The darkness fell long, the storm outside a bitter foe that lashed against the tall spires of the citadel of Draegor. But inside the cold stone walls, the tempest was increasing—a tempest of war and politics, not wind and rain.
Draegor reclined in his war room, the map of his empire spread out on the board. Small soldiers, representing armies and key fortresses, stood in delicate balance. The South Rebellion had spread faster than anyone had envisioned, their strength building like a wild fire. The Silver Watch were a subtle threat still, their moves calculated, their presence never quite present but always perceived. And now, the grumblings of disaffection among his own soldiers had grown into something more—a doubt in his invincibility.
He could feel it. Even his most loyal of generals were already in doubt. Draegor had ruled with absolute authority for years, unchallenged, unparalleled. But the growing rebellion had emboldened those who had once cowered in silence. If he did not crush them, if he did not remind them why he was the Tyrant, then others would begin to dream of his downfall.
A soft knock on the heavy doors of the war room broke his daydreaming. Only one person would enter without requesting leave.
Seraphis.
She appeared, her silver eyes flashing as they scanned the map before him. She had never been one to beat around the bush. "The southern armies are massing. Our spies report that their numbers have grown beyond our initial estimates."
Draegor did not raise his head. "Predictable."
Seraphis looked at him, her expression unreadable. "They will move soon. If they believe you will stand idly by, they will try to seize the initiative."
Draegor's thumb trailed over the edge of the map, hesitated near the city of Karthos, a key southern stronghold now in rebellion's grasp. "Let them."
Seraphis's eyes narrowed. "You're goading them."
He at last met her gaze, his tone steel. "I am watching them. Their strategy is out in the open. They believe I am procrastinating through fear or uncertainty. They have no idea that I am giving them room to make mistakes."
Seraphis exhaled slowly through her nostrils, folding her arms. "And if they do not make mistakes? If their forces grow too strong?"
Draegor's lips twisted into something akin to a smile. "Then I will move. But not yet."
She did not argue further. She knew him well enough to appreciate his reasoning—though whether she approved of it was another matter. Instead, she broached another urgent topic.
"There are rumors," she said, her voice lowering a little. "That some of our generals are… questioning."
Draegor's expression darkened. "Which of them?"
"General Varkos, to begin with. He's been griping about the cost of this war—in how you're managing the rebellion."
Fingers drummed quickly across the surface. Varkos had been a useful general, but dependability was more important than competence.
"And what of the others?"
Seraphis paused, and answered diplomatically. "Some in the command council. Dandelions are already sowing seed.".
Draegor rose from his seat, his presence dominating the room. The faint candlelight cast long silhouettes on the walls, and he seemed even bigger.
"Then it is time to remind them," he said in a low voice, "who holds this empire together."
The Gathering at Varkos' Estate
The heavy oak doors of General Varkos' estate loomed above Draegor as he approached. The meeting had been a clandestine one—Varkos and several other generals meeting under the pretense of discussing the rebellion. But Draegor was not ignorant.
They were plotting. And he had come to stop them.
The gate guards tensed at the sight of him, their fingers curling toward their swords. But they did not move. They simply stepped aside as Draegor passed, his red cloak flowing behind him like a river of blood.
Inside, the gathered generals were in heated debate. Maps and documents covered a table, their voices low but urgent.
As Draegor entered, the mood changed. The room fell silent.
Varkos stood up slowly, his expression unreadable, though a flash of fear crossed his face. "Lord Draegor," he said, straining to incline his head in respect. "We did not expect—"
"No," Draegor interrupted, his voice calm but firm. "You did not."
His golden eyes swept the group of men. "You meet in secret. You doubt my judgment. Tell me, General Varkos… have you forgotten whose empire this is?"
Varkos's countenance set, his jaw tightened. "My lord, we only want to discuss the rebellion. There are issues—"
Draegor stepped forward, covering the space between them in an instant. The bulk of his frame crushed the room like a storm before the burst of lightning.
"You do not raise questions behind my back," he told him, his tone icy-cold. "You bring them to me. Or you do not bring them at all."
A flicker of defiance flickered across Varkos' face. He was a veteran commander, battle-weary from decades of war. But he was also a man who had begun to lose sight of where he was supposed to be.
Draegor's hand moved forward—lightning-fast.
Before Varkos could react, Draegor's fingers wrapped around his throat.
A choking gasp came from the general's mouth as he was lifted aloft, his legs held high. The other generals moved back, their faces paling with fear, but nobody moved.
Draegor's grip did not relax. He left Varkos dangling, subjecting him to the power which had built the empire—the same power that would destroy all who dared oppose it.
"You dare to question my rule?" Draegor's tone was low and deadly. "Another reminder, then."
He tightened his grip—so tight that Varkos felt genuine fear. Then released him just as quickly. The general collapsed to the floor, gasping and choking for breath.
Varkos went to watch him go, his own breathing caught in his throat. Draegor turned to the rest of them, his yellow eyes blazing into their souls.
"You belong to me," he said. "You serve me. Not your fears. Not your doubts. Me."
Silence.
Then, slowly, one by one, every commander dropped onto one knee. One at a time, they vowed their allegiance anew.
Draegor turned around, walking towards the door. But not before he turned to speak to his men one last time.
"The rebellion will be defeated soon. But should I find doubt again in my ranks…" His voice faltered to ice. "I will not be so lenient."
With that, he left.
The Tyrant's Move
Early the following morning, commands were issued.
The uprising had been allowed to grow unchecked. That was going to stop.
Draegor's finest soldiers—his most elite warriors—began to mass. The war machines of his empire were stirred. And from the heart of his fortress, one declaration was issued.
Karthos will fall. The rebellion will burn.
The Tyrant no longer waited.
He was striking.