scent of spiced milk, old leather, and male sweat. It was the war's perfume—sharp, bitter, intoxicating.

Taimur took his seat among Salahuddin's commanders, his expression unreadable. Around the sand table gathered men of different tribes, different loyalties, and different temperaments. Kurdish warlords with sun-seared skin and scarred knuckles. Arab emirs in flowing silks. Zengid defectors who spoke with forked tongues and offered smiles a second too late. All of them circled like vultures over a map of contested soil.

Emir Hassan, tall and sharp-featured, his silk robes embroidered with silver Falcon's, the proud insignia of Aleppo nobility, shoved back from the strategy table with a snarl. The movement made the oil lamps rattle in their brass chains.

"Recklessness!" The word exploded from his lips like a thrown spear. His eyes bore into General Barsbay, who calmly sipped from a chipped cup of spiced milk. "You would have us charge north with half an army? Our right flank still limps from last month's ambush!"

Barsbay didn't rise. The grizzled general, a veteran of a dozen campaigns and twice as many barroom brawls, merely ran a calloused finger along the scar that bisected his left eyebrow—a gift from a Frankish mace. "And yet we sit here, Emir," he said, voice heavy with disdain, "while Tughril's rebels poison our wells and laugh behind our backs."

Hassan sneered and drove his jeweled dagger into the sand table, the tip embedding into Hama with a solid thunk. "Because you left them breathing after Hama! Mercy to rebels is like feeding jackals—invite one, and you'll wake up eaten!"

"Enough."

The voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Like a whisper before a storm, it rolled through the tent and silenced it more completely than a trumpet call. All heads turned.

Taimur hadn't stood. Hadn't raised a hand. But the way his ink-stained fingers rested on the leather-bound tome in front of him made even the proudest warlords hesitate.

He lifted the dossier with deliberate care and dropped it onto the table with a solid thoom. Dust plumed into the lamplight. Cups trembled. Daggers stopped mid-spin.

"Before you debate how to fight," Taimur said, his voice smooth and cold as a Damascus blade, "learn who you're fighting."

No one spoke. No one dared.

Salahuddin—still young but already weathered by war—reached forward, his fingers brushing the dossier's cover. The leather was too supple. Too fine. Too… alive.

Yemeni tanner's work, Salahuddin noted. Caliph-grade material. Reserved for those who ruled, not advised.

He opened the first page. His breath caught.

[Emir Tughril al-Zengi]

Weakness: Left-handed (favors diagonal strikes).

Allies: 3/7 Aleppo garrison captains bribed.

Next Move: Poison stores en route to Damascus wells (3 days)

Barsbay, leaning over his shoulder, made a noise halfway between a growl and a gasp. He seized the next page. Then the next.

Page after page unfurled like a parchment nightmare.

Templar supply routes mapped to the hour.

Zengid informants listed by rank, location, and bribe price.

Assassin safehouses marked in Antioch's sewers, with sketches and passwords.

Personal letters from rebel captains. Cipher keys. Drawings of secret tunnels under Aleppo.

Even a scrawled note from Hassan's cousin, confirming the poison orders.

Hassan's dagger slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the floor. "This... this is impossible."

Taimur sipped his drink without blinking. "And yet your cousin's signature is on page fourteen."

No one moved. For ten long heartbeats, the only sound was the crackle of oil lamps and the distant call of an owl.

Salahuddin closed the dossier slowly, like sheathing a sword. "Where did you get this?"

Taimur smiled. "Twelve months watching Aleppo's markets. Three disguised as a leper in Zengid camps. Two more bribing Frankish squires."

A smooth lie. Cleaner than the vellum it was printed on.

Hassan lunged across the table. "Sorcery! No man could—"

"Enough," Salahuddin snapped, silencing him mid-stride. His eyes never left Taimur. "You expect me to believe this?"

"Does it matter?" Taimur's tone never changed. "Ride north at dawn. Intercept Tughril's grain carts. Starve his rebellion before it learns to walk."

The silence shifted. Heavy. Calculating.

Salahuddin glanced at Barsbay. At Hassan. Then—

"Saddle the horses."

The tent exploded into motion. Messengers ran. Armor clanked. Torchlight flared. Hassan barked curses. Barsbay laughed, loud and hoarse.

Taimur said nothing.

He simply allowed himself one small, cold smile.

Game on.

That night, alone in his private tent, Taimur stared at the glowing tactical map the System projected onto his palm. Sapphire dots—Salahuddin's army—were moving north like a swarm of intelligent fire.

A perfect intercept.

Three days later...

Taimur was awakened by the chiming sound of a System notification.

[+800 Merit Points: Zengid Neutralization]

[Total: 2,800 / 10,000]

He blinked.

"What happened? Did Salahuddin really…"

The tent flap rustled.

Salahuddin stood framed in firelight, dust on his cloak, blood on his gloves. He held the dossier like a holy text.

"This changes everything."

Taimur stretched lazily. "That was the point."

"No greetings. No reports. Just you." Salahuddin's eyes were molten iron. "War council. Now."

Taimur followed.

The command tent stank of blood and triumph. Barsbay grinned over his spiced milk, boot planted on a Zengid banner. Hassan, for once, was quiet—too busy watching Salahuddin's face.

