The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The city was restless.

Zareth felt it in the air, the way tension thickened like a storm waiting to break. The Dominion's hunt had turned relentless—no longer a search, but a purge. Every hour, rumors spread of more people vanishing, dragged from their homes under the cloak of night. The Inquisitors were not just hunting him anymore. They were cleansing the city of anything they deemed a threat.

He had to move.

Pain flared through his body as he forced himself upright. The battle with Kaldros had taken more from him than he cared to admit. His wounds were healing, but not fast enough. He could feel the unstable remnants of stolen power churning inside him, raw and unrefined. The Suppression-Severance hybrid he had taken was still foreign, resisting his control. It wasn't enough to steal power. He had to make it his.

Veyron watched him from across the dimly lit room, arms crossed. "You're pushing too fast," he said. "That fight nearly killed you."

Zareth exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "And if I wait, they'll finish the job."

Veyron hesitated, but he didn't argue. He knew the truth. The Dominion wasn't waiting for him to recover—they were closing in. The hunt had escalated. The Inquisitors were staying indefinitely. The city was a trap, and if Zareth didn't start looking ahead, he'd be the next body dragged through its streets.

Still, brute force wouldn't be enough.

The warlord in him craved battle. The survivor in him knew better.

He needed more than strength. He needed information. People. Resources.

And in a city on the edge, there was no shortage of the desperate.

The night was suffocating.

Zareth moved through the city's underbelly, slipping between shadowed alleys where the Dominion's grip had not yet fully tightened. Here, the scent of unwashed bodies and damp stone filled the air. The kind of places where forgotten men and women gathered, waiting for a cause they had long since lost.

He wasn't the only ghost haunting these streets.

A low murmur of voices caught his attention—tight, hushed, edged with tension. He stopped just outside a ruined archway, listening.

"—they took them. My brother, my unit. They didn't even give them a trial."

"They don't give trials. They give warnings."

A pause. "Then why are we still alive?"

"Because we haven't done anything… yet."

Zareth stepped forward, and the moment his boot scuffed against the stone, every voice fell silent.

He met their eyes—three men, battered and weary. But not weak. Not broken.

One of them, the tallest, stood rigid, his fingers twitching toward a hidden blade. He was older, face lined with the scars of battle. Not just a deserter. A soldier. A man who had once fought with conviction.

Zareth studied him. "You fought for the Dominion." It wasn't a question.

The man's eyes narrowed. "A long time ago."

"Not long enough," another muttered.

Zareth's gaze flicked to him, then back to the soldier. "You still carry it," he said. "The way you stand. The way you watch me." He tilted his head. "You were more than a soldier. A commander."

The man didn't deny it.

"Then tell me," Zareth continued, stepping closer, "why is a man like you hiding in the dark while the Dominion hunts your own?"

The soldier's jaw tightened. "Because fighting them is suicide."

Zareth smirked. "Only if you fight like a fool."

A beat of silence.

Then, like a drawn bowstring snapping, the man lunged. His blade flashed toward Zareth's throat—sharp, precise. A killing stroke.

Zareth twisted, catching the man's wrist. Strength met strength. For a moment, they struggled—then Zareth drove his elbow into the soldier's ribs, twisting his arm behind his back.

The man grunted but didn't cry out. No wasted breath. No panic. He was trained well.

Zareth released him and stepped back. "Not bad."

The soldier turned, rubbing his wrist, eyes sharp. "You don't fight like the rebels."

"I'm not one of them."

"Then what are you?"

Zareth let the question hang.

He wasn't here to recruit. Not yet. But seeds planted in the right soil could grow into something useful. He had no interest in broken men who had given up. He wanted those still capable of standing.

"I'm not looking for followers," he said, turning away. "But if you want to do more than survive, find me when you're ready."

The man didn't stop him. But as Zareth disappeared into the night, he could feel the weight of their stares lingering on his back.

They wouldn't seek him out immediately.

But they would remember.

The Dominion's grip was suffocating.

Every hour, more patrols. More disappearances. The Inquisitors weren't just looking for him anymore—they were preemptively striking against anything that smelled of rebellion.

Veyron had spent the night gathering what little information he could. He returned with a grim expression. "They're done waiting," he said. "They're preparing for something big. I don't know what yet."

Zareth sat in silence, fingers tapping against the wooden table. The city was a tinderbox. And the Dominion had just struck the match.

His legend was growing, whether he intended it or not. He could feel it in the whispers, in the way fear and curiosity spread with every failed attempt to catch him. Even those who didn't know his name were beginning to ask—who was this ghost defying the Dominion?

He hadn't been trying to build an army.

But sometimes, an army built itself.

Still, he wasn't ready. Not yet. He needed time—to recover, to master his stolen power, to prepare.

He wasn't just here to fight.

He was here to conquer.

And when he did, he would not be alone.