The night was heavy over Karthos. Fire crackled in the city ruins, casting long, creeping shadows across the streets. The proud fortress had been entirely shattered, its people brought low into subjection, its warriors now speechless sentinels under Draegor's absolute control.
Victory was not enough. Domination required discipline.
Draegor stood atop the broken balcony of the ruined palace, his gold eyes aglow with ember-like light in the darkness. Below him, his army moved through the city—a legion unlike any that had ever marched. The living and the dead, under his banner.
Tonight, they would march for the first time.
The Legions of the Fallen
Draegor outstretched his hand, and at once his undead legion turned their malevolent stare in his direction. A hundred former enemies, now vacant, husk-like shells of obedience, anticipating the word.
Theron Vale, the former general of the rebellion, commanded this silent army. The armor which before had marked him as a symbol of rebellion bore no indication of that now, only grimy steel on a man with no other end in sight beyond what Draegor wished.
Draegor's words were calm, but spoke with the force of command.
"You will be the first of my legions. The Fallen Vanguard."
Theron did not ask, did not hesitate. He dipped his head. "We are yours, my lord."
Draegor considered them closely. Their movements were measured, their bodies unencumbered by fatigue, doubt, or fear. They needed no sleep. They needed no sustenance. They needed no rationality.
But they needed to be honed.
"Step forward," Draegor commanded.
Theron and his fighters moved without hesitation, as if to some unheard command.
Draegor clamped his fist, focusing his power, and in a heartbeat—
They moved faster.
Dead soldiers blurred, moving more keenly, more fluidly. They were no longer shambling corpses; they were evolving. Muscles pulled as if infused with something other than mortality.
Draegor exhaled, watching as control became firmer. It was not just their bodies he owned, but their potential as well.
"Good."
Command of the Living
He gazed then at his living men, the warriors who had fought for him before his discovery of power.
They were hard-fought veterans, combatants who had fought for domination, not for principle. But even they felt uneasy. Though they bowed to him, he could see the uncertainty in their gazes—the reluctance of standing by the dead.
One of his captains stepped forward, one knee on the ground. "My lord, they. they fight like us. Walk like us. But they are not us."
Draegor descended from the balcony, his steps slow, deliberate. "You fear them?"
The captain paused. ".I do not comprehend them.".
Draegor stopped before him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Then listen to this. They are tools, just as you are tools. No more than the sword you wear. No more than the armor you don. They will not betray. They will not fail. They are perfect soldiers. And they will stand beside you, not against you."
The captain swallowed, but he bent his head. "As you command, my lord."
Draegor let his gaze sweep over the living soldiers. "You will train with them. Fight with them. You will be the force that no enemy of this world can vanquish."
There was no uncertainty. There was no fear.
The Order of the Conqueror
Draegor stood before his army again, his voice filled with unyielding command.
"Karthos is ours. But this isn't the end. This is just the start.".
He gestured out toward the darkening horizon. "Tomorrow, we march. We take the next city. And the next. Until there is no kingdom left to oppose us."
His living warriors roared in response, a cry of blood and triumph. But the Fallen Vanguard—they did not.
But Draegor knew their silence was the loudest obedience of all.
He was not just a king. He was a power greater than kings.
And the world would soon learn what it was to stand against the Tyrant's Legion.