The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The air reeked of blood and smoke. The ruins of the rebel hideout still smoldered, the battle's echoes lingering in the shattered walls and broken bodies strewn across the ground. Zareth stood amid the wreckage, his breathing steady but sharp, his body bearing the weight of yet another hard-won victory.

The Dominion had come prepared. These weren't mere enforcers but seasoned warriors, trained in the refined use of Aetherbrand Aspects—and they had still fallen before him. But not without a cost.

Veyron knelt beside a dying rebel, whispering final words of comfort as the man exhaled his last breath. Across the ruins, survivors worked in grim silence, tending to the wounded, salvaging weapons, and dragging away their fallen. Every victory carved a deeper wound into the rebellion.

Zareth ran a gloved hand over his armor, still splattered with fresh blood. He analyzed every moment of the fight—what had worked, what hadn't, where his strength had faltered. He had grown stronger, but so had his enemies.

Veyron approached, voice low. "The Dominion won't make the same mistake twice."

Zareth nodded. That was the truth. This fight had been brutal, but the next one would be worse.

Word spread fast. By the time night fell, the city was a boiling pot of speculation and fear.

The rebellion's victory had sent ripples through the streets. Some whispered of a warlord reborn, a force powerful enough to stand against the Dominion's tyranny. Others saw only the carnage left behind and cursed his name as a bringer of destruction.

But while the people murmured, the Dominion acted.

Martial law tightened further. Curfews were strictly enforced, checkpoints doubled, and mass arrests became commonplace. Bounties for Zareth's head were plastered across the walls, promising untold riches to anyone who dared betray him.

Beyond the common folk, others took notice. Mercenary bands, exiled warriors, and the city's crime lords saw opportunity. Zareth's rise meant power was shifting, and where there was power, there was profit.

And among those watching was a man with knowledge of Zareth's past.

The meeting was arranged in secrecy—far from the rebel hideouts, far from watchful eyes.

The man who arrived was no warrior. His frame was wiry, his hands more accustomed to parchment than weapons. But his eyes carried the weight of someone who had seen the echoes of a forgotten era.

"You are not merely a warlord," the man said, studying Zareth carefully. "You are the Tyrant of Valgarde."

Silence stretched between them.

Zareth's gaze darkened. "And who are you?"

The man introduced himself as Cassian Vael, a scholar who had spent years digging through old war records, forgotten tomes, and buried histories.

Zareth's name had been erased from history. But history was not infallible.

"You once wielded a weapon unlike any other," Cassian continued, his voice holding an edge of reverence. "A blade that carved empires from the bones of your enemies. Where is it?"

Zareth's memory stirred—fragments of battles long past, of steel biting through flesh, of a weapon that had drunk deep of his enemies' blood. But the image was hazy, distorted by the centuries.

"Lost," Zareth muttered. "But not forever."

Cassian nodded as if he had expected that answer. "If you intend to reclaim your throne, you will need it."

The scholar leaned in, his expression grim. "And there is more—whispers of something worse. Enemies who should have died in your era may not be as gone as you believe."

Zareth stilled.

He had known betrayal. He had watched his empire fall to treachery. But the idea that one of those traitors might still exist, lurking in the shadows?

Rage burned low in his chest.

"Who?"

Cassian hesitated. "I don't know… yet. But I intend to find out."

Before Zareth could act on this newfound knowledge, the Dominion moved.

A public decree was issued across the city.

A high-ranking rebel informant had been captured and sentenced to execution.

The Governor's message was clear: The rebellion dies, or it bleeds.

The execution was set to take place at dawn in the city square, a spectacle meant to break the rebels' morale and lure Zareth into a trap.

Veyron spat in disgust as he read the announcement. "They're using them as bait."

Zareth's eyes remained locked on the parchment, his expression unreadable.

The rebels debated—rushing in would be suicide. The Dominion expected him to come.

But Zareth did not hesitate.

"I'm going."

The room fell into stunned silence.

One of the rebels stepped forward. "It's a trap."

Zareth's gaze flicked toward him. "I know."

Veyron sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Then you also know what this means. They won't send just anyone this time. The elite will be waiting."

Zareth's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile but held the promise of something far worse.

"Then I will remind them why they should fear me."

The room remained tense, but there was no arguing.

Zareth moved with purpose, checking his weapons, adjusting his armor, mentally preparing for what was to come.

The Dominion thought it was setting the trap.

But by morning, they would realize they were the ones being hunted.