Rosetta
The Fatimid wrecks lay there, half-buried in silt and time. Forgotten gold, waiting to be reclaimed.
A diver leaned against a pile of nets nearby, his arms crossed as he watched the water. Taimur didn't pause as he passed him, but his voice carried clear.
"Gather your best men. We dive at dawn."
The diver didn't question. He simply nodded, his grin flashing white in the gathering dark.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, the Mediterranean stretched—its secrets ripe for the taking.
The pre-dawn light painted the Rosetta coastline in shades of gray as Taimur stood on the rocky shore, the System's tactical map glowing faintly in his mind. The sea before him was calm, its surface smooth as polished glass, betraying nothing of the wealth hidden beneath.
Behind him, forty divers gathered—Greek sponge hunters, Nubian pearl seekers, and a handful of former pirates who knew the water's moods better than their own hearts. They carried ropes, nets, and makeshift diving bells fashioned from repurposed Fatimid wine barrels.
Taimur held up a single gold dinar, letting the first light of morning catch its edge. "This," he said, "is what we're here for. Not one coin. Not ten. Thousands."
The first team went down at sunrise, their diving bells lowering them into the shallows where the System's map marked the first wreck. The water swallowed them whole.
Taimur watched from the lead boat, the System's scan feeding him glimpses of what lay below—a broken hull, its ribs jutting like the skeleton of some great beast. Gold gleamed in the sediment, spilled from shattered chests.
Minutes passed. Then the signal rope jerked.
The divers surfaced gasping, their arms laden. One held up a salt-crusted ingot, its surface still gleaming where his fingers had rubbed it clean. "It's there," he panted. "More than we can carry."
By noon, the operation was a frenzy. Teams rotated in and out of the water, their hauls growing with each descent:
Gold dinars stamped with the faces of forgotten Fatimid caliphs.
Silver bars gone black with tarnish, their weight undeniable.
Jeweled hilts of ceremonial daggers, their blades long eaten by the sea.
A Sand Foxes agent tallied each recovery on a wax tablet, her stylus scratching furiously.
Taimur waded into the shallows himself, plunging his hands into a diver's net. He pulled free a goblet—its emerald inlay still intact, its rim bent from some ancient impact. The System's scan flickered:
[12th-century Fatimid, ceremonial wine vessel. Gold content: 80%. Estimated value: 300 dinars.]
He tossed it to the agent. "Add it to the pile."
They weren't alone.
A cry came from the lookout—a Venetian cog had rounded the northern headland, its oars digging hard toward them.
Taimur didn't hesitate. "Load what we have. Prepare to move."
The divers redoubled their efforts, hefting dripping sacks onto the waiting skiffs. The Sea Wolves marines, stationed onshore for this very moment, strung their bows.
The cog slowed, its captain clearly weighing the risk. Then, as if remembering stories of Greek fire, he ordered a retreat.
Taimur smiled. Let them report what they'd seen. Fear was as good as gold.
At dusk, in a locked warehouse reeking of salt and seaweed, the Sand Foxes agent presented the final tally:
"One hundred twenty thousand dinars' worth. And that's without melting down the artifacts."
Taimur ran a hand over the nearest chest, its wood swollen from years underwater. "Not enough. Not even close."
Dawn painted the Rosetta coast in pale gold as Taimur waded into the shallows, the cold Mediterranean water swirling around his knees. The divers had worked through the night by torchlight, their bare backs glistening with salt and sweat as they hauled up one treasure after another. The beach now resembled a merchant's fever dream—piles of gold ingots stacked like firewood, chests overflowing with Fatimid dinars, and jeweled daggers crusted with sea growth.
Yet it wasn't enough.
Taimur turned to the chief diver, a grizzled Sicilian with a face like sun-cracked leather.
"Again."
The System's tactical map pulsed in Taimur's vision, guiding them half a mile south where the seafloor dropped sharply. Here, the remains of a Fatimid war galley lay broken against a reef, its hull split open like a gutted fish.
The divers descended with weighted nets, their knives prying at barnacle-encrusted chests. One surfaced choking on seawater, his arms wrapped around a statue's head—solid gold, the face of some long-dead caliph, its emerald eyes gleaming with smug indifference.
"Found the paymaster's cabin," the diver spat, heaving it onto the sand.
