The Dravenhold Throne
Invasions were still burning and hissing smoke as Draegor Nyx swept into Dravenhold Fortress' great hall, his entry alone enough to smother air in unbreakable dominance. The sigil of the beaten house that previously had ruled from this place lay prostrate, shattered and burnt to ashes, replaced by his emblem: black sun surrounded in blood-red blaze.
The castle was his. But conquest wasn't the end—just the beginning.
As the dust of the battle had time to settle, Draegor looked upon his soldiers. His army was growing. Warriors once against him now knelt, their wills broken, their swords submitted.
But submission was not loyalty.
Loyalty had to be forged.
Draegor spun about, red eyes scanning the kneeling soldiers. They knelt for fear, some out of need. Some, however, sported that look of those waiting patiently—for their weakness to manifest itself.
That would not be allowed.
He sat down on the seat over the cold stone throne, its surface inscribed with sigils of long-dead warlords from a bygone era. History bore heavily upon him, but do not be mistaken—this throne belonged to him now.
Seraphis emerged out of the shadows, falling to one knee in front of him. "Dravenhold is secure, my Lord."
Zaelith came behind, his silver eyes sizing. "The soldiers have been separated—those who faltered when swearing oath have been separated from the others."
Varek snarled. "What are you going to do with them?"
Draegor's fingers tapped the armrest of his throne. "Take them to the courtyard."
There was no choice. There was only compliance.
The Purging of Doubt
The fortress courtyard reeked of blood and burning wood as the soldiers were led before Draegor.
There were those who appeared resigned. Others who would not back down. All of them cowered in fear.
Draegor stood before them, his gaze a knife slicing through the air.
"You were given a choice," he said, his voice flat, but weighted with the gravity of an executioner's decree. "But I see doubt in your eyes."
A man—a former captain—stepped forward, his fists clenched.
"We swore our loyalty to you," the man snarled, his teeth bared. "What more do you want?"
Draegor's sneer was icy. "I want blind loyalty."
Without hesitation, he extended his hand.
The man's body froze, his breath trapped in his throat as some unseen power immobilized him. His limbs went rigid, and his face contorted in torment of understanding.
"You believe you can deceive me," Draegor continued, stepping closer. "But you cannot deceive a Tyrant."
The captain gasped in a trembling breath, his body shivering as dark energy flooded his veins, showing him his fear, his uncertainty, his intentions.
Betrayal.
That was all Draegor needed to see.
In a flick of his wrist, the captain's body collapsed in on itself, his soul ripped from existence. The remaining soldiers stared in terror.
"You are mine," Draegor declared, his voice unbreakable. "If you falter, if you fail, you will share his fate."
They stood there in silence. Then, kneeling down one by one, they accepted Draegor's offer.
There was no doubt now. No hesitation.
Only submission.
Taking the Stronghold
With Dravenhold secured in his grasp, the next step was to strengthen its defenses.
Zaelith stood next to a map of the area, his expression focused. "Dravenhold is strategically located. If we protect it enough, it can serve as a headquarters for expansion."
Seraphis nodded. "There remain isolated pockets of resistance within nearby villages. If left unchecked, they could cause problems."
Varek cracked his knuckles and smiled. "Then let us deal with them before they consider becoming a problem.".
Draegor leaned forward, eyes fixed on the map. "We establish our grip first. Expand our territory step by step. The countries around us will be brought low eventually—but we cannot afford to take a moment too long establishing our base."
Zaelith's smile was cold. "Gradual planning?"
The intensity of Draegor's stare was fixed. "I am not rash. I master."
The Rise of the Tyrant's Banner
Efficiency turned cruel in the days that followed.
Walls were strengthened. Patrols were launched. Villages along the road to Dravenhold swore allegiance before a single sword was ever drawn.
News of the fall of Dravenhold spread like fire. Some fled in terror, others came in hopes of conquest.
Mercenaries arrived, swords for sale. Warbands from distant lands sent emissaries, wondering at the unstemmable tide that had risen.
And at its heart, Draegor Nyx sat upon his throne, as his dynasty expanded.
But he knew this was just the beginning.
More powerful foes were to come. Greater wars in the offing.
And the world would soon discover.
The Tyrant would come.