The city had bowed, but fear alone would not be enough. Zareth had no illusions—his rule was not yet absolute. In the shadows, men whispered of defiance, of betrayal, of tearing down the tyrant before his roots took hold.
But Zareth did not wait for treachery. He moved first.
The grand hall of the former Dominion governor had been repurposed. The banners of his old empire were long torn down, replaced with nothing but bare stone—a symbol that a new order had taken hold.
Before Zareth, five men knelt, their wrists bound with steel and their expressions ranging from defiance to barely-contained terror. These were the so-called leaders of the resistance—wealthy merchants, former military officers, men who thought that patience and subterfuge would be enough to unseat him.
Fools.
Zareth stood before them, his gaze cold, his presence suffocating. His voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"You had plans. You thought you had time." His words carried no anger, only certainty. "You were wrong."
A flick of his hand. Aetherbrand Essence surged. A flash of violet light—before the first man's head separated from his shoulders. His body crumpled before he could even scream.
The others flinched. One of them, an older noble, snarled, "You can't kill us all—"
Zareth stepped forward. In a blur of motion, his fingers crushed the man's throat. He let the body drop.
"I can."
The three survivors, now pale and trembling, lowered their heads.
He looked at the remaining two. Not all of them needed to die.
"Swear yourselves to me." His Aetherbrand pulsed. "Or join them."
They hesitated—but when Zareth's shadow loomed over them, their choice was clear.
That night, Zareth did not rest.
The Dominion would come. He had to be stronger.
Beneath the broken remains of the governor's palace, he had carved out a training ground—a place where none could witness his growth. Aetherbrand Essence swirled around him, stolen power shaping to his will.
Each strike of his fists shattered stone. Each motion carried the force of a man reforging himself.
His control over Aetherbrand deepened. He no longer needed to wrestle with stolen essence—it obeyed. His body grew harder, faster. He pushed past old limits, refining his speed and endurance. New techniques emerged. He tested them on dummies, then on live prisoners—those who refused to bow.
When he finally stopped, his breath steady, his skin slick with sweat, he felt the difference. He was no longer just reclaiming strength. He was surpassing it.
By the time dawn came, the first sign of retaliation had arrived.
A Dominion scout force had entered the outskirts of the city. Not an army—yet—but a test.
Zareth stood atop the city's outer walls, watching them approach. There were twenty of them. Each one bore the armor of the Dominion's elite, and at their center stood a man clad in crimson—a veteran, stronger than any foe Zareth had faced since his return.
"So this is the Tyrant of the old age." The scout leader's voice carried easily across the empty space between them. "You should have stayed dead."
Zareth's answer was simple.
He leapt from the wall.
The battle was over before it began.
Zareth hit the ground like a thunderstrike, the force of his impact shattering the earth beneath his feet. He moved faster than their eyes could track.
One step. Aetherbrand surged. A blade tore through flesh. The first man fell before he could react.
Two steps. A shattered knee, a crushed throat.
By the time the scout leader unsheathed his weapon, half his men were already dead.
"Wait—!"
Zareth did not wait.
His fist slammed into the man's chest, driving him into the earth. Bones snapped. The scout leader gasped, blood spraying from his lips. He tried to rise—Zareth's boot crushed his spine.
When the dust settled, only one man remained alive. The scout leader, broken and kneeling.
Zareth crouched before him. His voice was a whisper of certainty.
"Tell them."
The man's breath came in ragged gasps. "T-Tell them what?"
Zareth's hand closed around his face. Aetherbrand Essence surged—power stolen, a soul devoured.
He let the man go.
"Tell them that the Tyrant has returned."
The first clash ends. The Dominion's mistake is clear—Zareth is not a mere rebel. The war has only begun.