The sun rose over Karthos, its golden light pouring over a city that had once been strong. Now, it lay quiet. Not with the calm of triumph, but with the weight of complete domination.
The haughty walls now bore the scars of battle—tear-shaped pits where siege engines had punched through stone, splintered gates that no longer stood tall, and blood in the streets in black rivers. The rebel banners had been stripped from the walls, their frayed remains whipped by the wind like the broken resolve of those who had stood against him.
But the true indication of Draegor's triumph was not in the ruined city. It was among the troops, who now stood in ghoulish, unnatural silence.
The Rise of the Fallen
Draegor stood in the center of Karthos' grand plaza, his golden eyes scouring the army at his feet. Hundreds of warriors, dead and alive, kneeled in perfect order. His empire's flags now flew high over Karthos, the rebellion not just lost in life, but in desire.
And yet, in spite of the overwhelming horde, not a whisper of voice was heard, not a single soldier stirred without his word.
His defeated foes—former proud knights, archers, and mercenaries—now stood at attention, their eyes burning with an otherworldly, golden glow, a sign of Draegor's mastery.
Among them was Theron Vale, last rebel general. His armor, once bearing the emblems of freedom, had been stripped from him. His face, once hardened in rebellion, now vacant—deprived of will, filled only with servitude.
"Rise," Draegor commanded.
In unison, perfectly as one, they rose.
His Fallen Legion.
It was a marvel no man had ever seen. No armies in all of history had ever been composed of the living and the dead, standing together as one.
And Draegor realized, in that instant, that his power was not something to be merely feared any longer.
It was something to be worshiped.
The Silence of Victory
Draegor strode on, his enormous boots thudding against the stone. The remaining soldiers, his initial men, glanced warily at their new allies—their erstwhile foes, now turned into loyal warriors.
Even the most seasoned veterans among them could not help but shiver when they looked upon the glowing, vacant eyes of the deceased.
A veteran captain, a soldier, finally spoke out. "My lord… what are they?"
Draegor turned his gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. "They are ours."
The captain swallowed, bowing his head. "Of course, my lord."
Draegor looked over the city once more. The rebellion was truly dead. There would be no songs, no martyrs, no legends of defiance passed down through generations. He had not just crushed their bodies—he had erased their resistance, their purpose, their very identity.
And yet a part of him felt that he knew this was only the beginning.
A New Purpose
As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Draegor's army marched with purpose.
The living soldiers moved through the battle wreckage, cleaning up debris, gathering supplies, tending to those who were injured, and restoring order to the destroyed city. His fallen warriors stood watch over Karthos in silence, their unwavering loyalty never questioned.
There stood Theron Vale among them, unshakeable.
Draegor approached him, his eyes on his former great enemy. A man who had fought with every fiber of his being, only to shatter in the process.
"Do you still remember who you once were?" Draegor asked.
Theron's bright eyes wavered for a moment, his voice not possessing the fire it once did. "I was… Theron Vale."
Draegor shifted slightly to one side. "And what are you now?"
The silence lingered in the air for a moment before Theron spoke.
"I am yours, my lord."
Draegor's mouth twisted into a slow, satisfied smile. That was what he had been waiting for.
The Tyrant's Legacy
By nightfall, Karthos was no longer a city of rebels. It was a city of conquered spirits.
Draegor sat upon the grand throne of the ancient masters, his golden eyes gazing out over the city in darkness. The torches that lined the streets cast long shadows, illuminating the warriors now standing watch—both living and dead.
His armies were unlike anything that had ever been in the world. Unbeatable, they did not tire, they did not question, and they did not doubt.
And yet, even with this power, Draegor knew that greater enemies awaited.
The world would not be still while he tightened his grip. The other kings, warlords, and wannabe emperors would gaze on what had been done here and understand the threat that he posed.
They would strike at him.
They would attempt to assassinate him.
But that was exactly what he wanted.
Because Draegor was not merely a ruler.
He was a conqueror.
And this was only the beginning.