The Tyrant’s Resurgence

Zareth sat in the shadow of a ruined alley, his body still aching from the previous battle. The embers of his strength burned within him, but it was like reaching for a weapon that had dulled over centuries. His Aetherbrand Wells—his reservoirs of power—were not empty, but fractured. The flow of essence within him was sluggish, resisting his command.

It was infuriating.

He clenched his fist, feeling the raw hunger for Aetherbrand Essence rise again. Power was the only currency he respected, and right now, he was far from the warlord who once shook the world. He had to take, absorb, and dominate—but carefully. A single misstep could end him before his resurgence truly began.

His enemies were still out there. The God-King. The betrayers' bloodlines. The remnants of those who had destroyed him.

A fire burned in his chest.

He needed a plan. Would he move in the shadows, carving a silent path to strength? Or would he make his first statement—loud, violent, and undeniable?

The choice would define his next steps.

The city of Vaelor's Hollow was a twisted thing—once a thriving trade hub, now a festering wound of oppression under the Dominion's rule. Zareth walked its streets, his cloak pulled low, watching how the people shrank away at the sight of armored enforcers.

Chains. Shackles. Fear.

It was everywhere.

The city's governor, Lord Castian Vaelor, was nothing more than a Dominion lapdog. He ruled with iron-fisted brutality, keeping order through fear, suppression, and the cold steel of his elite enforcers. Zareth heard whispers in passing:

"The tax collectors came again—took my brother when we couldn't pay."

"They say the resistance is all but gone. No one's foolish enough to fight anymore."

"The God-King's decree. Obey or suffer."

Weak. Spineless. The people of Vaelor's Hollow had forgotten how to fight.

Zareth moved deeper into the city, drawn toward the places where power still lingered. The marketplace, the underbelly, the bloodstained arenas where men clawed for survival. He had no allies here, but power always gathered in shadows—he only needed to listen.

His name was gone from their tongues—but his legacy? The stories? They still whispered of him.

"The Tyrant of Ash? A myth."

"A demon of war, cursed by his own greed."

"Even if he lived… he'd be dust by now."

Zareth allowed himself a small, knowing smile.

Let them think he was a ghost.

The dead had returned.

Zareth's search led him to the Gilded Jackal, a tavern with a reputation for backroom deals and bloodstained floors. The air reeked of sweat, ale, and desperation.

His presence drew eyes. He did not belong.

A group of mercenaries near the bar took notice, their leader—a scarred brute with an iron-plated gauntlet—sneering as he approached.

"You lost, old man?" the mercenary jeered. "Or just looking to die in a ditch?"

Zareth ignored him, stepping toward the bar. But the mercenary grabbed his shoulder.

"I'm talking to you, vagrant."

The moment he was touched, something in Zareth snapped.

He moved instinctively. Aetherbrand flared—too fast, too raw, too overwhelming—and the next second, he had the man's arm twisted, bones shattering like brittle wood.

The mercenary's scream was cut short as Zareth slammed him into the counter. The others surged forward, blades flashing, but Zareth was already moving.

His body wasn't at its peak, but instinct carried him. He weaved between strikes, his fingers crushing a man's throat, his elbow driving into another's skull.

He took a cut to the shoulder. Another across the ribs.

Not invincible. Not yet.

But he was still stronger than any of these lowly dogs.

Within moments, the mercenaries were either dead, unconscious, or begging. Zareth stood among them, his breath heavy, his hunger growing.

He could feel it—the traces of Aetherbrand Essence in their bodies. Weak, diluted power, but power nonetheless.

And he would take it.

Before he could claim his prize, a slow clap echoed from the back of the tavern.

Zareth turned.

A man watched him with interest—seated in the shadows, dressed in dark, high-quality armor that didn't belong to a mere sellsword.

"That," the man said, sipping his drink, "was quite the display."

Zareth narrowed his eyes.

"Who are you?"

The man smirked. "Someone who remembers what this city once was. And what it could be again."

A tension settled between them.

He knew something.

Something about the past. About the war. About the rise of the God-King and the fall of the old world.

And Zareth had a choice.

Would he listen? Use him? Kill him?

The city of Vaelor's Hollow was a rotting carcass of what it once was. But now?

A storm was brewing.

And Zareth Valgarde would be its wrath.