Taimur's fingers brushed the cold metal. The System's scan flickered:
[Caliph Al-Hafiz ceremonial bust. Gold content: 92%. Estimated value: 50,000 dinars.]
By noon, they'd moved to deeper waters. A merchant carrack, sunk fleeing some forgotten battle, its hold still packed with Sicilian amber and raw silk preserved in wax-sealed barrels.
A Nubian diver surfaced with a scream, clutching a dagger buried in his forearm. "Cursed thing!" he snarled, yanking free a blade crusted in crimson coral.
Taimur took it. The hilt, beneath the growth, was ivory inlaid with rubies.
[Admiral Shawar's personal dagger. Historical significance: high. Melt value: negligible. Intel value: priceless.]
He tucked it into his belt. Some secrets were worth more than gold.
The cog returned at dusk, this time with two sister ships—low, lean, and armed.
Taimur didn't flinch. He nodded to the Sea Wolves marines hidden in the dunes.
As the first Venetian longboat touched shore, a single ballista bolt thudded into the sand at its prow. The message was clear.
The boats retreated.
Under armed guard, the treasure was hauled to Alexandria. The Sand Foxes scribes worked until their fingers cramped:
Gold ingots: 88,000 dinars
Fatimid dinars: 95,000 dinars
Artifacts (melt value): 42,000 dinars
Sicilian amber/silk: 25,000 dinars
Total: 250,000 dinars
Taimur exhaled. More than two-thirds of the armors were funded.
Outside, the first stars blinked awake over the harbor. Somewhere beneath those dark waters, more gold waited.
But for now, the wolves would eat.
The docks of Damietta buzzed like a stirred hornet's nest. Six thousand new recruits—fishermen with salt-cracked hands, former pirates with notched ears, Nubian river traders who knew every current of the Nile—stood in ragged lines along the waterfront. The morning sun burned off the river mist, revealing the skeletal frames of half-built ships stretching along the shore like the ribs of sea monsters.
Taimur walked the line, his gaze sharp. These men didn't yet stand like soldiers—but they would.
"From today," he called out, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd, "you stop being prey. You become the storm."
For six weeks, Damietta's shores echoed with the sounds of war.
At dawn, recruits practiced boarding drills on beached hulks, their bare feet slapping against sun-warmed planks as they swung axes and grappled with hooked ropes. By midday, the air filled with the twang of crossbow strings and the crack of wooden swords. At dusk, they learned fire control—how to douse Greek fire with wet sand, how to bail a flooding hull without panic.
An old pirate named Rasheed, missing two fingers to a Frankish broadsword, spat into the Nile as he watched the newest batch fumble with their weapons. "Green as seaweed," he muttered.
Taimur clapped him on the shoulder. "Then teach them to bleed properly."
By the end of the sixth week, the recruits moved with the precision of men who had known the sea all their lives—because they had. Only now, they knew how to kill on it.
While the men trained, the shipwrights worked.
The Nile Hawks took shape first—ten sleek shalandi-style scouts, their hulls narrow as knives, their masts rigged for speed. Each could skim the water like a dart, perfect for chasing down fat-bellied supply barges.
Next came the Sand Vipers, fifteen hybrid beasts that combined the troop capacity of a transport with the fangs of a warship. Based on Byzantine Ousiakos designs, they featured reinforced rams and elevated archer platforms. Shipwrights from Damascus swore as they fitted the complex hull joints, but the results were worth the curses.
The final fifteen ships were nightmares of a different kind—Flame Lancers, lean as dagger blades, modeled after Arabian Harraqa. Their bronze fire siphons gleamed under the afternoon sun. Twin Greek fire nozzles on rotating platforms could burn everything to ashes within forty paces.
Two months to the day after the first keel was laid, the fleet floated.
Taimur didn't coddle them.
The new fleet's first mission was a sweep along the coast, hunting pirates who had grown bold preying on Egyptian traders.
The Nile Hawks cornered the raiders in a rocky cove, while the Sand Vipers disgorged marines onto their decks. By sunset, twelve pirate vessels burned, their crews chained in the holds of their own ships.
Next came Crusader supply runs. A Venetian grain convoy vanished near Acre. A Templar arms shipment never reached Tyre. With each victory, the recruits' hesitation faded, replaced by the cold efficiency of veterans.
