The silence stretched thin over the war camp, broken only by the crackle of distant torches and the muffled voices of restless soldiers. Zareth stood at the edge of a ridge, gaze fixed on the land beyond, where darkness swallowed the horizon. His mind pieced together the inconsistencies—subtle at first, but now impossible to ignore.
Scouts had vanished without a trace. Supply routes were disrupted in ways too precise to be coincidence. Ambushes struck where they shouldn't have been possible.
Someone was watching. Someone who knew.
"This isn't just luck," Veyron muttered beside him, arms crossed, his usual smirk absent. "They know our moves before we make them."
Zareth remained silent. His expression was unreadable, but the weight behind his gaze sharpened. He agreed. This war was no longer just about strength. It was a battle for control over information, over perception.
And right now, they were losing.
If they wanted to manipulate him from the shadows, Zareth would drag them into the open.
"We make our move," he said at last.
Veyron raised a brow. "What kind of move?"
"A false one."
Zareth's plan was simple: spread misleading information, alter his troop formations, stage movements that never truly existed. The goal was to bait the unseen enemy into reacting—to force them to act before they were ready.
But this wasn't just about revealing their presence. It was a test.
If they took the bait, it would confirm what he suspected: they weren't just observing him. They were embedded, manipulating events from within.
And once he knew how deeply their influence ran—he would sever it.
Even if the Inquisitors were his greatest concern, Zareth hadn't forgotten about his own forces.
Strength alone wasn't enough. He needed warriors who could keep up, who wouldn't crumble the moment real pressure bore down on them.
The next morning, he put them to the test.
What started as a routine training session became something far more brutal. He didn't simply assess their combat ability—he forced them into scenarios that tested their instincts, their willpower, their ability to think under pressure.
A warrior who hesitated died. A soldier who relied on brute force lost to someone faster.
One fighter—a sharp-tongued, arrogant man who had proven skilled but undisciplined—dared to question Zareth's methods.
"Is this really necessary?" the man scoffed after being forced to his knees for the third time. "We've already proven we can fight."
Zareth's eyes flicked toward him. No anger. No irritation. Just a cold, calculating indifference.
A heartbeat later, he moved.
The warrior barely had time to react before Zareth struck—lightning-fast, unrelenting. A single motion, and the man was flat on his back, gasping for air, his weapon knocked far from his grasp.
Zareth loomed over him, voice calm.
"You either learn," he said, "or you die. There is no in-between."
Silence. Then, slowly, the man nodded.
The lesson was understood.
By nightfall, Zareth's trap was in place.
His false movements had been set—enough of a shift in troop deployment to suggest a weakness, an opportunity for any watching enemy to exploit.
But something felt off.
They hadn't even fully completed the deception when the enemy struck.
Too soon.
Not a full-scale assault. Not an overwhelming force. A surgical strike—meant to cripple, not kill.
Zareth caught it instantly.
"They're not trying to win," he murmured, stepping forward. "They're trying to bleed us.**
Wearing him down. Step by step.
A cold, sharp smile ghosted across his lips.
They thought they understood him.
They thought they could control the pace of this war.
They were wrong.
In the aftermath of the attack, the remnants of their foes lay scattered—a few bodies, some abandoned weapons, little else. But there was one thing left behind.
An insignia.
Veyron crouched, picking it up. The moment his eyes landed on the crest, his fingers tightened.
A beat of silence.
Then, low and quiet, he said, "I've seen this before."
Zareth turned to him, gaze narrowing. "Where?"
Veyron exhaled slowly. "Not just anywhere. This—" He turned the insignia over in his hands. "—isn't just some noble's mark."
Zareth took the insignia from him. The moment his eyes settled on the symbol, memories surged.
A curved blade. Blood pooling at his feet. A sigil stamped onto armor—onto banners—onto the chestplates of the men who betrayed him.
Recognition struck like a blade to the spine.
The last time he had seen this insignia, he had been kneeling, surrounded by executioners.
A Dominion insignia. But not just any. An Inquisitor's personal crest.
And not just any Inquisitor.
Zareth's grip tightened until the insignia nearly snapped between his fingers.
"They've been watching me longer than I thought." His voice was quiet, but there was something dangerous beneath it.
Veyron's brow furrowed. "You know whose this is?"
Zareth's jaw clenched. His mind ran through the names of those who had stood against him two centuries ago—who had ensured his execution.
The list had been long.
But now, one name rose to the surface.
And he finally knew who he was truly fighting.