Zareth had no illusions about the reality before him. His conquest had only just begun, yet war was already upon him. The Dominion had underestimated him once. They would not make that mistake again. Their retaliation would be swift, decisive—meant to erase any trace of his defiance before it could grow into something unstoppable.
But Zareth did not intend to be erased.
He had seen it before—empires believing they were invincible, only to crumble beneath the weight of their arrogance. The Dominion was vast, its reach undeniable, but its strength was not absolute. There were cracks, weaknesses hidden beneath its mask of divinity. And Zareth would find them.
Now was the time to forge his power, to mold the city into something more than a temporary stronghold. This was where his empire would rise—or where he would be buried.
Zareth stood atop a stone parapet, the wind pulling at the edges of his dark cloak as he surveyed the city below. From this vantage point, he could see the transformation beginning to take hold.
What had once been a chaotic sprawl of desperate survivors, cutthroats, and broken men was now something more structured, more disciplined. The streets that had been filled with uncertainty now moved with purpose. Men trained in open courtyards, smiths toiled to reinforce weapons and armor, and new leaders emerged among his growing forces.
The training grounds, a repurposed section of the city, were alive with the sounds of battle. Blades clashed, fists struck flesh, and orders rang out as men fought to earn their place in his ranks. Here, there was no room for weakness. Those who failed the trials were given a simple choice: leave or die.
Zareth's crimson gaze drifted toward a particular group locked in brutal combat. Among them was a man who moved differently than the rest—Draven.
Zareth had seen his potential before, in the nameless alley where he had cut through a group of men like a predator among prey. But skill alone was not enough. Strength meant nothing without discipline, without purpose. If Draven wanted to be something more than a killer, he would have to prove himself.
The warrior blocked an incoming strike with effortless precision before driving his knee into his opponent's gut. The man crumpled, wheezing, but Draven did not let up. He seized him by the collar, driving him into the dirt with finality.
Zareth watched, his expression unreadable.
"Good," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. Draven had the makings of a warhound—loyal, fierce, and relentless. He would be useful.
But he was not the only one being forged here.
Every warrior trained beneath Zareth's rule was learning a simple truth: they did not fight for survival alone. They fought for conquest.
Raw might could win battles, but knowledge shaped the course of war. Zareth understood this better than most.
Inside the halls of his stronghold, candlelight flickered against old parchment, maps, and scrolls spread across a long wooden table. Information was power, and he intended to gather every piece of it.
His men had scoured the city, unearthing long-abandoned records, speaking with scholars who had survived Dominion rule. They gathered reports from traders, mercenaries, and exiles—anyone who had set foot beyond these walls. He needed to know what lay beyond the city, where the Dominion's strongholds were, where their supply lines ran.
Then, there were the whispers.
"Old power," rasped Varik, a former Dominion scholar who had been dragged from hiding weeks ago. He was gaunt, eyes hollow, but his mind was still sharp. "Buried under time, erased from history. The Dominion does not fear men—they fear what they cannot control."
Zareth leaned forward, his fingers pressing against the table. "Explain."
Varik swallowed. "There were artifacts. Places of power. The God-King ordered them purged centuries ago, yet some rumors persist. Hidden weapons, forbidden knowledge—things that could change the tides of war."
The words held weight, but Zareth had no time for myths.
"Where?"
"I... I don't know. But if these secrets still exist, the Dominion will have buried them well."
Zareth's mind turned. If such power was real, then he would claim it. If not, then he would find other advantages. The war ahead demanded more than brute force.
Zareth had anticipated retaliation. What he had not anticipated was how soon it would come.
Scouts returned, breathless and bloodied, their reports grim. A force was marching—not a disorganized response, but a calculated strike.
At its head was Commander Kaelric Thorne.
Unlike the scouts, spies and low-level enforcers who had fallen before Zareth, Kaelric was no fool. He was a seasoned war strategist, a man who had led campaigns across entire regions. He was not here to test Zareth's strength. He was here to crush it.
"He doesn't come with fodder," one scout muttered. "These are trained killers. Inquisitors, Elite soldiers. Hundreds of them."
Zareth remained silent.
The weight of battle pressed against the city like an impending storm, but Zareth did not bow to storms. He shaped them.
Within the war room, the air was tense. Maps were strewn across the table, formations sketched in ink. His commanders—if they could be called that—stood around him. Veyron was among them, his sharp mind already analyzing the coming war. Draven stood at the back, silent but listening.
Zareth's gaze fell to the map.
The Dominion thought they were marching into a city. They were wrong. They were marching into a battlefield of his design.
"We will not fight them head-on," Zareth said. "We control the terrain. We decide how this battle unfolds."
Certain districts would be fortified, bottlenecking enemy forces into kill zones. His forces would use hit-and-run tactics, striking and retreating before the Dominion could regroup. The city itself would become a weapon—collapsed streets, ambush points, hidden explosives.
Then, there was the final decision. Would he hold the city, drawing the Dominion into a brutal siege? Or would he strike first, disrupting their advance before they reached the walls?
His eyes burned with cold determination.
This would not be a battle of survival. It would be the first act of his conquest.