Rasheed, now a captain, grinned as he tossed a captured Frankish dagger onto the growing pile of loot. "Not so green anymore."
Salahuddin arrived unannounced, his black stallion kicking up dust as he rode down to the docks. The fleet stood ready—thirty ships, their decks lined with silent marines, their sails crisp in the morning breeze.
For a long moment, the Sultan said nothing. Then he turned to Taimur. "You've outdone yourself."
He walked the length of the flagship, a Sand Viper named Fang of the Delta, his fingers trailing along the railing. At the prow, he studied the iron ram, then the rows of Greek fire pots lashed to the forecastle.
"They need a name," he said at last.
Taimur nodded. "They've earned one."
Salahuddin's voice carried across the water. "From this moment, you are Dhuyūf al-Sahil—the Coastal Wolves."
The cheer that followed shook the gulls from the sky.
[System Notification: Coastal Wolves Established]
[+2,000 Merit Points]
[Total MP: 18,800 / 100,000]
That night, Taimur split the recruits permanently.
Three thousand six hundred to crew the fleet as marines and sailors.
Two thousand two hundred to garrison Damietta's port, manning the watchtowers and ballistae that guarded the harbor.
As the men dispersed to their posts, Taimur stood on the docks, watching the moonlight ripple across the Nile. Somewhere to the north, the Crusader lords would be gathering, staring at their maps with new unease.
Let them. The Nile had birthed a second pack of wolves.
The morning after the naming ceremony, Taimur stood on the deck of the lead Sand Viper, watching as crews hauled the fleet's true fangs aboard.
The weapons came in waves:
For the Nile Hawks (10 ships):
Twin Ballistae—mounted on swiveling platforms at bow and stern, capable of launching harpoons to cripple sails or flaming bolts to ignite decks.
Zhuge Repeaters—rapid-fire crossbows bolted to the rails, each loaded with five bolts, designed to sweep enemy decks before boarding.
For the Sand Vipers (15 ships):
Scorpion Launchers—massive windlass-powered crossbows mounted fore and aft, firing two types of projectiles: armor-piercing bolts and spinning chain-shot. Effective range: 200 paces.
Boarding Rams—retractable steel spikes hidden beneath the waterline, designed to gut enemy hulls during close passes.
For the Flame Lancers (15 ships):
Firestorm Launchers—catapults designed to hurl clay pots of Greek Fire in high arcs, raining destruction from a distance.
Blacksmiths from Damascus, Byzantine engineers, and teams of Nubian sailors worked tirelessly to mount these weapons. Taimur inspected each one personally. He rejected three ballistae for uneven draw weights and a siphon for leaking naphtha.
"Again," was all he said.
The sun hung low over the coast as the fleet moved into position, their sails slack in the evening calm. Ahead, a derelict Fatimid hulk floated lifelessly, its mast snapped, its hull weathered by years of neglect. It would serve as their prey.
The Nile Hawks struck first. Their ballistae thrummed in unison, sending heavy bolts screaming across the water. Wood splintered as the projectiles punched through the hulk's hull, leaving gaping wounds below the waterline. Before the echoes faded, the Zhuge Repeaters unleashed a storm of bolts that shredded the remaining sails, leaving the vessel dead in the water.
Then came the Sand Vipers. They advanced with methodical precision. The scorpion launchers cranked tight, then loosed with a sound like snapping bones. Armor-piercing bolts tore into the flanks, while chain-shot whirled through the air, wrapping around the shattered mast and dragging it down in a tangled heap. Grappling hooks followed, their iron barbs sinking deep into timber. Winches groaned as the Sand Vipers reeled the hulk closer, boarding bridges slamming down like jaws.
The Flame Lancers came last. Their catapults hurled Greek Fire in high arcs, the clay pots bursting on the deck in blooms of liquid flame. Then they darted in—lean, fast, lethal—their siphons spewing jets of fire that roared across the wood. The hulk ignited in an instant, consumed in a crackling flame. The ships backed away, oars churning, leaving their target to burn alone.
From the shore, Salahuddin watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Firelight danced in his dark eyes as the hulk collapsed in on itself, sending a pillar of smoke into the twilight.
Taimur stood beside him in silence.
Finally, the Sultan spoke, voice low. "You've given them fangs. And discipline."
Taimur nodded. "They'll need both."
The last embers glowed against the darkening sea.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, the real enemy waited.