The Tyrant’s Resurgence

The wind howled through the valley, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. Zareth walked with steady strides, each step pressing into the dirt path that led toward civilization. Civilization—if it could still be called that.

The world had moved on without him, and yet, with every mile, he could feel something in the air. The remnants of his past clung to the bones of the land, though time had buried them under a new age.

He passed scattered settlements—small, insignificant places where peasants toiled in fields, where children ran barefoot, their laughter foreign to him. He listened to the way people spoke, noting the differences in dialect, the way names of places had changed, how the Dominion's rule was spoken of with either quiet reverence or hushed fear.

The hunger for power stirred within him. He clenched his fists, feeling the raw strength in his grip, but there was a hollowness there. He was not whole. Not yet.

There was something deeper—something that had returned with him, lurking beneath his skin. A whisper, a presence, as if the grave had not entirely let him go. He ignored it for now. There were more pressing matters at hand.

He needed to understand this new world before he tore it apart.

The city loomed in the distance. Varathis.

The name was unfamiliar, but the land was not. This place had once been something else, centuries ago—a stronghold under his dominion. Now, it bore the marks of the present rulers. Banners of the Dominion fluttered above its walls, their sigil an affront to his past glory.

As he entered, he saw signs of what had been erased. A monument, crumbling and overgrown, barely recognizable. He traced the worn stone with his fingers, a faded inscription in a language that was once his own. They had tried to erase him.

But the past did not die so easily.

The streets bustled with life. Merchants bartered, commoners moved about their business, and enforcers of the Dominion patrolled in their gleaming armor. He moved through the crowd, unseen, just another traveler. Yet, he listened.

He sought out the places where knowledge bled freely—taverns, markets, dens of the forgotten. He found a seedy establishment at the city's heart, filled with drunkards, mercenaries, and those who thrived in the underbelly of power.

And there, he heard it.

His name.

Not spoken as it once was—not with fear or reverence. But as a myth. A ghost story. A warning.

"The Tyrant of Ash and Blood—Zareth Valgarde. Hah, my grandfather used to say he was real."

"A tale to scare children. Even if he lived, he's dust now. Nothing stands against the Dominion."

"Good riddance, I say. The warlords of old were monsters."

Zareth listened, silent, expression unreadable. The betrayers' descendants still held power, their bloodlines thriving under the Dominion's rule.

They had flourished in his absence.

He let the thought settle within him like a slow-burning fire.

And then, trouble found him.

A group of enforcers entered the tavern, clad in blackened armor, their presence turning the air heavy. The room quieted, patrons averting their gazes. These were not ordinary guards. They carried authority—the kind that crushed rebellions before they could start.

Zareth remained still, but one of them noticed him. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself. Perhaps it was fate.

"You," one of them barked. "Stand."

Zareth did not move.

Another stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Refusing an order? You don't belong here, do you?"

The tavern grew silent, the tension thick.

The enforcers did not wait for compliance. The first one grabbed his shoulder. A mistake.

Zareth moved.

His fingers crushed the man's wrist before he could react, twisting until bone cracked. The enforcer screamed, and the others lunged forward, weapons drawn.

The fight was swift, brutal.

Zareth was outnumbered, his body still adjusting to its lost strength. His movements, once effortless, felt sluggish. He dodged a blade but took a strike to the ribs, the impact jarring. Not invincible. Not yet.

But he was still Zareth Valgarde.

A merciless backhand sent one flying into a table, another's skull cracked against the wall. He fought like a storm barely contained, raw power barely reined in. His instincts guided him, movements honed from a lifetime of conquest.

Then, for a moment, something stirred.

A flicker of darkness rippled across his veins. A force long buried. The room dimmed, as if the world itself hesitated. The enforcers recoiled—a moment of unnatural fear, primal and absolute.

Then, just as quickly, it passed.

The last enforcer fell to the ground, gasping, blood pooling beneath him.

Zareth stood over the bodies, exhaling slowly. The room remained silent. No one dared speak.

He had won. But it was not effortless.

And that meant he needed more.

In the aftermath, he searched the bodies, taking what he could—gold, weapons, insignias. More importantly, he found information.

A name. A location.

A noble house, one whose lineage tied back to his betrayers. They had wealth. Influence. And perhaps, answers.

He could not rush this. He had returned, but he was not yet an emperor. Not yet a conqueror.

He was a blade being sharpened.

He turned to leave, but before stepping out, he looked back at the tavern's patrons.

"Spread the word," he said, his voice low, deadly. "The world may have forgotten me. But I will make them kneel once more."

And then, he walked into the night, toward the next step of his reclamation.