The Tyrant’s Resurgence

Zareth crouched low on the rooftop, his silhouette blending into the night. Below him, Dominion patrols moved through the streets, more cautious now than before. The weight of his previous strike lingered in the air, unsettling them. They knew he was still here, but now they had to think before they acted.

That was the difference.

Before, the hunt had been simple—track, corner, and kill. But after Zareth's counterattack, the Dominion had been forced to slow down. The vice leader had not called for a retreat, nor had he overcommitted to an all-out sweep.

Instead, he adjusted.

Zareth narrowed his eyes, watching the way the patrols moved. They were still searching for him, but their patterns were slightly altered. They left fewer gaps. Communications had become more frequent. They had adapted, but adaptation meant hesitation.

And hesitation was an opening.

Zareth didn't strike immediately. Instead, he let the tension linger. He tested their reaction speed, slipping into areas where he knew they'd find traces of his presence—a displaced stone, a flicker of movement in the dark—just to see how quickly they adjusted.

He wasn't just running anymore. He was mapping their instincts.

And most importantly, he was looking for the first crack.

There was always a weak link. No matter how disciplined a force was, someone always thought themselves above orders.

Zareth found him soon enough.

Inquisitor Saren Velkor.

Young. Ambitious. Overzealous. The kind of warrior who craved glory more than he feared failure. The kind who wanted to be the one to kill Zareth Valgarde.

Zareth had seen his type before. He had commanded them, exploited them, and—when necessary—broken them.

Deep within the Dominion's forward camp

The vice leader stood in front of his gathered officers, his voice calm yet commanding. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face.

"Zareth Valgarde is no longer simply running. He is shifting the battlefield to his favor. If you continue thinking like hunters, you will become prey."

The officers stood stiffly, absorbing his words. Among them, Saren Velkor's jaw tightened. His hand twitched toward his blade.

The vice leader's gaze settled on him for a moment before sweeping across the rest.

"You are to hold formation. We do not take reckless engagements. If you see him, you report first. We will collapse upon him as one, not as individuals seeking personal glory."

A subtle tension passed through the gathering. Saren's fingers flexed at his side, but he said nothing—yet.

The vice leader let silence linger before speaking again.

"Do not let him dictate this battlefield. He is not just strong—he is calculating. Give him an opening, and he will bury you in it."

The officers saluted, but Saren did not move immediately. His face remained unreadable, but inside, he seethed.

"Hold formation? Wait for orders? What kind of cowardice was this?"

He was an Inquisitor. He had trained for years for this moment. And now, when he had a chance to carve his name into history, he was supposed to wait?

He clenched his fists.

"No."

Saren Velkor would not be just another soldier in this game.

He would take Zareth's head himself.

Saren moved without telling anyone. He left with a small squad, claiming it was a "routine patrol." The officers assumed he was following the vice leader's orders. He wasn't.

Zareth, from his hidden vantage point, had been waiting for exactly this.

The ambush was not flashy. No grand battle. No overwhelming show of power.

Just a blade, a sudden silence, and then nothing.

By the time Saren's squad realized something was wrong, it was already too late. One by one, they were taken down. Some died before they could even draw their weapons. Others had their throats crushed before they could scream.

And Saren?

He fought.

He swung his blade wide, his Aetherbrand surging to life—a bright, burning force that crackled in the air.

"Show yourself, coward!" he snarled, eyes darting through the darkness.

But Zareth was already behind him.

A hand clamped around his mouth, cutting off his next breath. A sudden, sharp impact to the back of the skull sent his world spiraling into darkness.

And then, there was silence.

Saren woke up bound and beaten. His hands were tied behind his back, his legs immobilized. A cold wind cut through the ruined building where he had been dragged.

Zareth sat across from him, silent.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Zareth leaned forward. His voice was low, calm—a predator's voice.

"You disobeyed orders."

Saren's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

"You wanted my head so badly that you walked right into my hands." Zareth's voice held no amusement—only certainty.

Silence.

Then, Zareth spoke again, softer this time.

"You're not going to die today."

Saren's breathing slowed. His body tensed.

"Not yet."

Zareth's gaze bore into him.

"Tell me about your vice leader."

Saren swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. He said nothing—but Zareth was patient.

And patience broke men faster than pain.

Back at the Dominion camp, the vice leader received the report.

Saren Velkor—missing.

His squad—slaughtered.

A cold silence settled over him. He exhaled slowly, his mind already working through the implications.

"He didn't just kill them. He took Velkor."

That meant information had been compromised.

That meant Zareth was not just fighting back.

He was learning. Adapting.

And for the first time, the vice leader felt something close to concern.

"Very well," he murmured, his fingers tightening into a fist.

"If he wants to play this game—let's see how far he's willing to go."