#mamluks
Mornings are riper in Aleppo; vibrant with the afterglow of victory. Baybars basks in it, but remains bitter; scars break the tan on his shoulders, battle-worn and time-sealed, and he thinks of how this city was meant to be his—made to be his. He approaches Sultan Quṭuz detailed in smile and courtesy, and with grace, cranes to kiss his hand. On that signal, the Mamlūks descend. Quṭuz is speared through the neck, and Baybars—in a moment of euphoric fanaticism—seizes sovereignty.…