"Tughril groveled like a whipped cur," Barsbay laughed. He tossed a curved dagger onto the table. It glittered with rubies. "His personal blade. Took it off him after we smashed his convoy."

Hassan's voice returned, sharp and hungry. "Execute him at dawn. Parade his head through Aleppo."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the tent. The Kurds were blood-hungry tonight.

Salahuddin sat, fingers steepled. Watching.

Taimur picked up the dagger, weighing it. "And waste all that intelligence? Foolish."

The tent erupted into shouting.

He let it burn itself out.

"Tughril knows every tunnel under Aleppo. Every Assassin paymaster in Syria. Kill him now, and we lose our only map into the dark."

Barsbay slammed the table. "He poisoned our children's wells!"

Hassan sneered. "You speak like a coward."

Taimur met his gaze without blinking. "I speak like the man who won tonight." He turned to Salahuddin. "Give me six hours. Interrogate him my way. If he gives us nothing—hang him from the gates."

Salahuddin didn't respond.

He only said, "Show me."

The prisoner stank. Emir Tughril knelt in the dirt, wrists raw and bleeding from iron cuffs. His face was swollen, his robes soaked in dried sweat and piss. A proud man broken—but not yet hollow.

Salahuddin stood in the shadows, arms folded.

"You expect me to beg?" Tughril spat blood. "Did your little bookworm tell you about the poison under your mother's garden?"

Salahuddin's jaw clenched.

Taimur stepped between them. "Let me."

He knelt and laid out his tools like a ritual:

A glass vial of clear liquid.

A parchment with a child's sketch.

A silver coin with a strange cross.

He picked up the vial. "Tears of Job," he said softly. "A Persian truth elixir. Drink this and you'll confess every sin since your first wet dream."

Tughril grinned through broken teeth. "You'll have to torture me."

"Oh, it's not for you." Taimur nodded to a guard. "Bring the boy."

The chains rattled violently. "You touch my son, and—!"

Taimur unfolded the sketch. A child's face. Smiling. Gentle eyes.

"Omar learned to ride last summer. Such balance for his age."

"You bastard, He's innocent." Tughril hissed.

"So were the children who drank from Hama's poisoned well."

Taimur flipped a silver coin onto the ground. Cross-side up.

"The Templars paid us to take you alive."

"Lies!" Tughril screamed, lunging.

Taimur knelt and pressed the coin into his palm. "See the edge? They always etch their silver."

Tughril froze.

"They promised you land? Immunity?" Taimur laughed. "The Franks betray their tools. Always."

A long silence. Then:

"North well," Tughril croaked. "Near the olive press. Six casks. Goat hide wrappings."

Salahuddin finally moved. "And the Assassin paymaster?"

Tughril spat again. "Fuck you—"

"Wrong answer," Taimur said. "Guards. Ready the vial. The boy's name is—?"

"NO! His name's Malik! The paymaster is Ibn Wasil! He's a muazzin at the Blue Mosque!"

Taimur turned, satisfied.

Outside, Salahuddin followed.

"You wouldn't have hurt the boy," he muttered.

"Wouldn't I?" Taimur glanced up at the stars. "Good thing we'll never know."

They walked in silence.

Then Salahuddin said, "The coin was fake."

Taimur smiled. "But the cross mark is real. Found it in your uncle's archives."

"You are a monster."

"No," Taimur said softly, watching the moon rise over Damascus. "Just the first man who reads before he kills."

Dawn found them on the watchtower, watching slaves dig up six buried poison casks.

One truth lay in the earth.

Another waited in Antioch.

And the game had only just begun.

Taimur watched the rising sun bleed pale gold into the horizon. Around them, the camp still slumbered, cloaked in mist and the scent of damp earth and dying embers. A distant horse snorted, restless in the hush.

"He'll try to escape the moment he sees a crack," Taimur murmured. It wasn't a question.

Salahuddin exhaled through his nose—neither agreement nor denial. "I know."

Silence followed, weighted with calculation. The wind tugged at Taimur's cloak, carrying the faint stirrings of waking soldiers.

Then, with the precision of a chess master:

"Let him escape," Taimur said. "But not empty-handed." He drew a small parchment from his robe—a map, carefully aged and inked with deliberate lies.

Salahuddin took it, fingers brushing the edge before closing around it. When he smiled, it was slow and sharp—more blade than expression. "You are such a villain."

Taimur didn't smile back. His eyes stayed on the sun-gilded minarets. "No. I'm what wins empires."

Salahuddin tilted his head, considering. "Tonight?"

"Not yet." Taimur's gaze hardened. "Three months. Let him grow careless. Let him think we've forgotten him."

Salahuddin's grip tightened around the decoy map. "And when he runs?"

Taimur's voice was cold. "Then we hunt."

The wind hissed low through the grass.

He stepped closer. "There's something else. Private matter."

Salahuddin nodded once, then turned, leading Taimur through the maze of tents. Guards stepped aside in silence. The command tent loomed ahead, its flaps drawn tight against curious eyes.

Inside, the air was thick with parchment, steel, and oil. Salahuddin secured the ties, then turned, expectant.

"Well?" he asked. "What couldn't wait?"

Taimur's smile was thin and knowing. "A spider's work is never done, Sultan-to-be. Sit. We have a web to weave."