---
DATHAR-KAI — SOUTHERN REAVERLANDS
The landscape stank of iron and ash.
Hector stood atop a high ridge, wind rustling his black warcloak, as he surveyed the smoking remains of Gorlok's Keep below. Charred bodies littered the muddy banks of the river Myrran, twisted into death poses—some hacked open, others flayed, and a few still burning. Crude black banners bearing a jagged tooth flapped limply on spears hammered into corpses.
The last of the warlord-baron's men had been cornered by dawn. Feral mercenaries, reeked of goat fat and piss. No mystic blood. No discipline. Just rage and numbers.
They lasted less than four hours against Hector's army.
He turned to Commander Verith, a bald, one-eyed veteran from the Eastern Ash Vales, covered in bone tattoos and silence.
"How many surrendered?"
"Fifty-three."
"Enslave them. Castrate the useful ones. Send the rest to the quarry in chains. If any resists, burn his cock off before the others."
Verith grunted approval and left without a word.
The soldiers below moved quickly, efficient as hounds in heat.
Hector knelt in the muddy grass, dragged his fingers through the blood-soaked soil, then wiped it across his face like warpaint.
"Paint me their fear," he murmured to the wind. "So every rebel who smells it knows I was here."
---
NIGHTFALL — THE TENT OF DECISION
The command tent was vast, circular, and draped in silver-hemmed black velvet. An enormous map of Dathar-Kai was spread across the central war table, its pieces marked with obsidian tokens—castles, rivers, rebel camps, and merchant hubs. Every night, Hector altered the board with surgical cruelty.
Tonight, however, he was not alone.
The woman across from him was taller than most men. She wore scale armor over olive skin, her breasts bare except for a chain of gold piercings. A blood-red sash tied to her left wrist marked her as a noble of House Calvriis—a warrior house long thought extinct until she emerged during the last rebellion with five thousand loyal swords.
She had ridden into his camp that morning, flanked by a retinue of mute killers. Most expected a duel. Instead, she asked for wine and policy.
Her name was Thalyra Calvriis, and she was dangerous in all the ways Hector respected.
"So," she said now, sipping bitter Myrran liquor from a ruby goblet. "You kill, enslave, or fuck your way through Dathar-Kai like a flame through dry parchment. What happens when you run out of rebels to crucify?"
"I breed new ones," Hector said, eyes never leaving hers.
A long silence.
Then—soft laughter.
"Strategist and sadist," Thalyra said. "You're exactly as the whispers painted you."
"And what do the whispers say?"
She stepped around the table, slowly, like a serpent circling its mate. "They say the Emperor fears you. That your brothers are watching. That you'll never know peace—only power, and poison."
She leaned closer. "They say you fuck your cousins in the palace gardens while dictating edicts."
"I fuck them on the throne itself," he corrected. "But yes. Accurate enough."
Another sip. Then she slid a dagger across the table.
"Take me."
He raised a brow. "You want to submit?"
She smirked. "I want to survive. The old Houses are crumbling. The borderlords are sharpening knives. I'd rather bend to a monster with a vision than die beside fools dreaming of empires past."
He stepped forward.
"Remove your sash," he said.
Thalyra obeyed.
"Your armor."
She dropped it with a clatter.
He kissed her mouth—hard and blood-slick—then spun her around and bent her over the war table, maps crumpling beneath her hips.
The next hour was war of another kind. Brutal. Erotic. Dominant. She bit, clawed, begged, then submitted fully, whispering oaths into his ear as he ravaged her.
When it was done, he left her lying naked across the map of Dathar-Kai.
"Have a saddle ready," he murmured. "At dawn, we ride to the Iron Barrows. If you serve me well, I'll grant you three cities and a husband of your choosing."
She smiled through bruised lips. "I already chose."
---
THREE DAYS LATER — THE IRON BARROWS
The Iron Barrows were an ancient network of hills, tombs, and mines—forgotten by nobles, infested by self-declared kings and half-blood mystics.
Their leader, a self-styled Warlord Varun, had once served Hector's father as a slave general. He had risen, rebelled, and declared himself "King of the Exiles."
He had two thousand men, crude blood magic, and no understanding of fear.
Hector arrived with seven hundred elites and a captured noble girl strapped naked to his war standard. She wept the whole time.
By midnight, Varun's men were screaming.
By dawn, their women were shackled and marched away in silence.
And by noon, Hector dragged Varun himself—naked, beaten, bleeding—through the streets of Guldax, his "capital," and nailed him to the gates of his own treasury.
Then, Hector climbed the wall, and addressed the survivors.
"I am not your savior," he announced. "I am your inheritance. And you will serve me, or feed me."
Not a soul resisted.
---
MEANWHILE — FAR SOUTH, SLAVE CITY OF VYR'MARAK
Daemon Vel'Zorath had become a name.
Not a noble. Not a prince. Just a whisper passed in bloodied slave pits and rebel caves.
He wore no armor. He held no banners.
But he had already survived five assassination attempts from noble thugs, three full-scale ambushes, and a duel with a mystic-blooded knight where he cracked the man's spine with nothing but his voice.
Now, he knelt beside a dying boy—fifteen years old, lungs pierced, dying after a raid.
Daemon held the boy's hand and closed his eyes.
"Speak your pain," he said.
The boy sobbed once. Then light bled from his mouth—a dark silver glow that wrapped around Daemon's wrist like a snake and buried itself into his bones.
The boy died. Daemon stood.
And every rebel nearby swore allegiance, not out of hope—but fear.
---
BACK IN DATHAR-KAI — THE FORGE OF FLESH
Hector stood in his private forge—a circular hall beneath his palace, lit by low crimson glowstones and heat from volcanic vents.
Beside him, a noble girl knelt naked, shackled to a pillar. Her father had spoken against Hector during a council. She would live. Her father would not.
He watched as the blade was finished—blacksteel forged with the crushed teeth of every rebel noble he'd slain. The sword hummed when held, as if singing.
He called it Tyranthus.
A sword made not for defense, but domination.
As he lifted it, the girl whimpered.
He didn't even look at her. Only whispered: "My empire begins with your father's skull."
---
A young scout burst into the war chamber during council. Dust-covered, breath ragged.
Hector stood. "Speak."
The boy dropped to one knee. "My prince. There is… a boy."
Hector's eyes narrowed.
The scout gulped. "He has no banners. No noble blood. But he tears down towers. They say his voice burns. They say the slaves call him Profanus Rex… the Lord of the Profane."
There was silence.
Thalyra lea
ned forward. "Shall I send spies?"
"No," Hector said, smiling slowly.
He stepped to the balcony of his black palace, looking south—toward Vyr'Marak.
"I shall go myself."
_____