The Warpath of the Necrodominion

The fortress was massive—its walls towering high, lined with ballistae, archers, and runic defenses. Flaming braziers illuminated the battlements, revealing thousands of soldiers preparing for war.

Ren's forces stretched far beyond the horizon. Rows upon rows of undead knights, skeletal war beasts, and armored specters stood motionless, awaiting his command.

Beside him, Goaty's golden fur shimmered under the moonlight. The goat let out a low, guttural bleat—a sound filled with amusement rather than concern.

Ren smirked.

"Impressive defenses," he mused, watching as the enemy scrambled to reinforce their gates. "Shame they won't last the night."

Roderic stepped forward, his crimson cloak billowing in the wind. "Their walls are enchanted with defensive runes, my lord. Direct assaults will cost us too many soldiers."

Ren nodded. "Then we don't attack directly."

He turned to Goaty.

"Break their morale."

Goaty's eyes gleamed.

Then, in a single, impossible motion, the goat vanished.

A blur of gold and shadow streaked toward the fortress, moving faster than the eye could track.

The defenders on the wall barely had time to react.

Then the screaming began.

One by one, soldiers were flung from the battlements—sent hurtling into the abyss below as Goaty tore through them like a force of nature.

Ballista bolts fired—but they struck only empty air.

Spells were cast—but the goat moved too fast.

Panic spread like wildfire.

Within minutes, the walls were a massacre.

Goaty landed gracefully atop a crumbling watchtower, his hooves shattering the stone beneath him. Blood dripped from his golden horns, and his haunting gaze locked onto the remaining defenders.

Then, he bleated.

A single, deafening sound—echoing across the battlefield.

The moment it reached Ren's undead legions, they charged.

Like a tidal wave of death, they surged forward.

The Fall of Durnholde

The gates didn't hold.

The moment the undead reached them, spectral flames erupted, melting the iron to slag. The walls, weakened by Goaty's rampage, collapsed beneath the sheer force of the assault.

Velkar's soldiers fought bravely, but bravery meant nothing against an army that did not fear pain, exhaustion, or death.

Ren walked through the ruined city streets, the sound of clashing steel filling the air.

The battle was already won.

Now, it was just a matter of how much destruction he wanted to cause.

A soldier rushed at him, sword raised.

Ren sidestepped effortlessly.

His hand shot forward, fingers plunging into the man's chest.

For a brief moment, their eyes met—one filled with defiance, the other with cold amusement.

Then Ren crushed his heart.

The soldier fell without a sound.

Another tried to flee—Ren didn't even look as Goaty blurred past him. A golden horn pierced through the man's back, dropping him instantly.

The slaughter continued.

Within an hour, Durnholde was his.

Ren stood in the town square, watching as his soldiers rounded up the survivors.

They knelt before him—some in fear, others in hatred.

He looked down at them, considering.

"Serve me," he said simply. "Or be erased."

The choice was theirs.

But he already knew what the answer would be.

The March Continues

The Necrodominion's banners flew over Durnholde.

But Ren didn't stop.

With his army at full strength and Goaty at his side, he turned his gaze toward the next target.

The Velkar Dominion was vast.

But it would all be his.

One city at a time.

---

The fires of Durnholde still smoldered as Ren led his army forward. The city lay in ruins, its once-proud banners trampled beneath skeletal hooves. The survivors who had chosen to serve him now marched alongside the undead, their eyes hollow with either fear or unwavering loyalty.

It had taken only one night to break the fortress.

Now, the real war would begin.

Ren stood atop a black warhorse, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. Beyond the horizon, the Velkar Dominion stretched out—a land of fortified cities, disciplined armies, and a ruler who would soon kneel or burn.

Beside him, Goaty walked at a leisurely pace, licking blood off his golden horns. His eyes flickered with amusement, as if this entire conquest was just an entertaining game.

"Next target?" Roderic asked, riding beside Ren. His crimson cloak was tattered from battle, but his posture was as composed as ever.

Ren unrolled a war map.

"The city of Eldermire. It's fortified, but its garrison is weaker than Durnholde's." He traced a path along the map with one finger. "We strike before they have time to prepare."

Roderic nodded. "And if they are prepared?"

Ren smirked. "Then we kill them faster."

The army moved forward, their march a relentless drumbeat of hooves, clanking armor, and the eerie whisper of undead breath.

The Walls of Eldermire

By the time they reached Eldermire, word of Durnholde's fall had already spread.

The city had doubled its defenses.

Walls lined with mages and siege weapons. Ballistae primed and aimed at the approaching horde. The scent of alchemical fire filled the air—barrels of liquid flame stacked along the battlements, ready to turn Ren's army into ashes.

But Ren only smiled.

Eldermire's commander, a grizzled warrior in silver-plated armor, stood at the gates, watching with calculated caution.

He raised a hand. "Necromancer! I know what you've done. Turn back, and you will be spared."

Ren chuckled. "That's adorable."

The commander's face darkened. "This is your only warning."

Ren leaned forward slightly.

"Goaty," he said. "Teach them what happens when someone warns me."

The golden-furred goat took a step forward.

For a brief moment, nothing happened.

Then—the world moved.

A sonic boom shattered the air as Goaty disappeared in a golden blur.

A second later—the first tower exploded.

The defenders barely had time to react before Goaty appeared again, standing atop the remains of a ballista, chewing on a piece of wood like it was nothing.

Then he moved again.

More explosions. More screams.

More bodies falling from the walls.

The city panicked.

The Storming of Eldermire

The moment fear set in, Ren gave the order.

"Advance."

His army surged forward.

The defenders fired their ballistae—useless. Goaty shattered the projectiles midair, sending the broken shards back at the soldiers who fired them.

Flaming barrels rained down—Ren raised a single hand, and black magic devoured the fire before it could touch his army.

A mage tried to cast a city-wide ward—Goaty slammed into him at Mach speed, snapping his spine before the spell was completed.

The gates of Eldermire, reinforced with the strongest iron known to man, were torn apart in seconds.

The undead poured in.

Screams. Steel clashing. The scent of blood thick in the air.

Ren walked through the chaos like a god of war.

Every swing of his blade stole a soul. Every word he spoke commanded death itself.

Eldermire fell.

And by dawn, its banners were replaced with the insignia of the Necrodominion.

The Coronation of Fear

Ren sat on the throne of Eldermire, his boot resting on the fallen commander's severed head.

The surviving nobles stood before him, trembling.

"You have two options," Ren said, his voice calm, absolute.

"Swear loyalty to me, or join your commander in the dirt."

Silence.

Then—one by one—they knelt.

Ren smiled.

Goaty let out a small, satisfied bleat.