The fires of the Ashen Dominion burned more fiercely than ever.
Regis's stronghold was now a monument to power, no longer a secret sanctuary but a presence that brooded over the land like a storm on the verge of breaking.
Within its walls, his host tempered itself—warriors reborn from the frail, forged in steel and sorcery equally. The whispers of the world beyond had begun to change.
Where there had previously been curiosity, now there was terror.
And yet, Regis knew—this was merely the beginning.
The Gathering Storm
In the grand war room, the arcane lanterns' light cast flickering shadows on the gathered commanders.
A massive map of the continent was spread out on the darkwood table. It had once been a simple, crude thing—annotated only with the names of provincial warlords, remote villages, and uncharted lands.
Now, it was a tapestry of conflict.
Newly drawn borders, troop movements, supply lines. Red markers for enemies, black for Regis's expanding domain.
At its center, one region stood out—the territory of the Crimson Reavers, an ever-present thorn in Regis's path.
Varian, standing by the map, traced a finger along a newly marked region. "Their patrols have increased. They are fortifying their stronghold."
Kaelen grunted, arms crossed. "They know we're watching."
Regis's red eyes blinked. "Have they moved against us?"
Varian shook his head. "Not yet, but they are sending ambassadors to the other factions. They are gathering allies."
Elyndra, lounging with legs crossed, tapped a gloved finger against her lips. "They are in fear of us. But they do not yet understand us."
Regis leaned forward, his face grim in the candlelight. "Then let us give them something to understand."
Kaelen's hand tightened on his sword hilt. "A show of force?"
Regis's smile was faint.
"No, not yet." He rapped on the map, his fingernail scraping across the parchment.
"We don't strike blindly. We strike with purpose."
His gaze locked onto Varian.
"Send a messenger. Arrange a meeting."
The Strength of the Ashen Dominion
Even before the Crimson Reavers' delegation arrived, Regis's army prepared.
On the practice fields, the ring of steel filled the air. Soldiers drilled relentlessly, their once ragged units now compact, disciplined, deadly.
They had all been nothing but mercenaries, brigands, desperate fighters clawing to live.
Now, with Regis to lead them, they were something more.
Kaelen put them through their drills, his voice a battle drum.
"Again! Faster! The moment you hesitate, you're dead!"
Ranks of soldiers, blackened steel armor, marched in perfect sync—shields raised, swords striking with measured brutality.
Overhead, the arcane battalion was also practicing.
Mages in dark red robes drew sigils in the air, summoning controlled fires, bolts of shadow, barriers of energy.
Elyndra watched them from the side, idly spinning a dagger through her fingers. "They're improving. But not fast enough."
Regis stood beside her, arms folded.
"They will be. Or they are replaced."
She laughed softly. "Cold as always."
Regis did not smile. There was no room for weakness.
He turned, walking past the warriors, his presence sufficient to have them stiffen. The Ashen Sovereign was watching.
And that meant that failure could not be an option.
The Arrival of the Envoy
Two days later, Regis stood atop his black-stone keep as a single rider approached from the west.
The messenger wore the Crimson Reavers' colors—dark red armor with silver sigils, a warhorse bearing their warlord's sigil.
But the moment he entered Regis's lands, he faltered.
The weight of unnatural power pressed down on him, suffocating, unseen but inescapable. The guards who flanked the entrance were statue-still, their discipline unsettling. The walls whispered secrets, the torches danced with an unearthly coal.
He was noticeably pale by the time he entered the great hall.
Regis lounged on his throne of black stone, surrounded by his most trusted lieutenants.
"Speak, emissary."
The envoy swallowed. "Lord Vael of the Crimson Reavers wishes to—"
"No." Regis's voice cut through the air.
The envoy's eyes flickered. "I—"
Regis leaned forward, his crimson eyes gleaming. "You did not come to offer peace. You came to test my power. To see if I am someone to be feared."
The room was quiet.
The envoy tried to keep himself composed, but Regis could see it—the doubt in his eyes, the twitch of his fingers, the slight quiver in his stance.
Regis stood. The air in the hall grew suffocating.
"Bring this message to your warlord: If he does not submit, he will be destroyed."
The envoy paled. "You—"
Regis raised a hand, and shadow coiled around his fingers like living things.
The torches flared, casting the room in a crimson glow. Even the walls appeared to close in.
The message could not be misunderstood.
This was not an enemy to be underestimated.
The ambassador fled the hall, barely concealing his terror.
With a bang of doors behind him, Elyndra laughed. "That was cruel. I liked it."
Regis breathed slowly out. The pieces were moving.
And soon, the board would be his to control.
The Sovereign's Vision
That night, Regis stood once more upon his balcony, looking down upon the dominion he had created.
His forges burned incessantly. His soldiers grew stronger, his influence extended further.
Yet he knew—power was a waiting game.
The Crimson Reavers would attack soon.
And when they did, Regis would not merely defeat them.
He would consume them.
The nighttime wind carried his whispered words across the darkness.
"Let the world tremble before the Ashen Sovereign."