The World Shall Kneel : The Dark Lord's Rebirth

Burizan shuffled the crates behind the counter, edges chafed and splintered. Outside the shop, the Echlion market square was a hub of activity—the sound of coins clinking against metal, children scurrying around their parents and each other in between stalls, and spice vendors half-sing, half-yell their wares across the crowd.

The smells of cinnamon, sweat, and sun-baked fish melted into the ambience. But inside this store—small, and meant to be forgettable—it ran differently.

Burizan was becoming comfortable in the role, although he'd never vocalize that. He had shifted from smuggler, to informant, to one of Alfrenzo's eyes watching the city's undercurrent. He liked the structure of it.

The routine of it.

The way things like crates of fish had places. It was the types of things that Mira—who sat to his right, pen scratching against parchment, with a tightly tucked braid resting beneath her hood despite the heat of the indoors—had always disrupted. She was always counting. Always watching. Always one tick-off from scowling to violence—ever so slightly tipping the balance from one to the other.

"Busy day," Burizan said out of sheer desperation, as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, trying to elicit any conversation from her, however trivial.

"Talk less. Stack faster," she said, without looking up.

So he did. Box after box, hands smoothed and roughened with splinters, his mind roaming despite his best efforts to maintain concentration. The buzzing had changed outside. More whispers, more glances over shoulders than before. Echlion was like that—rumors spread like wildfire, and everyone seemed to have one.

"A trader from Duskwatch," someone had whispered earlier in the evening, "said a flaming sun fell from the sky. Burned a hole in the earth-way."

Another, a jeweler from somewhere, with a leather vest and a fancy bauble on his hat, added, "I heard the trees scream there now. Magic gone terribly wild."

But the one thing that lingered with Burizan came from a caravan guard. An Etherian man, missing two fingers.

"Something breached the veil. Not a creature, not even a mage. Something worse. The Marquess won't even send knights to take a look."

Burizan stacked another box on top of the crate and turned to look at Mira. "You think it's... him?"

Mira kept scratching out the notes, but Burizan saw a flicker--how small, he couldn't even tell--in the tightness of her jaw. Then, finally, a dry chuckle escaped. "I'd be more surprised if it wasn't Alfrenzo."

Before he could follow up, something happened in the doorway.

A young scout—barely a boy—bounced in. "Telmar wants you both. Urgent."

Burizan and Mira looked at one another. Urgent usually meant routine—some patrol adjustments, maybe a gathered missive. The caveat was the boy's voice. It was accompanied by something else. Fear. The fear wasn't related to news—it was fear of what was still waiting.

In silence, the two followed the boy through the inner district of Echlion, then arrived at Telmar's fortified outpost. On the interior, like in all the buildings, corridors were lined with iron lanterns and thick stone. And walls that swallowed sound. That was by design too.

Even with all the muffling, nothing could muffle what Burizan saw when they turned the corner into the room.

Standing beside Telmar, there were three figures: Alfrenzo, Arwin, and Hunter.

Burizan's heart was in his throat. And Mira stopped moving for what was likely the first time in years. Arwin was grinning his usual amused sneer. Hunter said nothing, of course. And Alfrenzo, battered cloak and everything, looked exactly like Burizan remembered—and not at all.

"You... you were dead," Mira muttered, half to herself.

The room seemed to shift. 

Telmar struck like a whip—his hand snatched out and caught Mira by the collar and knocked her to her knees in a stroke. The floor cracked under her weight. Burizan staggered back, hands instinctively up. 

"What the hell is this?" he gasped. "We were loyal—"

"Were you?" Alfrenzo said, his tone was flat, cool, unwavering.

Arwin took a step forward, his eyes cold. "Which of you sent the scouts to Duskwatch?"

Burizan swallowed. "We didn't—we were told to stay away from the border..."

Mira bared her teeth. "Go ahead, believe the coward. He soils himself when he hears boots in the alley."

Arwin chuckled. "She's not lying."

Burizan stammered, "I didn't know anything! I swear!"

"She's the snake," Mira growled, "I'm the knife."

Alfrenzo took his time walking forward. "You were feeding the Duke."

Mira remained quiet.

Alfrenzo lowered his voice. "How long?"

Still silent.

"Mira," he gently coaxed, "you know where we send traitors."

She almost wavered in her countenance; just a little.

"Telmar. Take her to the warehouse. Eastern side. We'll make her talk."

Mira let out a bitter laugh, but it wasn't of strength. "I've been trained to never break."

"I know," Alfrenzo said.

He held a hand toward the door. "I know Telmar can't do it either. That's why I'm putting you in the forest. The elves captured the ones there. Beasts. And they are restless."

Even Arwin turned away. Hunter tightened himself around his belt. For the first time, Mira smiled a true smile.

"You wouldn't do that…"

Alfrenzo nodded softly.

And just like that, she was dragged away, screaming.

Burizan fell back against the wall, shaking. His voice came weak and shaky, "I didn't know. I swear I didn't—I didn't—"

"I believe you," Alfrenzo said gently. "Don't make me change my mind."

______

Far to the north, the wind curled over the town of Briarshore, outside of Nowastra. The Black Vine Tavern was primarily attended by fishermen, drunkards, and the occasional smuggler. Yet tonight, it was filled with something more rare.

Ren lazily lounged in the corner booth, silver mask glinting under flickering lantern light. His blade lay across his lap as non-threatening as he, untouched and refused like his drink.

Then, the scrape.

Someone sat across from him. A stranger-lavishly tailored coat too fine, too slick in the boots of polished leather.

"I hear you danced through a cursed gate last week," the man said affably. "Like it was your dance card."

Ren did not respond.

"You can call me Kaesor. I speak for someone here with weight."

Before Ren could a scoff, the tavern door opened. The air felt thick.

A man stood in the doorway-lanky and tall, battle worn, and even at a distance radiated someone of command. What stood out was his hair. Red as the rust-rimmed tavern doorknob behind him, long and pulled behind ears.

He looked oddly familiar-Grand Knight Nags.

Confidently, he crossed the room. He picked up Kaesor's drink, and drank it like it was his.

"Nags said after a moment. "You look good in person. Your blade work... angry. Not polished. Not drilled. But precise. Almost blood trained."

Ren did not reply.

Nags set down the cup. "I'm offering you a position in my personal retinue. Training under me. Access to things only Grand Knights have access to.

"And?" Ren said, his voice like dry gravel.

"One wish," Nags said. "Anything."

Ren cocked his head. "Even immortality?"

Kaesor hesitated. Nags smiled. "The elixir? Yes. But you will have to earn it."

Ren's voice went icy. "What is the cost?"

"Two people," Nags said. "Alfrenzo. And the boy. Luenor Sureva.'

Ren's laugh was short. Bitter.

"Sure."

"Think about it," Nags said. "But don't take too long."

Ren stood up and walked out, mask hiding whatever thoughts he had.

Kaesor leaned into Nags. "Will he take it?"

"Maybe," Nags said. "He's not loyal. But he's not disloyal yet."

Then a messenger appeared, face pale.

He whispered to Nags.

Raveera. Poisoned. Cursed. Still alive.

Nags dropped the glass. It shattered.

"Clear the tavern," he said.

"But sir—"

"Now."

Kaesor didn't argue. Blades came out from under tables. Screams followed. But Nags was already gone—vanished in a shockwave of magic and steel.