In the dimly lit sanctum of his citadel, Zaros sat brooding upon a throne carved from obsidian and wrought iron. The chamber pulsed with an almost tangible darkness, lit only by flickering blue flames that lined the vast hall, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Zaros’s gaze was fixed on a shimmering pool before him—a mystical mirror that revealed visions from across his empire. In its swirling depths, Raelen’s assault played back in grim detail: ships ablaze, a legion crushed, and his fallen general’s final moments etched in brutality.

Yet Zaros’s face remained impassive, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as Raelen’s words echoed through his mind. **“I am coming for you. And this is only the beginning.”**

As the images faded, Zaros leaned back in his throne, a faint smile playing on his lips. To any of his generals, it would appear as nothing but amusement, but within Zaros’s mind, calculations surged. Raelen’s defiance was not mere rebellion; it was a direct affront, a taunt cast across the darkened fields of power Zaros had claimed for his own. His first instinct was to unleash his full might upon Raelen, to show the world what it meant to challenge Zaros. But he quelled the impulse, forcing himself to consider the consequences.

Zaros was a master of patience. Over centuries, he had carved his dominion into the world through careful manipulation, choosing his targets and alliances with precision. Striking Raelen down at this very moment, with all of Raelen’s public declarations and displays of defiance, would risk inflaming the hopes of those who watched from the shadows. The fires of rebellion had been lit across the land, and if Zaros crushed Raelen outright, others might rise in his place, emboldened by the resistance.

No, Zaros decided, it would be far more effective to bide his time and let Raelen become ensnared in his own hubris. Raelen had already made himself a symbol, a beacon to those desperate enough to resist. It was only a matter of time before he stretched himself too thin, before he fell victim to his own growing web of responsibility. Zaros would watch him, study him, and only strike when his victory would be absolute—when he could quash not only Raelen’s rebellion but the very spirit of defiance that had infected the weak.

With a cold, calculated calm, Zaros summoned his generals. His thoughts flickered briefly to his remaining commanders, each one handpicked for their ruthless loyalty and strength. They had served him well over the decades, bringing kingdoms to heel, enforcing his will across his lands, and crushing any who dared oppose him. Tonight, he would remind them of the stakes.

One by one, they arrived, each stepping through the blackened portal that led to his throne room. The flickering blue flames illuminated their figures—beings clad in jagged armor, dark robes, and ceremonial marks of loyalty that shimmered with Zaros’s own arcane branding. They kneeled as they entered, casting their heads low in reverence.

When all had assembled, Zaros rose, his form a towering shadow against the firelight. His gaze swept over them, calculating each one’s worth and resolve. He did not speak at once, allowing the tension to build, allowing them to feel the gravity of the situation.

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Finally, his voice cut through the silence, deep and resonant. “You have seen what has transpired. Raelen defies us openly. He has made himself a nuisance, an enemy to my rule. He undermines what we have built. I will not tolerate such insolence.”

A murmur rippled through the ranks, but none dared raise their heads to meet his gaze. Zaros’s words hung in the air, laden with unspoken threats and promises of retribution.

One general, the heavily armored Balzath, shifted slightly and ventured, “My lord, we are prepared to march upon him and crush him as we have crushed all others who dared defy you. His forces are few, scattered among the remnants of the defeated. We need only your command, and we will bring you his head.”

Zaros regarded Balzath with a narrowed gaze, noting the ambition behind the general’s words. “And yet,” Zaros replied coolly, “your counterpart, Drakkar, fell to this same force with little to show for his efforts. This Raelen is not a mere warlord. He is a threat calculated to weaken our rule.”

The generals tensed, realizing that the death of Drakkar had not gone unnoticed—and that their lord held them accountable for any further missteps.

“He is no ordinary insurgent,” Zaros continued, his voice low but filled with a simmering menace. “I have observed his tactics. Raelen is methodical, striking where it hurts and yet avoiding our central forces. He has positioned himself as a savior, a symbol for the lost and weak. If we attack him recklessly, it will only prove his accusations of tyranny to those who still dwell in shadows. We will not gift him such an advantage.”

Zaros turned his attention to one of his oldest and most trusted generals, Eryndor—a sorcerer of immense knowledge and precision. “Eryndor, you will lead the surveillance. Track Raelen’s movements, document his tactics, and identify any weaknesses he might reveal.”

The sorcerer nodded, a thin smile gracing his lips. “As you command, my lord. I will bring you every detail of his movements. He will not take a step that goes unseen.”

Zaros’s gaze shifted to his other generals. “The rest of you will prepare your forces, but you will not engage Raelen directly. He has proven adept at rallying survivors to his side. We will let him tire himself, stretch his resources. In time, we will bleed him dry.”

The generals nodded, their expressions resolute, understanding that Zaros was implementing a strategy of attrition, a slow, creeping death for Raelen that would end in his isolation and eventual destruction.

“As for those who flee to his side,” Zaros added, his voice a chilling whisper that held a latent promise of vengeance, “we will sever their hope at its root. I want scouts in every hidden refuge, eyes on every survivor who dares cling to his light.”

“Understood, my lord,” Eryndor responded, his voice laced with an eagerness that betrayed his anticipation of the hunt.

Zaros then addressed the room with finality, his tone an iron decree. “We will not strike in haste, but when the time comes, I will deliver Raelen’s broken spirit to you all as a reminder of the futility of defiance. Until then, remain vigilant. Make the people remember who it is that holds dominion over this world.”

The generals bowed, their loyalty absolute, their resolve hardened by Zaros’s words. As they filed out, Zaros returned to his throne, his mind already unraveling the many threads of his plan.

He would watch and wait, let Raelen’s fires burn high—and when he was certain Raelen had reached the peak of his influence, Zaros would crush him, smothering not only his rebellion but the hope of any who dared to dream of freedom. In his silence, Zaros would turn Raelen’s strength into his greatest weakness.

And, as Zaros allowed himself a slight, knowing smile, he whispered, as if Raelen could somehow hear him across the vast expanse, “You have declared war, Raelen. But I will remind you… I am the one who finishes it.”