The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The Dominion camp was quiet. Too quiet.

Not the silence of discipline, nor the stillness of soldiers awaiting orders. This was a silence born from uncertainty, fear—failure. The kind of silence that crept into the bones and hollowed men from the inside.

The vice leader sat within his tent, hands clenched tight over the map sprawled before him. His nails had dug so deep into the parchment that they nearly tore through it. The lines and markings once formed a well-structured operation, a methodical trap meant to corner and crush a single man.

Now, it was meaningless. He had lost control.

He inhaled sharply, but even the air felt heavy in his lungs. Everything had gone wrong.

First, the patrols failed—squads vanishing, messengers disappearing before delivering crucial updates. Then, his orders weren't being followed properly. Not because of insubordination, but because they weren't reaching their targets at all.

Now, his men whispered among themselves, thinking he didn't hear.

"How does he know our movements before we do?""Is he a phantom? A demon?""What if… what if we're already dead and don't know it yet?"

Weakness. They were crumbling. And in their doubt, the vice leader felt something dangerous stir within him—an old, familiar emotion he thought long since conquered.

Fear.

He crushed it, or at least, he tried.

His teeth ground together as he turned his gaze outward, past the tent flaps, watching the faces of his own soldiers. Some still clung to their duty, but most looked shaken, exhausted. He saw the unease in their eyes, in the way their hands never strayed far from their weapons—not out of readiness, but paranoia.

And worse than that… some looked at him with doubt.

They think I'm failing.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He couldn't allow that. No, he wouldn't.

"If they cannot follow orders, they will learn what true failure means."

His mind settled on a single, ruthless conclusion. This was no longer about Zareth alone.

He would purge weakness from his own ranks—before it consumed him first.

Zareth watched from above, perched in the shadows of a crumbling rooftop. He had been listening, observing. His work had already been done—the poison was in the air. Now, it was just a matter of watching it take effect.

The vice leader was unraveling, and he was going to make sure he pulled every last thread.

"A desperate man always reaches for the easiest solution."

The vice leader's desperation was his greatest weakness. And desperate men?

They made mistakes.

Zareth had no interest in simply watching them struggle. He would push them further, just enough to shatter the chain of command entirely.

So, he moved. Not with reckless aggression, not with brute force, but with intent.

Officers. Messengers. Aetherbrand warriors who still held the lines together.

Each one fell without fanfare, without spectacle—just precise, deliberate removal. Like cutting threads from a tapestry.

Some died before they even realized they had been targeted.

A commander choked on his own blood before he could give the next order.

A messenger collapsed with a dagger buried in his throat, the letter still clutched in his fingers.

A seasoned warrior turned the corner and never stepped back out.

And with each death, the Dominion's direction dissolved further.

Conflicting orders. Miscommunication. Patrols moving in circles, chasing after ghosts.

Zareth wasn't merely fighting a battle anymore. He was sculpting the battlefield itself.

And soon, it would be ready for his final move.

The breaking point came when the wrong man was killed.

The vice leader's paranoia had grown unchecked. His mind clouded by frustration, he sought a traitor where none existed.

An accusation. A confrontation. And then, an execution order.

The condemned soldier didn't resist—he barely even reacted. He had already lost faith in his commander.

The gathered Dominion forces watched as one of their own was struck down, not by the enemy, but by their own leader.

For the first time, the hesitation became visible.

Some averted their eyes. Some tightened their grips on their weapons. Some, in the farthest ranks, took a step back.

A question formed, unspoken, but undeniable.

"Are we the ones being hunted?"

And just like that, the fracture deepened.

A rider arrived in the dead of night. A single messenger.

The vice leader, still simmering from the day's events, tore the scroll open with trembling fingers.

Only a single line was written within.

"Do not disappoint me."

Kaldros' words were not a warning. Not encouragement. Not a command.

They were a verdict, passed down before the execution.

The vice leader's grip tightened around the parchment, knuckles whitening. His breathing came harder, shallower.

This wasn't just about Zareth anymore. This was about his own survival.

If he failed… Kaldros would erase him personally.

For the first time, the thought of Zareth killing him seemed almost merciful by comparison.

The Dominion forces had been chasing ghosts.

Now, the ghost stood before them.

A lone figure, emerging from the darkness.

Zareth stepped into the light of their dying torches, calm, composed—unchallenged.

The gathered soldiers froze. For all their hunting, for all their orders, for all their desperate attempts to find him—

He was already here.

The vice leader stared at him, unable to speak for a moment. His mind, already cracked, now fully fractured.

He had spent days tightening his grip—only to find nothing in his hands.

And in the silence that followed, one thing became clear.

This was not a battle.

It was an execution.