Rebirth of the Tyrant: The Exiled King’s Revenge

The Weight of the Throne

Duskfall had begun to stir beneath Kairos Drakarion's rule, but the city was far from tamed.

The remnants of the Iron Lords' regime still lurked in the shadows, whispering of rebellion. Mercenaries, opportunists, and cowards who had once served Varric Ironhand now watched him with careful, hungry eyes. Some wished to strike against him. Others wished to see him fail.

And yet, Kairos stood unshaken at the heart of his kingdom.

The Citadel loomed above the city, its blackened towers rising like jagged knives into the sky. From his war chamber, Kairos studied the map of Duskfall, his golden eyes tracing the streets, the districts, the vulnerable corners where his enemies still plotted.

He was not a king who waited for his enemies to move first.

No—he was a tyrant who would strike before they even realized they had lost.

Liora stood at his side, her sharp gaze fixed on the same map. "The whispers are getting louder," she said. "Some believe you are just another warlord waiting to be toppled."

Kairos smirked. "Then let them try."

She frowned. "If they believe you are weak, they will act soon."

"Good."

His voice was calm, but the fire behind his eyes burned hotter than ever.

The Gathering Storm

The first signs of rebellion surfaced at dawn.

A messenger arrived, battered and breathless, bearing a letter sealed in crimson wax.

Liora took the scroll first, unraveling it with a sharp motion. Her expression darkened as she read.

Kairos leaned forward. "Tell me."

She handed it to him. "It's a demand for surrender."

The words on the parchment were scrawled in thick, deliberate strokes.

Kairos Drakarion,

The city is not yours. You sit upon a throne made of bones, but the dead will not kneel to you. You have taken much, but the people do not belong to you. Step down, leave Duskfall, and we may let you live.

Defy us, and you will drown in the blood of your own soldiers.

•The Hand of the Fallen

Kairos chuckled, rolling the parchment between his fingers. "They make bold claims for men who cower in the dark."

Liora crossed her arms. "They aren't just cowards. The 'Hand of the Fallen' has been recruiting. They've gathered remnants of the Iron Lords' forces, mercenaries, and exiles from beyond the borders. If we do not act soon, they will act first."

Kairos tossed the letter into the nearby brazier. The flames devoured the words in seconds.

"Then we let them believe they have the advantage," he said, turning toward his commanders. "And when they come for me—we bury them."

The Rebel Ambush

By nightfall, Kairos had set his trap.

He spread rumors through the lower districts—false whispers that he would be inspecting the garrison near the Eastern Watchtower alone.

The rebels took the bait.

They came in force.

As midnight struck, shadows slithered through the ruined alleys, moving toward the watchtower with silent intent. Their leader, a man known only as Gareth the Hollow, led the charge. A former captain of the Iron Lords, he had once stood at Varric Ironhand's side.

He had fought in the massacre at Raven's Hollow. He had burned entire villages in the war against the Celestian Empire.

And now, he sought to cut down the man who had taken his throne.

His rebels encircled the watchtower, their weapons gleaming under the moonlight.

There was no sign of Kairos.

Only a single, flickering torch swayed in the breeze.

Gareth narrowed his eyes. "Something's wrong."

A whisper of wind.

Then—chaos.

The streets erupted with movement as Kairos's forces sprang the trap. Archers hidden on rooftops loosed their arrows. Shadows burst from the alleyways as Kairos's elite Blades of Dusk cut through the rebels with ruthless precision.

Screams filled the air as blood splattered across the cobblestone.

Gareth turned to retreat—only to find Kairos standing in his path.

The Tyrant did not hesitate.

Steel met steel as Gareth swung his blade, aiming for Kairos's throat. But Kairos was faster, deadlier. He sidestepped, parried, then drove his knee into Gareth's ribs, sending him staggering back.

"Did you really think you could kill me?" Kairos murmured.

Gareth snarled, lunging again. "You were a ghost! You should have stayed dead!"

Kairos caught his wrist and twisted sharply—the crack of bone echoed in the night. Gareth screamed, his blade clattering to the ground.

Kairos grinned. "And yet, here I stand."

He plunged his dagger into Gareth's throat, twisting the blade as his enemy choked on his own blood.

The rebellion died that night.

A Tyrant's Mercy

By dawn, the corpses of the fallen were piled high outside the Citadel.

The people of Duskfall watched as Kairos's soldiers lit the funeral pyres, sending smoke curling into the sky.

Kairos addressed the crowd, his golden eyes blazing.

"They wished to cast me out. They believed me weak. They thought I would kneel before them." He let the words hang in the air, his voice cutting through the silence.

"I am no warlord. I am no false king. I am Kairos Drakarion. And this city belongs to me."

His words reverberated through the square, settling in the hearts of the people.

Some feared him. Others admired him.

But none could deny the truth.

Duskfall had a ruler.

And he would not be challenged again. 

At least, not from within the walls of Duskfall.

The city had bent to him. Its people whispered his name with reverence and fear. The Council of Ashes had submitted, the Black Market now operated under his command, and the rebellion had been snuffed out before it could take root.

But Kairos Drakarion knew the greatest threats did not come from within—but from beyond.

As the funeral pyres burned and the last of the rebels' bodies turned to ash, Liora approached from the shadows, her cloak pulled tightly around her frame.

"They're watching," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kairos did not turn to face her. His golden eyes remained locked on the flames, his thoughts stretching beyond the city walls, beyond Duskfall itself.

"The Dominion?" he asked, his voice calm.

Liora nodded. "And others. Word has spread that the Tyrant has returned."

Kairos smirked. "Good."

Liora hesitated. "Kairos, this isn't just rumors. There are emissaries moving beyond our borders—spies, diplomats, assassins. Aldric will know you're alive. And he won't sit idly by while you reclaim what was once yours."

Kairos exhaled slowly, the weight of his past pressing against his spine. Fifteen years ago, they had stolen his throne. They had buried his name. They had thought him dead.

And yet, here he stood.

Stronger. Smarter. Hungrier.

"Let them come," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames. "Let them whisper in their courts. Let them sharpen their knives. Let them believe that I will fall again."

Liora studied him for a moment before speaking. "And if they march on us first?"

Kairos finally turned to face her, his golden eyes burning with a fire that could not be extinguished.

"Then we march first."

Duskfall was only the beginning.

The world had forgotten the Tyrant.

It was time to remind them.