The Tyrant’s Resurgence

Pain.

It wasn't the sharp agony of fresh wounds or the sudden shock of battle. This was deeper. A dull, grinding ache that spread through his body like fire through dry grass. Zareth's first breath felt like inhaling glass, every rib protesting as his chest rose. His thoughts came sluggishly, weighed down by exhaustion and something else—something unnatural.

His eyes flickered open to darkness. A faint glow of light filtered through cracks in wooden boards above, illuminating the rough stone walls around him. Not a prison. At least, not yet.

The scent of damp earth, old blood, and smoke filled the space. He shifted, testing his limbs, feeling the resistance of stiff bandages and raw wounds. His Aetherbrand Essence still flickered within him, but it was unstable, fractured by the brutal battle. He had taken more than he could handle. More than he could properly claim.

A rustle in the shadows. Then, a voice.

"You're awake."

Zareth turned his head—pain lanced down his neck. He recognized the speaker: Veyron. The man sat against the far wall, arms crossed, watching him with a careful expression.

"How long?" Zareth's voice came out rough, almost unrecognizable.

"Two days," Veyron replied. "You nearly died. Again."

Zareth exhaled slowly, pushing himself upright. His body screamed in protest, but he forced it to obey. He would not rot in weakness. He would not linger in defeat.

Veyron studied him before continuing. "The city is locked down. The Dominion isn't searching anymore—they're hunting. The Inquisitors are still here, waiting. Watching."

Zareth's jaw clenched. He should have expected this. His presence was no longer a rumor—it was a threat. And the Dominion didn't tolerate threats.

Veyron leaned forward. "You can't keep fighting like this. You're not at your peak yet."

Zareth didn't argue. He knew it. Felt it. He had survived by raw instinct and sheer will, but against someone like Kaldros? That wasn't enough. Not anymore.

And yet, as his fingers curled into a fist, he felt it. The lingering echoes of stolen power.

He hadn't left the battle empty-handed.

The energy inside him was foreign, unstable. Aetherbrand Essence that did not yet belong to him. It shifted and churned, resisting his command. He had taken it from the fallen, absorbed the fragments of their strength—but stolen power was never freely given.

Zareth closed his eyes, reaching inward. He traced the stolen energy, feeling the remnants of Suppression and Severance—two Aspects that had nearly ended him. He understood their functions now, how they entwined, suppressed, and severed the flow of power.

But they weren't his. Not yet.

He forced the energies together, molding them into something new. Suppression was a cage, Severance was a blade—what if he combined them?

A chain that binds, then severs.

The thought resonated within him. The stolen energy flared, resisting for a heartbeat before yielding. Reshaped. Made his.

Zareth exhaled, his grip tightening. He was still far from his peak. But this? This was a start.

Veyron paced the small room, restless. "It's getting worse," he muttered. "The city is suffocating. The Dominion has blockades at every gate. Patrols are everywhere."

Zareth listened, silent.

"Rumors are spreading," Veyron continued. "Some think you fled. Others—" he hesitated, then smirked. "Others say you're still here. Watching. Waiting."

Good.

Fear was a weapon. And right now, fear was buying him time.

But time was running out.

"You need to leave the city," Veyron said firmly. "Even if you recover, this place is a trap. The Dominion isn't going to give up."

Zareth considered it. Fleeing wasn't weakness—it was strategy. But running wouldn't be enough. He needed a plan. He needed more than strength.

Then, Veyron hesitated. "There's something else."

Zareth met his gaze. "What?"

"Someone wants to meet you."

Zareth narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

"Not Dominion. Not rebels, either. Someone else."

That was troubling. He had expected hunters, spies, even desperate fools who thought they could bargain with him. But an unknown player? That was dangerous.

"They claim to have information," Veyron said. "Something that could change everything."

Zareth exhaled slowly. He didn't trust it. Didn't trust anyone. But ignoring it would be a mistake.

"Set the meeting," he said finally. "I'll decide if they live or die after."

Zareth leaned back against the wall, exhaling. His body was battered, his strength not yet restored—but his mind was clear. The last battle had exposed his limits.

Now?

Now, he would surpass them.

His enemies thought he was broken.

They were wrong.

He wasn't broken.

He was reforging himself into something stronger.

And when he returned, the world would kneel once more.