Tyre had changed overnight.
Where once the city looked suspiciously at Roland's banners, now people watched him with awe and cautious hope. Harbor workers raised the cross of Jerusalem beside Tyre's emblem. Merchants hung white cloth outside their stalls — a traditional Tyrian sign of gratitude to a protector.
But Roland understood something clearly:
Gratitude is not loyalty.
Loyalty is forged through consistency.
And consistency required action.
A Council Divided, Yet Committed
The morning after the alliance was signed, Roland met the Tyrian council once more. This time, instead of fear, the hall hummed with purpose.
Maps of Tripoli were spread across the table, weighted down by candles.
Aldred stood beside Roland, no longer a challenger but not yet a friend.
"Tripoli is fractured," Aldred explained. "Three nobles claim the title of Count. None have the power to unite the region."
Lucien crossed his arms. "Which means they'll all fight us separately. Easier."
Ferrand smirked. "Or try to ally against us. Better."
Roland traced a finger along the coastline north of Tyre.
"Tripoli cannot stand isolated," he said. "If we secure it, the entire coast becomes whole again. Jerusalem's northern border would finally be stable."
A merchant councilor asked nervously, "But you do not mean to invade Tripoli, do you?"
Roland didn't hesitate.
"No."
The council murmured with relief—
until Roland continued:
"We will cleanse Tripoli of the forces tearing it apart. Bandits, false lords, raiders… all of them."
Silence fell.
Roland added:
"And when Tripoli is safe, its people will choose who protects them."
Aldred studied Roland quietly.
"You already know who they will choose," Aldred said.
Roland did not deny it.
A Hidden Knife
After the council dismissed, Roland walked with Lucien through Tyre's inner streets. Children followed them, cheering, while vendors pushed small gifts into their hands—dates, olives, dried fish.
Yet Roland felt something off.
A man in a cloak, hood low, watched from a shaded corner.
When Roland made eye contact, the man disappeared into the alleys.
Lucien caught the look. "You see him?"
"Yes."
"Same man from the harbor yesterday?" Lucien asked.
"Yes."
They said nothing more.
Spies in the Wind
Later that evening, Roland met Ferrand and two Tyrian captains on the city walls.
Ferrand grunted. "We captured two spies outside the northern gate."
"Who sent them?" Roland asked.
Ferrand frowned. "We don't know. They weren't Tripolian. Their dialect sounded… Armenian, maybe. Or Cilician."
Roland stared out at the coastline.
A new player was watching.
"And the cloaked man?" Roland asked.
Ferrand shook his head. "Gone before we could corner him."
Lucien leaned against the battlements. "Tripoli hasn't even seen your army yet, and someone's already worried."
Roland wasn't so sure.
This didn't feel like Tripoli.
It felt bigger.
And more calculated.
Preparing the Army
For the next several days, Tyre became a forge of preparation.
Jerusalem's knights drilled Tyrian levies, teaching them tighter formation and coordinated signals.
Tyrian craftsmen repaired armor and reforged broken weapons.
Roland reorganized supply lines, ensuring food and water could sustain a long march up the coast.
Scouts mapped the safest passes, noting Tripoli's internal conflicts and the bandit groups that dominated the surrounding countryside.
Roland spent hours sparring with his commanders, testing their limits, refining tactics. His focus was relentless.
Aldred observed the training with crossed arms.
"You push your men hard," he noted.
Roland nodded. "Because Tripoli is more dangerous than its fractured politics suggest."
Aldred raised an eyebrow. "More dangerous than the serpent raiders? More dangerous than Karlen?"
Roland's expression tightened.
"Those were threats.
Tripoli is an opportunity—and opportunities attract enemies."
Aldred was silent for a moment.
Then he said something Roland didn't expect:
"I will ride with you."
Roland turned. "You, a Tyrian knight, riding under Jerusalem's banner?"
Aldred met his gaze.
"I ride under the banner that defends this coast. If that is Jerusalem… then so be it."
For the first time, Roland nodded with genuine respect.
Nightfall Intrusion
On the eve before the march, Roland returned to his quarters in Tyre's citadel.
The door was ajar.
Roland entered cautiously, hand on his blade.
A single parchment lay on his table, weighed down by a stone.
Roland lifted it.
A message written in precise, deliberate script:
"You move north too quickly.
Tripoli is not your enemy.
But the one watching you… is."
No signature.
Only a symbol drawn beneath it:
A single eye, open and staring.
Lucien entered behind Roland. "What is that?"
Roland handed him the parchment.
Lucien frowned. "Who the hell sends a warning instead of a threat?"
Roland looked out the window at the dark coastline.
"Someone who doesn't want the coast united," Roland said softly.
"Someone who needs Tripoli fractured."
Ferrand entered, breathing heavily. "More scouts reported unfamiliar riders near the eastern road."
Roland clenched his fist.
The hidden enemy was growing bolder.
Which meant the next move had to be his.
He turned to his commanders.
"Tomorrow we march to Tripoli.
But stay sharp. There is a power behind the shadows…
and it does not want us to succeed."
The March Begins
At dawn, Roland's army assembled outside Tyre's gates.
The banners of Jerusalem and Tyre flew side-by-side for the first time in decades.
Citizens lined the walls, cheering. Children waved white scarves. Merchants bowed.
Roland mounted his horse and looked north.
Tripoli awaited.
Fragmented. Weak. Bleeding.
But someone hidden wanted it kept that way.
Roland raised his sword.
"Forward!"
The army moved.
The campaign to unify the coast had begun.
And so had the silent war against the unseen enemy.