The hills outside Acre trembled with quiet activity.
Roland's forces spread across the landscape like a tightening noose—controlled, deliberate, and unseen by most inside the chaotic city. Scouts slipped through orange groves and rocky paths. Engineers marked roads. Cavalry units practiced maneuvers in silence.
This was not a siege with ladders and stone throwers.
Not yet.
This was strangulation.
Lucien watched as Roland studied a set of reports. "Three warlords and not one competent among them. Honestly impressive."
Roland smirked. "Their incompetence is the only reason Acre hasn't already fallen to someone else."
He tapped the parchment.
"Warlord Darim controls the eastern quarter—mercenaries and smugglers. Rashid holds the docks. Ferrand rules the old citadel with a band of ex-knights."
Lucien frowned. "And they all hate each other more than us."
"Exactly," Roland said. "Which means we don't attack any of them."
Lucien blinked. "Then what do we do?"
"We cut their trade routes, choke their grain supply, and make the situation unbearable. They'll fight each other harder than they fight us."
He folded the report. "And when one of them begs for help, we'll be waiting."
Closing the Roads
By nightfall, Roland had cavalry sweep the northern roads, mounted archers patrol the coast cliffs, and infantry secure the southern farmlands.
Any caravan approaching Acre found itself stopped—not by threats, but by controlled inspections and taxes.
All official-sounding.
All legal-sounding.
All totally suffocating.
"Is this… a blockade?" a young captain asked.
Roland shook his head. "A blockade is an act of war. This is the enforcement of 'regional stabilization measures' granted to me by the Jerusalem Council."
Lucien laughed under his breath. "You're getting frighteningly good at this."
Roland didn't deny it.
Within two days, Acre felt the pressure.
Food prices doubled.
Water sellers fought in the streets.
Warlords blamed each other.
And whispers spread of a "Jerusalem general" waiting in the hills.
Exactly as planned.
The First to Break
On the fourth night, Roland's scouts intercepted a lone rider approaching the camp with a white cloth tied to his spear.
"A messenger," the scout reported.
They brought the trembling man before Roland.
He knelt. "My lord… I come from Warlord Ferrand, guardian of the citadel. He seeks audience."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "The ex-knight?"
Roland nodded. "He's the only one with formal training. And the only one proud enough to know he's losing."
He addressed the messenger. "Tell your master he may come at dawn. Unarmed. With two attendants only."
The messenger bowed. "He will come."
When the man left, Lucien exhaled. "So Ferrand's the first to bend. What will you demand?"
Roland didn't blink.
"His loyalty… or his city."
Ferrand's Arrival
Dawn broke red over the hills as Ferrand rode up the slope toward Roland's command tent.
He was older than Roland expected—grey at the temples, beard uneven, armor scratched and patched. But his posture still held the dignity of a knight who once served under kings.
"Sir Roland of Jerusalem," he greeted bluntly. "You have caused me no end of trouble."
Roland motioned him to sit. "Acre is falling apart. I'm offering stability."
Ferrand scoffed. "You want Acre for yourself."
Roland leaned forward. "I want Acre for Jerusalem."
Silence.
Ferrand studied him, as if trying to peel away truth from intention.
Finally, the old knight spoke. "Rashid controls the docks. Darim controls the markets. I control the citadel. If I aid you, the other two will unite against me."
"Not if we strike first," Roland said.
Ferrand hesitated—a warrior torn between caution and opportunity. "If I open the citadel gates to you, do you swear Acre will not be burned? That its people will be protected?"
Roland's voice was steady. "I swear on Jerusalem."
Ferrand nodded.
And that was all.
The Battle of the Southern Gate
At sunset, Roland's forces advanced in coordinated silence.
Ferrand's men opened the citadel's southern gate just enough for Roland's infantry to slip inside. Cavalry moved around the outer walls. Archers took positions on rooftops.
When Rashid's dock guards spotted the movement, they panicked and sounded the alarm.
Acre erupted.
Shouts filled the air. Bells clanged. Torches lit up the streets.
Roland drew his sword. "We neutralize Rashid first!"
His infantry pushed through narrow alleys in tight formation. Arrows rained from windows. Roland's shieldbearers raised their walls and advanced steadily.
Rashid's men fought like cornered wolves—undisciplined but desperate.
Lucien rode in from the left with the mounted archers, loosing volleys down the dockside. The archers' speed and precision shattered Rashid's scattered defenses.
Then Roland saw him—
Rashid himself, directing men from atop a stack of crates.
Roland pointed. "Take him alive!"
He plunged into the smoke-filled chaos, cutting through defenders. Rashid tried to flee but crashed into a group of villagers fleeing the fighting.
Roland leapt from his horse, tackled the warlord, and slammed him to the ground.
"It's over," Roland said.
The docks fell within minutes.
Acre's Turning Point
By midnight, Rashid was in chains.
Darim, seeing the citadel taken and the docks lost, abandoned the city with his mercenaries.
Ferrand formally submitted Acre to Roland's command.
The next morning, Roland stood atop the citadel walls overlooking the city—no longer fractured, no longer divided, but subdued and stabilizing under a single banner.
Lucien stepped beside him. "One city reclaimed."
Roland nodded slowly.
"One step closer to Tripoli."
The wind carried the distant sound of the sea.
Jerusalem's standard snapped above the walls.
Acre was no longer a lost relic.
It was the beginning of a restored kingdom.
And Roland was not done.
Not even close.