The Burden of a Throne
The cold stone of Dravenhold's throne cut into Draegor Nyx's back as he sat in the high hall, red eyes sweeping the flickering torchlight that danced along the fortress walls. Outside the walls, the banners of the overthrown lords had been ripped down, the black sun of his empire hoisted in their stead. The fortress was his, and his rule had begun—but triumph was never the end. It was only the start.
Reports flowed in like the tide. Rebellion rumors. Small insurrections. Whispers of those who still clung to the old ways, refusing to kneel.
Zaelith stood at his side, silver eyes intent. "There are still pockets of resistance in the villages surrounding Dravenhold. A few brave fools think they can strike at us while we consolidate."
Varek let out a low growl, his hands curling eagerly. "Then we show them that's a mistake."
Draegor didn't stir. He could feel it—the undercurrents of rebellion. The embers of doubt that had not yet been stamped out. It was natural. A kingdom born of blood always fostered murmurs of revenge.
Whispers did not concern him. He would not allow them to become roars.
Seraphis stepped forward, her ethereal form shifting like mist. "My scouts have confirmed the leaders of these rebels. They are remnants of the previous lord's vassals, gathering forces in the Blackwood Hills."
Draegor's expression did not change. "How many?"
"Three warbands, scattered between the villages," she replied. "They lack numbers, but they rely on guerrilla tactics—attacking our supply lines and disappearing before retaliation."
Zaelith scoffed. "A lingering death by a thousand cuts? Cowardly."
Draegor rose from his throne, his voice booming across the hall.
"Then we will cauterize the infection before it infects."
The First Strike
Night fell across the Blackwood Hills. The rebels, believing themselves safe in the dark woods, had built hastily assembled camps deep in the shadows.
They never knew what hit them.
Draegor moved through the darkness like a ghost, his forces descending upon the camp with surprise. Shadows frothed at his fingertips, the air thick with terror as he raised his clawed hand.
"Crush them."
Varek lumbered forward, his massive form plowing through the first wave of resistance. Swords clashed, shrieks pierced the air, and reddened the ground as the rebels tried to defend themselves.
Zaelith fought with deadly grace, cutting through foes with a precision that made war an art. Seraphis's wraiths fell among the troops in a panic, their souls ripped from their flesh before they could even scream.
Draegor stood in the middle of the melee, his presence enough to draw the resolve from those who would oppose him. The air shimmered as he held out his hand, dark energy tendrils wrapping about his fingers like a serpent.
A rebel captain charged forward, a desperate glint in his eye.
A flick of Draegor's wrist. A burst of abyssal power.
The man fell mid-step, his life force drained in an instant. His body turned to ash.
The other rebels stopped. Some tried to flee.
Draegor allowed none of it.
A single word echoed out into the night.
"Kneel."
The power of his will washed over them like a wave. Those who stood against him felt their bodies trembling, their strength draining away. One by one, they fell to their knees, swords falling from weakened grips.
It was the battle's end.
The Fate of the Defiant
The surviving rebels stood before Draegor, their faces pale with fear.
"You had a choice," he said, his voice level, though with unstated menace. "You chose wrongly."
One of the commanders, a grizzled war veteran with a flame in his eyes, spat on the ground. "We will never kneel to a creature like you."
Draegor's head inclined, and he was obviously amused. "Then you will have another purpose."
Dark energy formed around his hand. The man's breath hitched as his body locked up. His veins grew dark, his skin graying as his very life force was ripped from his body.
A hollow husk collapsed where he had been standing. And beside Draegor, a new wraith stood—silent, obedient, bound to his will.
The other rebels stared in horror.
Draegor's gaze swept over them. "You have one option. Serve me—or join him."
Silence. Then, one by one, slowly, the rest of the rebels bowed their heads.
A slow smile crept across Draegor's lips.
Loyalty could be formed in a multitude of ways. Some bent willingly. Others required… persuading.
The Tyrant's Next Move
As the dawn broke over Dravenhold, Draegor stood atop the fortress walls, his flags waving in the wind. The rebellion had been crushed before it ever had a chance to begin. His reign was safe.
There was still work to be done, however.
Zaelith approached him, his expression thoughtful. "The surrounding lands have taken note. Fear is rising. Some will join us. Others will stand against us."
Draegor's eyes gleamed. "Then we attack before they can deliberate."
Varek cracked his knuckles. "Where next?"
Draegor's gaze locked on the horizon.
"There are still kings who think their thrones mean something." His voice was cold, resolute. "We will tell them otherwise."
The world would kneel.
And Draegor Nyx would make it happen by his hand.
The Tyrant's war had only just begun.