Zareth Valgarde knelt in the shattered remnants of his throne room, his once-proud empire crumbling around him. The banners of House Valgarde, the sigil of the Black Sun, lay in tatters on the blood-slicked floor. The scent of fire and death filled his lungs, and the screams of his loyalists faded into the howling winds of the burning capital.
Before him stood his closest allies—once his most trusted generals, advisors, and sworn brothers. Now, they loomed as executioners. Their eyes burned with a mixture of hatred, fear, and something far worse—relief. Relief that the warlord who had once bent the world to his will would finally be undone.
"You have ruled with iron and fire for too long, Zareth," spoke King Edric Dainhart, his silvered blade slick with the blood of those who had still fought for their master. "The world will not weep for you."
Zareth spat blood onto the marble floor. "I did not conquer this world to make it weep. I conquered it because none among you had the strength to."
The gathered traitors grimaced, but none refuted his words.
"It took all of us to bring you low," said Veylor Corthain, the once-loyal right hand of Zareth. He raised a torch high. "You will not be allowed to return. Not as a ghost, not as a legend. We erase you tonight."
The first blade pierced his gut.
Zareth clenched his teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. Another sword drove into his chest, sliding between ribs. His vision swam, but he forced himself to remain upright.
They burned him next. The sacred pyre was meant to erase his name, his body, his very existence. He heard the chanting of the High Priests as they invoked the gods to deny him the afterlife.
Through the inferno, through the agony, Zareth Valgarde did not beg. Did not plead. Did not weep.
He laughed. A deep, guttural sound that sent unease through those who had betrayed him.
"You think this is my end?" His voice rasped through the flames. "You are fools."
And then, darkness.
The world had forgotten him.
But Zareth had not forgotten the world.
His first sensation was pain. A deep, aching thing—like his body had been torn apart and stitched back together by an uncaring god. He gasped, cold air rushing into his lungs like fire. His fingers curled, scraping against damp stone.
He lay in a tomb. No, not a tomb. A prison.
Zareth pushed himself upright, his body sluggish, foreign. Shadows clung to the corners of his vision, whispering in tongues he did not recognize. The air smelled of damp rot and something older—something that did not belong in the world of men.
He was alive.
But something was wrong. His skin, once bronze from years of war, was now pale, marked with faint sigils that pulsed like embers beneath his flesh. His body no longer ached with the weight of years—there was something unnatural in his veins.
Memories flooded him. The betrayal. The fire. The pain. His fingers curled into fists. The gods had forsaken him, but something else had not.
His tomb's seal had cracked. Whether by fate or the arrogance of grave robbers, he had been freed.
A voice echoed in his mind, ancient and cold. Rise, Tyrant. The world has forgotten. Make it remember.
Zareth's lips curled into a slow, hungry smile.
He heard voices beyond the crumbling stone. Footsteps. Laughter. Men who did not belong to him.
Grave robbers.
They had come, no doubt, seeking treasure from the ruins of an empire long since erased. Zareth rose, his movements fluid despite his resurrection. He had no weapon. He did not need one.
As the first man stepped through the breach, torch raised high, Zareth struck. His hand closed around the thief's throat, lifting him effortlessly before crushing his windpipe. The second man barely had time to gasp before Zareth moved—too fast, too powerful. His bare hands shattered ribs, tore flesh, ended life.
The last of them tried to run. Zareth caught him by the hair, wrenching his head back to meet his gaze.
"Who rules the world now?" he asked, his voice hoarse from centuries of silence.
The thief sobbed. "The—The Dominion! The God-King reigns over—"
Zareth broke his neck.
The bodies lay in ruin at his feet. He exhaled, and for the first time in centuries, he felt alive.
He stood at the mouth of his shattered tomb, gazing out at the unfamiliar world before him. The stars had shifted. The land bore scars of wars he did not know. His empire was gone, his name a whisper on the wind.
But that would change.
He clenched his fists, blood dripping from his fingers.
"Zareth Valgarde," he murmured, feeling the weight of his name once more. His lips curled into a wolfish grin.
"The world forgot me." His voice darkened, filled with cold promise. "But I will make it remember."
And with that, the Tyrant walked into the world once more.