The battlefield still smolders. The scent of burning flesh clings to the air, thick with the metallic tang of blood. Kaelric's corpse lies at Zareth's feet, his lifeless eyes locked in an expression of defiance even in death.
For a long moment, Zareth simply stares. Not at the body, but at his own hand, still tingling with the remnants of stolen Aetherbrand Essence.
It was not the first time he had taken the strength of another. It was not the first time he had claimed power that was never meant to be his.
And yet… something was different.
The raw essence was nothing new. But buried beneath the surge of strength was something else. Something deeper. Memories.
Not Kaelric's memories, not exactly. More like impressions—shadows of battles fought in another time, by warriors whose faces he did not recognize.
A man wielding twin halberds, his strikes carrying an unnatural force. A woman in crimson armor, standing atop a field of bodies, her presence alone suffocating the weak.
Their forms… their techniques… they felt familiar.
Zareth clenched his fist.
This was not just a stolen Aspect. This was knowledge.
Zareth turned away from the corpse, his mind racing.
His ability to steal Aetherbrand Essence had never done this before. In his previous life, he had crushed his enemies without needing to evolve. No one had been strong enough to force him to adapt.
But here, in this new era, where power had grown beyond what he once knew, he had been pushed in ways he never expected. And in that struggle, he had uncovered something deeper.
Could this have always been a part of his power? A layer he had never needed to explore?
The thought was both thrilling and troubling.
Because if this ability had always been his… then what else had he forgotten?
What else had time stolen from him?
The city lay in uneasy silence.
Veyron approached, his expression unreadable. "The aftermath is… complicated."
Zareth followed his gaze, scanning the streets below. The people of the city—what remained of them—watched from the shadows, uncertain of what came next.
Some knelt. Others turned away, refusing to meet his gaze.
Not submission. Not yet. Fear.
That was fine. Fear was the foundation upon which empires were built.
But it would not be enough.
"The mercenary bands beyond the city have noticed," Veyron continued. "Some will come seeking fortune. Others will see us as a threat. Either way, we won't remain unnoticed for long."
Zareth smirked. "Good. Let them come."
His reputation would not spread through whispered rumors alone. It had to be carved into the bones of this era.
But first, there was one last matter to address.
Draven stood nearby, wiping blood from his blade.
The last of the Dominion soldiers lay dead at his feet—except for one.
A wounded officer, his body broken but his gaze defiant. He looked up at Zareth and sneered.
"You think this matters?" the officer spat. "You think this is victory? The Dominion will come for you. They will burn this place to the ground, and you along with it."
Zareth knelt down, gripping the man's jaw in an iron grasp. "They will come," he agreed. "But not for vengeance. For retribution. Because if they don't… I will go to them."
The officer's sneer faltered.
Zareth considered his options.
Torture? No. The Dominion's warriors were trained to withstand agony. He would break before he spoke. Execution? Too easy. Or… something else?
Zareth smiled, though there was no warmth in it.
"You want to be useful?" he mused. "Then let's see how loyal you truly are."
With a sharp motion, he struck the officer's chest—not to kill, but to mark.
Aetherbrand Essence flowed into the man, searing into his body, binding him.
The officer gasped, eyes wide with sudden pain.
Zareth stood. "Run back to your masters," he commanded. "Tell them what you saw here today. Tell them the Tyrant has returned."
And as the officer staggered to his feet, the fear in his eyes was worth more than any death.
Because Zareth had just sent the Dominion a message.
And soon, they would understand its meaning.
Zareth stood at the city's highest point, watching the horizon.
Kaelric's death had changed nothing. If anything, it had only deepened the mystery.
But there was no time to dwell.
Power alone would not win this war. He needed people. He needed an army.
Veyron spoke first. "There are warriors out there. Fighters who have been cast aside. Mercenaries, outcasts, warlords who still whisper of the past."
Zareth nodded. That would be his next move.
But not just any warriors.
He would find those who had lost something. Those with nothing left but the hunger to reclaim what was theirs.
Because that was what made the strongest soldiers.
Not loyalty.
Not honor.
But the desire for vengeance.
And Zareth would give them exactly that.