The field was quiet.
At dawn's break, cold light extended shadows out long across Blackspire Ridge, illuminating what remained of the once-mighty enemy citadel. Stench of burnt meat, burned earth, and steel clung in the air. Fallen warriors covered the ground, armor charred, weapons discarded as if abandoned mementos of a lost battle.
At the summit of the highest ridge, Draegor Nyx stood, his red-eyed stare sweeping the battle plain with glacial satisfaction.
They had won.
But it was far from being over.
It was merely just beginning.
The Price of Defiance
Zaelith reappeared at Draegor's shoulder, his black cloak blowing in the wind. His countenance was as unreadable as ever, but his tone held the merest hint of amusement.
"Those of them last have been rounded up," he said. "Those who didn't flee or die, anyway."
Draegor's gaze shifted to the makeshift prison on the lower slope. Dozens of enemy soldiers taken prisoner crouched in the ground, arms wrested from them, their faces contorted with despair.
There were a few who still held on to hope.
A mistake.
Draegor walked down the hill, weighed by a ruler returned to his people. He drew eyes as he walked. The prisoners remained frozen, some shrinking, some lowering their eyes in mute terror.
He paused before them, the air electric with anticipation.
Then, he spoke.
"You disobeyed me."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Your leaders, your commanders—those who took you into this war believing that you had a hope." He extended a clawed hand out towards the battlefield, where their fallen comrades were scattered in the dust.
"Look at what that hope has gained you."
There was nothing.
Then one of the captives—a boy, barely more than a youth—gritted his teeth and forced himself to speak.
"We… we were fighting to defend our home…"
Draegor's scarlet eyes pinned him.
"Your home?" His voice was almost derisive. "Your 'home' was lost the moment you raised your arms against me."
The soldier trembled with terror but did not look away.
Draegor stepped closer.
"In another life, I might have admired your resolve." He tilted his head. "But in this one, your resolve has no place before me."
One swipe of his claw.
One explosion of Abyssal energy.
And the soldier collapsed, lifeless, his body turning into smoldered ash.
The other prisoners reached a sudden standstill. They gasped or recoiled, some of them instantly laying down their foreheads on the floor in silent capitulation.
Draegor let the silence stay.
And then he turned to the rest of them.
"Kneel. Burn."
There wasn't any pause this time.
They all lowered themselves to a knee.
The Division of Power
Seraphis arrived a moment afterward, her wraiths drifting through the wreckage like harbingers of doom. Her silver eyes scanned the prisoners, then turned toward Draegor with lazy interest.
"You left some alive," she said.
Draegor did not answer immediately. Rather, he gestured toward Varek, who was organizing the recovery of weapons, armor, and equipment from the vanquished foe's camp.
We need bodies to reinforce our numbers," Draegor finally replied. "Not everyone is worth the trouble, but those who give up… will be given a purpose."
Seraphis laughed. "And if they rebel against us?"
Draegor's expression turned cold. "Then they will learn why treason is rewarded with death."
The Warpath Continues
By noon, Blackspire Fortress had incorporated the conquered fortress fully.
Torn banners were removed and replaced with the sigil of Draegor—a black sun encircled by red flames. The fortress, which had been a symbol of resistance, was now a symbol of his tyranny.
Zaelith brought back new information.
"The next target is to the east," he stated. "A fortress-city named Dravenhold. Well-protected, but nothing beyond our capabilities."
Draegor nodded, balancing the next move. Momentum was key. The world wouldn't stand still, and neither would he.
"Then we set out at dawn."
Velistra, who'd stood transfixed atop the battlements, finally spoke up. "If we continue to push them hard enough, the kingdoms will be compelled to accept the peril that we embody."
Draegor smiled. "Good."
He stood before the smoldering wreckage of the battlefield once more, his bloody eyes aglow with the same dying embers.
Let them realize the risk.
They would already be too late when they eventually knew.