The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The stench of blood still lingered in the air. The outpost, once a stronghold for Dominion forces, now bore the scars of its fall—bodies strewn across the ground, flickering torches casting shadows over the aftermath. The resistance had won their first battle, but the cost was evident.

Zareth stood over the fallen, his gaze impassive as the surviving fighters tended to their wounded. He did not celebrate. There was no glory in a skirmish. This was only the first step.

Veyron approached, wiping blood from his blade. "We took the outpost, but at what price? Half of these fighters have never seen real combat, and it shows."

"They'll learn," Zareth said simply. "Or they'll die."

Veyron exhaled, glancing at the fires consuming the Dominion corpses. "You know this won't go unnoticed. The Dominion doesn't ignore attacks like this."

"I'm counting on that."

But the question remained—what next? Fortify the outpost and hold their ground, or abandon it before reinforcements arrived?

The resistance was divided. Some argued they had won their first victory and should strike again before the Dominion could regroup. Others wanted to retreat, to fade back into the shadows as they always had.

Zareth didn't hesitate. "We stay." His voice carried no doubt. "Running now means wasting what we've taken. If the Dominion wants it back, let them come for it."

And they would.

Dawn had barely broken when the first sign of retaliation came.

A low horn sounded in the distance, echoing through the ruined district. Then came the rhythmic march of boots. Unlike the outpost guards, these soldiers moved with precision.

Dominion Enforcers.

They came in formation, armored figures moving through the mist. At their head strode a man draped in a deep crimson cloak, his presence alone enough to make lesser fighters step back. A lieutenant of the Dominion—one who wielded an Aetherbrand Aspect.

Zareth's eyes narrowed. This was a real opponent.

The air shifted as the lieutenant raised a hand, his gauntlet glimmering with Aetherbrand Essence. When he clenched his fist, the ground beneath him fractured, veins of molten red light snaking through the stone.

Aetherbrand Aspect: Pyric Warden.

Zareth barely had time to react before the first attack came. Flames erupted from the cracks, surging forward in a wave of fire.

The battle had begun.

Zareth leapt back as the flames scorched the air in front of him. The lieutenant didn't wait—he surged forward, his movements precise, measured. A trained warrior, not a simple enforcer.

Sparks danced across his armor as his Aetherbrand Essence pulsed, the molten veins across the battlefield responding to his will. With a flick of his wrist, the cracks widened, pillars of fire bursting forth to cut off Zareth's movement.

Zareth dodged left, but the lieutenant anticipated it. A spear of flame shot forward, forcing him into a defensive roll. He's controlling the battlefield itself.

Aetherbrand Aspects were more than just techniques—they defined a warrior's entire style. This man wasn't just using fire. He was a living furnace, shaping the terrain to his will, making escape nearly impossible.

Zareth's instincts took over. He weaved between the bursts of flame, closing the distance inch by inch. The lieutenant's strikes were relentless—each step forward was a risk, the heat growing unbearable.

Then, an opening.

Zareth feinted right, baiting another eruption—then he lunged through the flames, enduring the searing pain to get inside the lieutenant's guard.

The Dominion officer's eyes widened. Too late.

Zareth's fist slammed into his chestplate, cracking the metal. He followed up with a brutal knee to the ribs, then a downward elbow to the shoulder. The lieutenant staggered, but he was far from beaten.

With a snarl, he thrust a hand forward—fire gathered around his palm, condensing into a molten blade.

Zareth reacted instantly, raising his own hand. The moment they made contact, he activated his own Aetherbrand Aspect.

The lieutenant's body jerked.

Zareth's unique power—his ability to steal Aetherbrand Essence—began to drain his foe.

The Dominion officer's strength faltered for a brief second, just enough. Zareth capitalized, twisting the stolen energy into raw force. He delivered a final strike, a devastating blow that shattered the lieutenant's armor and sent him crashing into the ground.

Smoke rose from the fallen officer's body. The flames around them flickered and died.

Zareth exhaled. Victory.

But it had come at a cost. His body was burned, his muscles ached, and the resistance had suffered losses.

The Dominion would not take this lightly.

The surviving enforcers had fled, carrying news of the battle back to the higher ranks.

Veyron approached Zareth, his expression unreadable. "You took down a lieutenant." His voice was low. "That means something."

Zareth flexed his fingers, still feeling the lingering sensation of the stolen Aetherbrand Essence. "It means they'll send stronger ones next."

The city wouldn't remain silent. The Dominion would respond in force.

And in the shadows of the Governor's palace, a message had already been sent. A new order had been given.

A name was spoken.

Someone was coming.

Zareth's war had begun.