The ash-choked winds carried whispers of what had transpired. Zareth had cut down the Dominion's vice leader in front of his own men, breaking their will and sending the survivors scattering into the ruins.
The Dominion's remnants had not all fled. Some clung to fractured strongholds, attempting to regroup. Others, those with no chain of command left to follow, had deserted entirely.
And in the void left behind, the wolves emerged.
Mercenaries, criminals, and rogue warbands prowled through the streets, looting what they could. Local power-hungry leaders—guildmasters, former lords, and ambitious warlords—began to stake their claims, seeing the chaos as their opportunity. The civilians remained in hiding, unsure of who—if anyone—now ruled them.
The city was a corpse, and the scavengers had descended.
But Zareth was not finished.
If they thought they could take from his battlefield, they had gravely miscalculated.
He moved before his enemies could solidify their positions.
Zareth's forces—few, but unshaken—swept through the ruins, hunting down those who thought themselves the new rulers.
He did not destroy everything. He gave a choice.Kneel and serve—or be erased. Those with useful skills were given a place beneath him. The spineless cowards were discarded. The Dominion deserters—some fell in line, preferring servitude to the alternative. Others, still clinging to loyalty, were made an example of.
And slowly, order began to take shape.
Zareth was not simply terrorizing the city—he was carving it into something new.
But some still resisted.
One in particular had grown too bold.
His name was Varlek the Reaver.
A former mercenary-king, once driven from the city by the Dominion, now seizing the opportunity to reclaim it.
Varlek and his men had stormed a Dominion armory, claiming weapons, supplies, and even a handful of surviving soldiers to bolster his numbers.
He had fortified a district, declaring himself the new ruler.
He spoke of conquest. Of a kingdom reborn in blood.
He did not realize who he had crossed.
Until the black-clad figure stepped into his stolen throne hall.
Varlek sat atop his crude throne, made from the remnants of a fallen Dominion officer's armor, when Zareth arrived.
Surrounded by his men, armed and armored, he grinned—until he saw the look in Zareth's eyes.
Not anger. Not fury.
Absolute certainty.
Varlek sneered. "You think you can take this from me?"
Zareth did not answer.
He moved.
Faster than any of them could react.
The first guard did not even see the blade that cut him apart. The second tried to raise his weapon—Zareth's hand crushed his throat before he could scream.
Varlek stumbled back as his men died in moments, cut down as easily as chaff before the scythe.
And then he was alone.
Zareth stepped forward, sword dripping with blood and essence.
"You took what was mine," Zareth said. "Now, you will serve as a warning."
Varlek begged.
Zareth did not listen.
The execution was public.
The gathered remnants of the city—mercenaries, civilians, Dominion survivors—all watched as Zareth hoisted Varlek's severed head high.
His voice echoed across the ruins:
"This city belongs to me. Kneel—or share his fate."
And one by one, they knelt.
Some out of fear. Some out of respect.
But all knelt.
Beyond the city, the ripples had already begun.
Whispers spread. Zareth Valgarde was not a ghost. He was real. He had conquered a city. The Dominion would respond. He had taken from them. They would not let this stand. Others were watching. Old enemies. Old allies. Those who once feared him, and those who once followed.
For now, he had won.
But his war was far from over.
This was only the beginning.