Dravenhold stood stronger than ever. The banners of the black sun fluttered across the fortress, its walls reinforced, its halls echoing with the whispers of soldiers who knew better than to speak Draegor Nyx's name in vain. Fear was a weapon, and he had wielded it with brutal efficiency.
But fear alone was not enough.
The world was watching. His conquest had begun, but true power required more than just victory in battle. It required control. It required dominion that could not be shaken.
Draegor stood atop the highest tower of the fortress, the wind howling against his cloak. His crimson eyes surveyed the land beyond, where the villages and farmlands now swore fealty to him out of necessity rather than loyalty.
Zaelith joined him, his silver eyes reflecting the distant torchlights of the settlements below. "The Blackwood rebels were a lesson to those who still waver, but not all have learned. There are whispers of resistance to the east, near the Ironclad Province."
Draegor's fingers curled over the stone railing. "Who leads them?"
"A lordling named Varos Dain," Zaelith answered. "His father ruled before you took Dravenhold. He fled during the siege, gathering what remains of his household guards and mercenaries. He believes he can take back what was lost."
Draegor's lips curled into a smirk. "Let him believe it. He will learn the truth soon enough."
Seraphis materialized beside them, her spectral form flickering in the night. "Shall I send my wraiths to silence him before he gathers strength?"
Draegor considered the offer, then shook his head. "No. Let him amass his forces. Let him believe he has a chance. Then, when he marches, we will shatter him in the open for all to see."
Zaelith's grin was sharp. "A spectacle, then?"
Draegor nodded. "A message. One that cannot be ignored."
The Weight of the Crown
Days passed, and the first signs of Varos Dain's movement reached Draegor's ears. The young lord had begun gathering men under his banner—disgruntled nobles, mercenaries, and deserters who sought to reclaim Dravenhold. He had yet to march, but his forces swelled with each passing day.
Draegor remained patient. He had crushed the first rebellion with overwhelming force, but this required a different approach. He needed to show the world that resistance was futile, that the very idea of standing against him was foolishness.
Inside the grand hall of Dravenhold, he sat upon his throne as the latest reports were delivered. Varek stood by his side, arms crossed, eager for bloodshed.
"They're growing bolder," Varek grunted. "Attacking our supply caravans, striking patrols near the eastern roads. They think they're being clever."
Draegor's gaze darkened. "Then we will remind them who holds the chains of this land."
He rose from his throne, his shadow stretching long across the hall. "Gather the army. We will not wait for them to come to us."
Zaelith smirked. "Shall we burn them out?"
"No," Draegor said. "We break them. Publicly. Thoroughly. So that no others will dare rise again."
The March to War
The banners of the Black Sun moved like a storm across the land.
Draegor led his forces east, a calculated march meant to draw the enemy out. He did not move with reckless abandon—every step, every decision was made with precision. He let word of his advance spread, knowing that Varos Dain would take the bait.
And the fool did.
By the time Draegor's army reached the Ironclad Province's outskirts, Varos had gathered his forces in open rebellion. A force of three thousand stood against Draegor's two thousand, believing numbers alone could turn the tide.
But numbers meant nothing without strength. Without power. Without fear.
Standing atop his warhorse, Draegor looked upon the gathered army of his enemy. Varos Dain sat in the distance, his banners raised high, his soldiers ready for battle.
Zaelith rode beside Draegor, his expression one of amusement. "They truly think they have a chance."
Draegor chuckled darkly. "Then let's show them otherwise."
He raised a single hand. A signal.
The air shifted.
Darkness swirled.
And the battlefield was consumed by shadow.
The Tyrant's Wrath
The enemy had little time to react. One moment, they stood ready for battle. The next, a suffocating force descended upon them like an avalanche.
Draegor moved through the battlefield like a specter of death. His power lashed out in waves, crushing soldiers beneath its weight. The ground beneath their feet cracked and split, tendrils of abyssal energy surging forth to consume those who dared to resist.
Varek led the charge, his massive axe cleaving through flesh and bone like paper. Zaelith danced between enemies, a blur of silver steel and crimson blood. Seraphis's wraiths tore through the terrified ranks, turning men into shriveled husks before their screams even faded.
Varos Dain watched in horror as his army—his rebellion—crumbled before his very eyes.
Draegor found him in the chaos. The young lord's blade trembled in his grip, his face pale with fear.
"P-please," Varos stammered, falling to his knees as Draegor approached. "We— We can surrender! My men will stand down! There is no need for—"
His words were cut off as Draegor seized him by the throat, lifting him effortlessly into the air.
"Surrender?" Draegor mused, his voice like ice. "You misunderstand. I did not come to negotiate."
Varos's eyes widened as dark tendrils coiled around his body, tightening, squeezing, draining the very essence of his life. His scream was brief. His death was absolute.
When his body fell lifeless to the ground, the remaining rebels threw down their weapons. The battle was over.
But Draegor was not done.
A Lesson in Obedience
By nightfall, what remained of Varos Dain's rebellion was paraded before the people of the Ironclad Province.
They were broken, their spirits shattered. Some had hoped to die in battle. Instead, they were made an example.
Draegor stood before the gathered crowd, his voice carrying like a funeral bell. "This is what happens to those who defy me."
He gestured, and his wraiths moved.
One by one, the captured rebels were forced to kneel. And one by one, their souls were ripped from their bodies, their husks left as hollow warnings to all who would dare think of rebellion again.
The people of Ironclad did not cheer. They did not resist.
They knelt.
And that was enough.
As Draegor turned away, his dominion now stretching even further, he knew one thing for certain.
His reign had only just begun.