The morning sun cut through Al-Qabar's narrow alleys like a knife, bouncing off pale stone, scattering light in every direction. Dust clung to every surface, rising in clouds with each footstep. The faint smoke of distant fires curled into the sky, twisting with the stench of sweat, blood, and unwashed bodies. Every alley smelled of fear and anticipation.
Nasir al-Ashen moved quietly among the rebels. His ash-colored hair caught the light, eyes sharp as a hawk's. He stepped over a fallen barrel, boots scuffing against uneven stones.
"Every street has eyes," he said, voice low, precise. "Every alley listens. Move too fast, you die. Move too slow, you die. Do not provoke unless you can vanish before the bells ring."
A cluster of rebels gripped pikes and daggers until their knuckles whitened. One younger man, shaking, whispered, "We can't hold them."
Nasir's gaze didn't waver. "A king, a priest, a clerk, a swordsman—every man has his role. You have yours. Play it wisely."
He crouched behind the shattered remains of a market stall, scanning the streets below. Patrols moved like clockwork: shields angled, pikes bristling, archers hidden atop tiled rooftops, ready to rain arrows down on anyone who broke formation. Every block funneled the rebels' movements. Every alley became a trap. His fingers brushed a loose cobblestone, testing line of sight.
The leaves turn early in the Red Keep, and everyone pretends not to notice the season, he thought. Power is alive. Cracks appear long before the walls fall.
By mid-morning, General Qadir's patrol advanced. Men moved in wedges, shields interlocked, pikes bristling forward like the teeth of a machine. Archers crouched on roofs, eyes scanning alleys for the slightest movement. They communicated with subtle signals: a lift of the hand, a tilt of the spear, the sharp whistle of wind across the streets.
A rebel, Farim, tried to slip into a side alley, but the cobblestones were slick from morning dew. He stumbled, and a soldier's spear found him mid-step. He crumpled, letting out a ragged gasp as dust rose around him like smoke.
A companion lunged to help, only to be forced back by a volley of arrows, shoving him into a barrel. The impact rattled through the wooden frame; the man toppled, scraping his face on stone, blood streaking across his cheek.
"Hold the line! Advance slowly! Flank left!" Qadir's voice cut through the alley, calm, precise. Men moved as if part of one body. Shields clashed with overturned crates. Spears jabbed with mechanical timing. Dust and grit stung eyes; the tang of blood thickened the air.
Inside a narrow passage, a rebel ducked behind an overturned cart. Soldiers circled like wolves, closing the noose. One corner became a choke point. Another, a death trap. Dust and rubble filled their lungs. He tried to slip past a pike. Knees hit cobblestones; chest heaving, he froze.
A soldier approached, dagger at his collar. "Tell me what I need."
The rebel faltered, lips trembling. "The camp… east gate… near the granary…"
Every word became a key, every confession a map to the city. Qadir nodded, signaling movement. The patrol shifted, closing alleys, flanking streets, forcing rebels into ever-smaller pockets. Steel met stone, pikes pushed backs, shields crashed, and the city itself seemed to pulse with tension.
By noon, the battle had taken on a relentless rhythm. Qadir's men divided the city into zones. Each street was accounted for. Each alley controlled. Rebels ran blindly, trying to hide in corners and shadowed stairways. One young recruit, barely nineteen, froze at an intersection. A rebel knife grazed his shoulder; he cried out, stumbling backward. Two soldiers pressed forward, shields meeting the blades, shoving the men against stone walls. One fell, lifeless. The other slumped, groaning, eyes wide with shock.
The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood thickened. Dust rose from crushed stones. The clang of metal echoed in narrow alleys. Every heartbeat demanded attention. Every breath carried fear.
Malric observed from a northern rooftop. He adjusted his helm, hand resting on his sword hilt. His gaze flicked to a figure, tall, silent, watching the chaos without moving. Not a step, not a sound—only observation.
"Do not engage," he whispered to his lieutenant. "Let us see what he wants. Not yet."
Even seasoned soldiers felt the unnerving presence. Its stillness was sharper than any arrow, deliberate as steel.
In the alleys, Farim's confession had led Qadir's men to a rebel supply depot. Soldiers approached cautiously, shields forward, pikes ready. Each street was a funnel. Rebels attempted to flee; some tried barricades of crates and carts, but each was dismantled methodically. Arrows struck, spears thrust, shields slammed.
One young rebel ran into a narrow street. A Qadir soldier cut him off. The man lunged, pushing the boy against a wall. A pike jabbed between ribs; the boy crumpled, arms flailing. His companion screamed, trying to strike back, but two shields met him, driving him to the stones. He lay still. Dust rose, mingling with the coppery smell of blood.
Rebel morale splintered. Pockets of fighters were surrounded, cornered. Some ran blindly into crossfire. Others tried to climb over rooftops; arrows took them down mid-leap. One man slipped into a stairwell, only to be met by a shield and spear combo—he fell backward, head hitting stone.
Qadir's tactics were precise. Wedges, flanks, choke points, forced retreats. Each alley became a guided map, each street a controlled battlefield. No magic, no fantasy—only calculation, training, and fear.
Nasir moved among the remaining rebels. His eyes scanned faces, every twitch and flinch measured. "Postpone the rebellion," he said quietly. "We've lost too many. Qadir's men are disciplined. The city's defenses are stronger than expected. Attack now, and we die. Gather what remains. Move quietly."
Anger flared. "We cannot wait! The king strengthens every hour!" one rebel shouted.
Nasir's jaw tightened. "Do you wish to die for pride, or live to fight another day? Victory lies in patience."
A few lowered their heads, understanding wisdom though not desire. Nasir whispered orders, mapped escape routes, planned positions for later strikes.
Aboard the flagship, Richard Fairfax leaned over the rail, eyes sharp. Lieutenant Hawthorne approached, report in hand.
"The French are heading toward Al-Qabar," he said.
Fairfax's jaw tightened. "Prepare defenses. Alert scouts. The currents of the city shift, and we will not be caught unready."
The northern quarter remained tense. The tall, silent figure watched from shadowed rooftops. Unseen, unchallenged, unmoving. The city was alive, pulsing with the rhythm of men and stone, of blood and strategy.
Al-Qabar had survived another morning. But the currents beneath it were shifting, and every heartbeat counted. Every movement mattered.