The Drums of War
War was coming.
The Empire of Xendria had declared its intent to crush the Necrodominion before it could take root.
They weren't the only ones.
Reports from the east indicated that the Holy Order of Ardent Light was preparing a crusade. The self-righteous fanatics had tolerated the existence of undead within Velkaris' borders, but a full-fledged necromantic empire? That was something they would never allow.
Ren sat on his new throne, fingers drumming against the armrest. The glow of enchanted torches flickered along the walls of the palace chamber.
Roderic stood beside him, arms crossed. "Two enemies, both powerful. The Xendrians are a massive empire with elite warriors and war beasts. The Ardent Light… they have the blessing of their gods."
A direct confrontation with either force would be difficult. Facing both at once?
Suicide.
But Ren wasn't planning on fighting a fair war.
The First Move
"We strike first," Ren said.
Roderic arched an eyebrow. "Against which one?"
"Neither," Ren said, standing. "Not yet."
He strode toward the massive war table that had been brought into the throne room—a detailed map of the continent was laid across it, marked with small iron figurines representing armies and cities.
He pointed to the lands between the Necrodominion and its enemies.
"The Free Marches," Roderic muttered.
A collection of independent city-states, mercenary lords, and rogue mages. They had no king, no unified leadership. They thrived in chaos.
And more importantly—they stood between Ren and his enemies.
"If the Xendrians want to invade, they'll have to march through this region," Ren said. "Same for the Ardent Light."
Roderic's eyes widened as he understood. "You want to turn the Free Marches into a battlefield before they even reach us."
Ren nodded. "We send gold, weapons, and necromantic support to every warlord, mercenary company, and rogue mage willing to accept it. We fuel their conflicts, push them into all-out war."
He smiled.
"By the time the Xendrians and Ardent Light arrive, they'll be walking into a burning wasteland."
The Warlords' Bargain
Three days later, Ren met with the most dangerous men and women in the Free Marches.
They were gathered in a darkened chamber deep beneath the capital—a room once used by the old kings of Velkaris to conduct secret negotiations.
The warlords were not noble rulers. They were killers, traitors, and survivors.
They thrived on gold, power, and fear.
Ren made them an offer.
"Serve me," he said, "and you will have wealth beyond measure. Lands to rule, armies to command, magic to strengthen your blades."
The warlords listened.
Some were cautious. Others were greedy.
A few were arrogant.
One in particular, a scarred brute named Malkor the Black Blade, sneered.
"And what if we refuse?"
Ren's smile didn't falter. "Then you die."
Malkor laughed. "Do you really think you can—"
Ren raised a single finger.
A dark mist coiled around Malkor's throat.
He choked. His eyes bulged as his own shadow wrapped around him, tightening like a noose.
Ren didn't speak. He let Malkor suffocate for a few moments.
Then, with a flick of his hand, he released him.
Malkor collapsed, gasping for air.
Ren stepped forward. His voice was calm.
"This is not a negotiation. It's a choice. Live as my allies—or die as my enemies."
Silence.
Then, one by one, the warlords knelt.
The Free Marches now belonged to Ren.
The Invasion Begins
One week later, the first Xendrian legions entered the Free Marches.
They expected an easy march through lawless territory.
Instead, they found hell.
Villages had been razed before they arrived. Roads had been booby-trapped with dark magic.
The warlords, now backed by Ren's necromancers, launched guerrilla attacks against the invaders.
Entire Xendrian battalions vanished in the night, their corpses found later, standing in silent ranks among Ren's undead army.
The Xendrians kept marching.
But every step cost them.
By the time they reached the eastern border of the Free Marches, they had lost half their army.
And then—Ren's forces struck.
Thousands of undead knights rode into battle, alongside warlords wielding cursed weapons and mages hurling black fire.
The Xendrians were forced to retreat.
Ren didn't pursue.
He didn't have to.
They were already defeated.
A Holy War Delayed
The Ardent Light had also attempted to march south.
They, too, found the Free Marches to be a graveyard.
But for them, it was even worse.
They weren't just fighting mercenaries and undead—they were fighting each other.
Ren had spread rumors among their ranks, whispered lies into the ears of their most zealous commanders.
Soon, accusations of heresy and treachery spread through their ranks.
The Holy Order collapsed into infighting.
