The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The chamber was silent save for the sound of labored breathing. Saren Velkor knelt in the center of the dimly lit room, his wrists bound behind his back, his armor stripped away. The weight of his failure clung to him heavier than the blood drying on his temple.

Zareth stood before him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He had barely laid a hand on the Inquisitor since capturing him. There was no need.

Instead, he let time do the work.

The darkness around Saren was oppressive, suffocating. He had no way to track time, no sense of when the last time he had eaten or slept. The cold stone beneath him had become his only constant, the void around him pressing against his mind like unseen hands. Zareth dictated the only rhythm he had—when he spoke and when he remained silent.

And he had been silent for a long time.

"You were left behind." Zareth finally broke the quiet, his voice smooth, measured.

Saren didn't answer. His jaw clenched, his posture rigid despite his exhaustion.

Zareth continued, circling him like a specter. "The vice leader of your group made a decision—he abandoned you. Do you think it was a mistake? Or were you simply deemed... unworthy?"

The Inquisitor let out a breath, slow and controlled. "You think I will break," he rasped, his throat dry. "You think a few words will shake my faith?"

Zareth knelt down, leveling his gaze with the man. "No," he said. "I think you already know the truth. And you're afraid of it."

A flicker of uncertainty passed through Saren's eyes.

Zareth pressed on. "Tell me, then. Where is your god now?" He tilted his head slightly. "Where is your salvation? They sent you here, and now you rot in my hands. Did your leader even consider coming for you?"

Saren clenched his teeth. "The Dominion is greater than one soldier."

Zareth smirked. "Ah, so they don't need you. I suppose that makes you... expendable." He stood up, looming over the kneeling warrior. "You fought with purpose. And now, even if you die here, what changes? Nothing. No one will mourn you. No one will remember your name."

Saren's breathing quickened. Zareth saw it—the tiny, almost imperceptible crack.

It was enough.

He changed tactics. "I don't need all of your secrets, Velkor. Just the ones that matter. What do they think my next move will be? What have they planned?"

The silence stretched. Then, finally, Saren exhaled. His shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

"They... expect you to run," he admitted, voice low. "They think you'll try to escape the city's perimeter. The vice leader has ordered a containment—sacrificing mobility for control. They think they have you trapped."

Zareth smiled, stepping away. "Good."

Because they weren't trapping him.

He was trapping them.

The vice leader stood atop a ruined parapet, overlooking the tightening noose of his forces. Beneath him, Dominion soldiers moved with methodical precision, securing choke points and sealing exits. Patrols had doubled. The weak were culled—any hesitation was met with swift execution.

The message was clear.

Failure would not be tolerated.

Losing Saren Velkor had been an unacceptable blow. But the real issue wasn't the loss of one Inquisitor. It was uncertainty.

What had Zareth learned? What information had been compromised?

He couldn't afford to assume nothing.

The Dominion's strategy shifted. Open pursuit was abandoned. Instead, they moved into containment—sacrificing aggressive search efforts in favor of tightening the walls around Zareth's last known location. He would be given no path forward, no room to breathe.

The vice leader clenched his fists.

No more mistakes.

Miles away, perched on a high outcropping where the battle's movements looked insignificant, Inquisitor Kaldros watched.

His golden mask reflected the moonlight, an unblinking specter above the battlefield. Below him, the Dominion moved with frantic purpose, scrambling to reclaim control of the situation.

He didn't interfere.

He didn't need to.

This was their test.

Kaldros had never needed a group. He had been given one out of protocol, not necessity. The others beneath him? Expendable. If they could not handle even this—if they failed to bring down one warrior—then their existence held no meaning to him.

So he watched. Waited.

Would they succeed?

Would they crumble?

It didn't matter.

If they failed, he would handle things himself.

And when he did, Zareth Valgarde would know what true judgment felt like.

Zareth now understood their plan.

The Dominion was closing in, but that meant they had also limited themselves. By focusing on containment, they had created blind spots.

Zareth smirked.

They thought they were hunting him.

Now it was time to turn the tables.

Zareth needed to break their coordination.

He targeted messengers and relay points, intercepting information before it could reach the vice leader.

Misinformation began to spread—squadrons receiving contradictory orders, some being called back while others were sent forward into dead zones.

He planted evidence, subtle signs of an attack where none existed.

The Dominion responded predictably—sending reinforcements to an empty battlefield.

Zareth had seen it in Saren Velkor—doubt.

Now, he whispered similar doubts into the right ears, exploiting the cracks in the Dominion's hierarchy.

The vice leader sat in his command tent, fingers pressed to his temple.

Reports weren't aligning.

Patrols had gone missing. Messages were not being delivered. Some squads claimed they had orders to fall back—orders he had never given.

"Impossible..." he murmured.

And then, the worst realization struck him.

This wasn't chaos.

It was by design.

Zareth wasn't merely evading them.

He was controlling the battlefield.

The vice leader exhaled, gripping the hilt of his sword. For the first time since the hunt began, he felt it.

The creeping sensation of losing control.