The wind carried the scent of scorched stone and blood, but Zareth no longer smelled death—only opportunity.
From the highest point in the city, he overlooked the streets below. They whispered of him now. Some voices held awe, others terror, but none yet spoke with loyalty. That would change.
Veyron stood beside him, arms crossed. "The city's on edge. Most are waiting to see if you're a passing storm or the new ruler."
Zareth smirked. "Then we shall decide for them."
Veyron nodded. "I've gathered intelligence. There are figures worth considering—men who could be shaped into something useful."
He unrolled a map, pointing to three locations. "A broken warrior drowning in regret. A band of mercenaries who sell their blades to the highest bidder. And an auction—rumors say there's an Aetherbrand user among the slaves."
Zareth studied the map. Three paths, three choices. Each one a test.
"I will not beg for allies." He turned from the ledge, cloak billowing. "Let's see who deserves to stand at my side."
Zareth did not simply expect loyalty—he moved to claim it.
He walked through the city, unguarded, Veyron at his side. People flinched at his presence, some bowing their heads, others avoiding his gaze.
"Fear holds them," Veyron murmured. "But it's not enough."
Zareth stepped into the marketplace, where whispers ceased as he approached. A merchant hesitated, then fell to his knees. "L-Lord Zareth…"
Zareth lifted a brow. Lord? The title was premature, but he did not correct it.
He turned to the gathered crowd. "Your city is yours again." His voice carried, cutting through the tension. "The Dominion shackled you with fear, crushed you beneath their boots. They are gone now."
A few murmured agreement, but many only watched. Suspicious. Wary.
Zareth smiled. Let them think they have a choice.
"I did not come here for conquest. I came to reclaim what was mine." He gestured to the marketplace, to the battered city walls. "What you choose now is simple. Will you rise with me… or wait to be ruled again by another?"
A man scoffed from the crowd. "Easy for you to say. We live with the consequences."
Zareth's gaze snapped to him. The man flinched, but Zareth did not strike him down. Instead, he walked forward.
"And what consequences do you fear?" Zareth asked, voice low.
The man swallowed. "The Dominion will come back."
"They will," Zareth admitted. "And when they do, will you kneel again?"
Silence.
Zareth looked at the gathered faces, reading them. Some hesitated, some considered. But others… others understood.
He turned, satisfied. This was enough—for now.
The tavern was a dim, rotting place where ghosts of the past drowned in cheap liquor.
Zareth stepped inside, and the stench of ale and regret thickened. A few drunkards raised their heads, eyes widening in recognition. They did not challenge him.
At the back of the room, a man sat alone. His armor was rusted, his once-mighty form slouched over a tankard. Once feared. Once great. Now nothing.
Veyron leaned in. "Dalen Ironvein. Former Dominion captain. He was discarded after failing an important campaign. Now, he wastes away here."
Zareth approached.
Dalen didn't look up. "If you're here to kill me, get it over with."
Zareth pulled out a chair, sat across from him. "I don't waste time on the dead."
Dalen exhaled, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, but behind them, something still burned.
Zareth met his stare. "Do you think you are broken?"
A slow, bitter chuckle. "I don't think. I know."
Zareth leaned forward. "Then why are you still alive?"
Dalen went still.
Zareth continued, voice sharp. "A dead man does not drink. A dead man does not sit in the dark, drowning in his own misery. A dead man simply ceases to be."
Dalen's fingers tightened around his tankard.
Zareth pressed on. "You lost. You were discarded. But do you think the Dominion spares a single thought for you?"
Dalen's breath was heavy now. Rage and regret warred within him.
Zareth stood. "I offer no redemption, Dalen Ironvein. But if you would have vengeance—if you would reclaim what was stolen from you—then stand."
Dalen clenched his jaw. He said nothing.
Zareth turned away. "If you wish to rot, do so. I have no use for the weak."
He walked toward the exit, but before he reached the door, a voice rasped behind him.
"…What do you need from me?"
Zareth smiled.
The mercenaries camped near the city's outskirts. Rough men, hardened by war, selling their swords for coin.
Their leader, a broad-shouldered brute named Corvin, eyed Zareth with amusement. "You want to hire us?"
Zareth stepped forward. "I do not pay for loyalty."
Corvin snorted. "Then we have nothing to talk about."
Zareth moved.
His hand snapped out, grabbing Corvin's throat. He lifted the man effortlessly, slamming him against a post.
The mercenaries around them stiffened.
Zareth's voice was calm. "I do not buy men. I break them… or I forge them into something greater."
He dropped Corvin. The man coughed, rubbing his throat, but his eyes gleamed with something new.
Zareth turned to the others. "I offer no coin. Only a place at my side when I take back what was stolen from me."
The silence was thick.
Corvin wiped blood from his lip. Then he grinned. "You're mad."
Zareth smirked. "And yet you are still here."
The mercenaries watched. Waiting.
Corvin exhaled. Then he nodded. "We'll follow you."
For now.
Far away, within a fortress of obsidian and steel, a high-ranking Dominion official studied the report.
Zareth Valgarde.
The officer who had survived shook as he spoke. "He is real. He—he slaughtered Kaelric. And he… he's growing stronger."
The official tapped his fingers against the desk.
A messenger waited.
The official exhaled. "Send word to the Inquisitors."
The messenger hesitated. "All of them?"
A pause. Then—
"Yes."