Power doesn't exist in a vacuum.
It draws attention — like blood in water draws sharks.
In the days after Grimhaven fell under my shadow, the first wave came.
Some arrived with gifts.
Others arrived with blades.
I stood on the broken balcony of a ruined spire, overlooking the skeletal city below, when I felt the first presence approaching. Strong. Focused. Not afraid — but cautious.
A crimson-cloaked figure stepped from the mist, flanked by two armored knights.
She pulled back her hood to reveal sharp, silver hair and violet eyes that gleamed with amusement. Lady Seraphine, the Witch of the Iron Sands. A mercenary queen known for conquering desert kingdoms with nothing but sorcery and sheer will.
"I thought the stories were exaggerated," she said, studying me. "But they didn't do you justice."
I said nothing, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable.
Seraphine smirked. "Straight to the point, then. Good. I offer you allegiance, Deathmarked. My armies, my loyalty, my blade — in exchange for one thing."
"And what's that?" I asked coolly.
"When you reshape this world..." Her eyes burned with hunger. "I want a kingdom of my own."
I studied her.
A liar would have groveled. A fool would have demanded my power outright.
But ambition?
Ambition I could use.
"You'll have your kingdom," I said. "If you earn it."
Her grin widened.
Not long after, others followed.
Kaelen Blackthorn, master assassin of the Obsidian Veil, came offering his dagger and his silence.
The Bloodwright Circle, a secretive guild of ritualists, pledged themselves to me, eager to study death without the Council's chains.
But not all who came sought alliance.
Some came to test me.
One night, as the moons bled silver across the sky, a sorcerer clad in runes of burning gold challenged me in the plaza of broken stones.
He called himself Darian the Bright — a self-proclaimed "hero" of the old order.
"You wear death like armor," he sneered. "But it will betray you, as it betrays all tyrants."
I tilted my head. "Tyrant? I'm barely getting started."
He attacked first — a blazing spear of solar fire lancing toward me.
With a flick of my wrist, a wall of spectral bones rose from the earth, absorbing the blast without a crack.
He roared and summoned more. Firestorms. Light chains. Weapons of pure energy.
It didn't matter.
I moved through his spells like smoke through fingers.
In less than a minute, he was on his knees, breathing smoke and blood, his golden runes shattered.
I knelt before him, my voice low and final.
"Remember this," I whispered. "Your light fades. My darkness endures."
And then I left him there, broken but alive — a living warning to anyone foolish enough to follow.
With every challenge crushed, my legend grew.
Aric the Deathmarked.
The Heir of Shadows.
The Necromancer who could not be chained.
But deep inside, I knew this was only the beginning.
The Council was gathering forces.
Dark powers beyond even them were stirring.
And soon, even gods might come to fear my name.
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