The battlefield had fallen into a grim silence, but the tension remained. The fires from the earlier skirmish still crackled in the distance, painting flickering shadows across Zareth's face as he examined the insignia. A deep crimson crest, a sigil barely recognizable, yet carrying weight from another lifetime.
Veyron, standing beside him, exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to snatch the insignia himself.
"This… this insignia hasn't been seen in centuries."
Zareth's gaze didn't waver.
"You recognize it."
Veyron's nod was slow. "It belonged to House Draeven. A noble line that once held power before the Dominion. They were part of the coup. One of the first to turn against you."
The name stirred something in Zareth's mind—distant echoes of betrayal, the memory of a blade at his back. They had been among the ones to swear loyalty, only to sell him out at the crucial moment.
And now, after two hundred years, their insignia had resurfaced. The enemy wasn't just the Dominion. It was the remnants of those who had destroyed him.
A cruel smile tugged at his lips.
"Then history is repeating itself. But this time, I will not fall."
Zareth surveyed the battlefield, his forces gathering what little supplies remained from the skirmish. The attack had been precise, meant to test him rather than eliminate him outright. That was what troubled him most.
"They're not just trying to crush us," Veyron murmured. "They're conditioning us. Keeping us under pressure while the real noose tightens."
Zareth already understood.
The first Inquisitor group was the hammer—relentless attacks to wear him down.
The second was the unseen blade—controlling the battlefield through sabotage, misinformation, and psychological warfare.
"They want me to grow paranoid. To waste my energy chasing ghosts," Zareth said coldly. "But I refuse to dance to their tune."
Still, he wasn't strong enough. Not yet. His forces were unrefined, his power incomplete. He needed to adapt before he was backed into a corner.
"If they want to break us with pressure," he decided, "then we forge steel from it."
The following days were brutal.
Zareth doubled the intensity of training, drilling his warriors in the art of Aetherbrand combat. The weak fell away, those who couldn't keep up were cast aside without hesitation. Only the strongest, most determined fighters remained.
Among them, a handful of individuals stood out.
They weren't the best yet, but they had something most others lacked—raw potential.
Oric Vann: A former pit fighter, battle-hardened and vicious, but reckless.
Selia Vorne: A strategist, calculating and calm, but not yet ruthless.
Dain Calder: A weapon master, skilled in versatility, but lacking true power.
Rurik 'Bloodhand': A brutal warrior, driven by revenge, but unstable.
Elias Vren: The quietest of them all, but with a frighteningly efficient way of killing.
Zareth didn't waste time giving them praise. Instead, he threw them into the fire—forcing them to evolve.
"You are not warriors. Not yet." His voice was cold. "You are dogs biting at the heels of giants. But I will turn you into wolves."
That was the moment he named them.
The Black Oath
A force not yet powerful enough to turn the tide—but in time, they would be.
Zareth refused to let the enemy dictate the pace.
"If they're watching, then let them see what I want them to see."
A false movement of forces was orchestrated—bait to lure the shadow Inquisitor group into acting. A calculated misstep, designed to provoke a reaction.
His plan was simple: He would make them think he was vulnerable, and when they moved to strike, he would be waiting.
Veyron glanced at him. "If they see through this—"
"Then we adjust and strike again." Zareth's eyes gleamed. "I will not let them sit in the shadows forever."
The war wasn't just fought with blades. It was a battle of control, of who dictated the next move.
And Zareth intended to take that control.
Veyron spent hours digging into the insignia's history. When he finally returned, his expression was darker than before.
"House Draeven should have been erased," he said, voice laced with something unreadable. "But they still exist. Not as nobles, but as something else."
"The Dominion protected them," Zareth guessed.
Veyron nodded. "They became something worse. They serve the Dominion directly. A faction deeply embedded within the Inquisitors."
A name resurfaced from the past—one Zareth hadn't heard in two hundred years.
A descendant of his betrayers. A man now holding power within the Dominion's elite.
Zareth turned away from the firelight, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon.
"Then we start with him."