The South was rising in rebellion, a conflagration that burned faster than Draegor had anticipated. It was not merely a rebellion that was sparked by the lust for freedom, but by the whispers of those who had carried long-standing grudges against the Tyrant's rule. The dissent was not among the tribes only, but right in the heart of Draegor's empire, among his own troops and generals. He had expected it to happen—he had prepared for it. Even Draegor however, could no longer disregard the mounting pressure.
Seraphis had been working tirelessly, moving the strings behind the scenes, to ensure that those who remained loyal to Draegor did not waver in the face of rebellion. She was a supreme manipulator of the long game, always thinking, always scheming. Even she could not fully stem the tide of change, though.
It was a strange feeling for Draegor, one that nagged at the edge of his consciousness. For the first time in years, he was not the one calling the shots. He was not the one who was forcing the world to his desires. No, for once, the world was moving on its own momentum—and Draegor was being forced to react.
He leaned out on the balcony once more, gazing out into the rolling darkness of southern lands. The storm clouds gathered overhead, mirroring that which stormed within his own empire. The wind carried with it the scent of impending disorder, and Draegor knew that time was slipping away.
Varek had paced for days, the threat of battle exciting some primal element within him. The Battle Beast grew impatient, anxious to put his strength against the rebel armies. "Let them come near," he had uttered many times before, his voice thick with anticipation. "I am tired of waiting, Draegor. Let us crush them ere they are more formidable."
But Draegor was always a patient man. He understood the power of delay—the ability to let an adversary strike first, to watch them overextend themselves. And that was exactly what he intended to do. The rebellion was a fleeting thing, a creature of imagination. It would burn itself out. The issue was when—and more importantly, who would remain standing in the ashes when the fire had died out.
Zaelith had been quieter than usual, his watchful eyes never straying far from Draegor's shoulder. He was always the one who sensed the invisible, who heard the things that others did not. And now, his eyes were fixed on the cracks in Draegor's empire. "The cracks are widening," Zaelith had warned. "You have to act fast, or the structure will crumble."
It was a warning that Draegor heeded not. His empire had been built upon something more than simple military prowess; it was built upon power, upon control, upon the insidious strings that bound all of his hold together. If those strings snapped—if the devotion of his warriors, and of those who were not warriors, were to start to fray—then all would collapse.
Seraphis entered the war room, her silver eyes blazing with an intensity equal to the storm that raged outside. "The rebellion is strengthening," she said, her tone firm, but with a hint of urgency. "They have the backing of the southern tribes, but their strength is not as great as they think it is. If we strike now, we can break their momentum before it takes root.".
Draegor whirled away from the window, his expression flat. "We'll wait," he stated shortly. "They're banking on our making a move. Let them think they're in control."
"But they're not," Seraphis countered, his brow furrowed. "If you linger long enough, the rebellion will gain strength beyond your control. We need to move before it becomes too well entrenched."
Draegor's lips twisted into a cynical smile, one that did not reach his eyes. "Seraphis, you always were one to appreciate the strategy. But sometimes the best move is the one which is not made. We will let them overextend. When they are exhausted, then we shall act."
Seraphis looked at him, her expression blank. "And what if it doesn't? What if they do not exhaust themselves as you would have them?
Draegor's eyes turned icy. "Then we'll kill them ourselves. But we'll have to wait.".
The evening wore on, the storm outside growing more furious with each passing minute. Draegor stood alone in the war room, the flickering candlelight dancing across the map laid before him. The winds howled, the distant thunder booming within his chest. The world was shifting, and Draegor knew it—the tension in the air, the uncertainty lingering just beneath the surface.
He sensed it. It was only a matter of time before the Silver Watch would strike, or the rebellion would grow strong enough to no longer be ignored. His enemies were waiting for him to make a mistake. But Draegor had never made a mistake, not in all his life as a leader.
He had learned all those years ago that power was not necessarily a matter of brute force—it was a matter of control. The ability to control the world around you, to make the world obey your every command. And currently, Draegor's most powerful weapon was patience. His ability to wait. To observe. To let the world fall into place, so when the time came, he could strike and conquer once more.
Tomorrow would be the day of reckoning. The revolution would collapse or expand beyond reason. But Draegor would be ready—no matter what.
The Tyrant would not fall. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never.