By the time they realized the truth, it was too late.
Their crusade was over before it even began.
The Emperor's Victory
Ren stood atop the walls of Velkaris, watching the smoldering ruins of the Free Marches in the distance.
Roderic joined him.
"It worked," Roderic said. "You didn't just stop the invasion—you broke two of the strongest factions in the world before they even reached our borders."
Ren's golden eyes gleamed. "And now, we rebuild. Stronger than before."
The war was far from over.
But today, the Necrodominion had won.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, they would conquer.
---
The fires of war had barely died, yet Ren wasted no time. Victory over the Xendrians and the Ardent Light had solidified his rule, but power was never static—it had to be expanded or defended.
Sitting upon his black throne in Velkaris, Ren studied the reports flooding in. The Free Marches were in ruins, their warlords licking their wounds, and the remnants of the defeated Xendrian and Ardent Light forces had retreated into their own territories.
But there were opportunities hidden in the destruction.
The Free Marches were leaderless. Many warlords had perished in the chaos, and those who remained were weakened. Their cities stood undefended, their people desperate for stability.
A perfect moment to strike.
Ren turned to Roderic, who stood beside him.
"It's time to bring the Free Marches under my rule."
Roderic gave a slow nod. "And how do you plan to do that? By force?"
Ren smirked. "Some will bow willingly. The rest?" His fingers tightened around the armrest of his throne. "They will bow in death."
The Subjugation of the Free Marches
Ren wasted no time.
Legions of undead marched from Velkaris, their armor gleaming beneath the blood-red sky. Each step they took was precise, unwavering, inevitable.
The surviving warlords had expected further chaos—more infighting, more backstabbing.
They did not expect a unified, disciplined force to arrive at their gates.
The first city, Drakenhold, fell without resistance. The people welcomed Ren's forces—tired of anarchy, starving for stability. The governor of the city, a cautious man named Baron Luthan, swore loyalty in exchange for protection.
Ren granted it.
Drakenhold's banners were burned. The sigil of the Necrodominion was raised in their place.
Word spread.
In some cities, lords surrendered before Ren's forces even arrived. They had seen what happened to the Xendrians. They knew resistance was futile.
But others—the foolish ones—chose to fight.
The city of Ravenshire was one of them.
The Siege of Ravenshire
Ravenshire was a fortress city, built atop a rocky cliffside. It was ruled by Duke Arlen Velmont, a proud man who despised necromancy and saw Ren as an abomination.
"We will never kneel to a corpse-king!" Velmont had declared.
Ren didn't bother with negotiations.
Instead, he surrounded Ravenshire with 50,000 undead soldiers.
Sieges usually took months, sometimes years.
Ren ended it in three days.
On the first night, his necromancers poisoned the city's water supply, turning it into a vile liquid that induced fevered nightmares and unbearable thirst.
On the second night, black fog rolled through the streets, carrying whispers that drove men mad. By dawn, Ravenshire's soldiers were turning on each other, murdering their comrades in hysteria.
On the third night, Ren opened the gates.
Not by force.
By fear.
The city guard had abandoned their posts. The citizens—starving, delirious—threw open the doors themselves, begging for mercy.
Ren granted it—to some.
Duke Velmont was found cowering in his keep.
He refused to kneel.
So Ren raised him as a death knight and made him swear loyalty in undeath.
By morning, Ravenshire was his.
The Final Holdout
With Ravenshire conquered, only one city remained in the Free Marches that had yet to surrender.
Ironvale.
Unlike the others, it was not ruled by a single lord—it was controlled by The Black Banner, the most infamous mercenary company in the region.
10,000 hardened killers, warriors who had fought in wars for decades.
Led by General Garrick, a former Xendrian commander who had turned his back on the empire years ago.
He was no fool.
When Ren's forces arrived at the outskirts of Ironvale, Garrick did not give a grand speech.
He did not declare war.
Instead, he rode out alone to meet Ren.
Their meeting was brief.
"What do you want?" Garrick asked.
"To rule Ironvale," Ren answered.
Garrick studied him. "And what do I get if I swear my loyalty?"
Ren smiled.
"Power."
A long silence. Then, Garrick dismounted his horse, went down on one knee, and swore allegiance.
Ironvale was his.
The Free Marches were his.
And now, the real war could begin.