The Tamer King

Zarphinion's Status Update

Name: Zarphinion Soient

Title: Lord of Blackthorn and Ashenhold, Heir to House Soient

Level: 47

Troop Numbers: 18,500 soldiers (divided between Blackthorn and Ashenhold), 2,300 cavalry, 600 mages, 4,000 auxiliary forces

Tamed Creatures:

Nightfang, the Abyssal Direwolf – A towering black-furred beast with crimson eyes, able to meld into shadows and rip through armored foes.Velmira, the Crimson Serpent – A venomous, winged serpent capable of suffocating foes with mist-like toxins.Sableclaw, the Onyx Griffin – A battle-hardened beast of sky and talon, able to shred enemies from above.

Abilities:

Dark Dominion: Enhances command over the battlefield, instilling terror in foes.Blood Pact: Allows the absorption of enemy life force to rejuvenate himself or his troops.Voidstep: Grants him brief teleportation through the darkness.Necrotic Resistance: Lessens the effects of curses, poisons, and decay magic.A Battle Doomed to Fail

The banners of House Soient rippled violently in the storm-wracked night as Zarphinion led his forces onto the blood-soaked plains of Grimholt Valley. It was supposed to be a calculated strike—a campaign to push deeper into enemy-controlled lands and crush the last remnants of the empire's loyalists.

He had underestimated them.

The enemy had waited for him, anticipating his movements. As his forces advanced through the valley, the cliffs above came alive with enemy siege weapons—balistas, trebuchets, and arcane cannons. The sky screamed as flaming boulders and shards of enchanted ice crashed down upon his ranks, tearing through men and beasts alike.

A deep, guttural horn sounded from the ridges, and then they came—the Empire's elite battalions, reinforced by Malrik Vaelor's undead legions.

It was an ambush.

Zarphinion had no time to issue a full retreat before the enemy descended upon them like a tidal wave of steel and darkness.

"Hold the line!" he roared, his scythe cleaving through the first wave of undead knights. Nightfang lunged into battle, its massive form tearing apart flesh and bone, while Sableclaw rained death from above. The battlefield was chaos incarnate.

But for every enemy they felled, more rose in their place. The empire's sorcerers chanted dark incantations, raising the dead almost as quickly as they were cut down. Malrik's influence was unmistakable—the air was thick with the sickly stench of rot and the whisper of curses long forgotten.

Zarphinion fought like a demon, his every movement a blur of death. Voidstepping through ranks of enemies, he ripped through armor and bone, leaving only carnage in his wake. But the weight of battle pressed down upon him. His warriors were outnumbered, the cliffs trapping them in a death cage of steel and magic.

Then, through the sea of enemies, a specter of shadow and malice emerged.

A figure clad in withered black robes, his skeletal fingers wreathed in sickly green fire. His face was obscured beneath a cracked bone mask, but the aura of power surrounding him was suffocating.

Malrik Vaelor had come.

"You have grown strong, boy," the lich's voice echoed across the battlefield, hollow and ancient. "But not strong enough."

Malrik raised his hands, and the very shadows of the valley turned against Zarphinion.

Pain.

A spike of pure necrotic energy lanced through his chest, searing through armor and flesh as if he were nothing more than parchment. His vision blurred as his knees buckled beneath him.

His warriors screamed his name. Asira, in the midst of combat, turned, eyes wide with horror.

Zarphinion tried to move, but his body would not obey. His scythe fell from his grasp, its edge sinking into the blood-soaked ground. The world tilted, darkness clawing at the edges of his vision.

And then he fell.

The Long Slumber

Darkness.

It swallowed him whole, wrapping around him like a cold, suffocating shroud. Yet he did not die.

Instead, the void shifted. Shadows twisted and coiled, forming the towering silhouettes of long-dead figures. The air smelled of dust and forgotten memories.

A man clad in ancient Soient battle armor stepped forward, his features strikingly similar to Zarphinion's own. His eyes burned like embers beneath his crested helm.

"You are not ready."

Zarphinion staggered, clutching his chest. He was whole here, no wounds, no pain. But he felt weak, as if something had been torn from him.

"Who… are you?" he rasped.

The warrior's gaze was cold. "I am Darius Soient. The first warlord of our bloodline. And the one who watched our house fall."

A second figure materialized, a woman wreathed in silver flames, her voice like a whisper in the wind. "We have been waiting, child of our blood," she said. "To show you the truth."

The void around them shifted, warping into memories not his own.

Zarphinion saw his ancestors in battle, leading armies against the empire in wars that spanned generations. He saw victories, betrayals, and moments of defiance. He saw the beginning of their end.

A name kept surfacing through the visions—Malrik.

The lich had been there long before his birth, weaving his influence through the cracks of history, ensuring that House Soient's fall was inevitable.

Zarphinion clenched his fists. "He has been our enemy for centuries."

Darius nodded grimly. "And he will not stop until he has erased your name from existence."

The darkness swirled again, the images fading into mist. The ancestors began to step away, their forms dissipating.

But before they vanished entirely, Darius spoke one final time.

"Rise, Zarphinion Soient. Take back what was stolen. And make them pay."

The Rise of the Queen

The great hall of Blackthorn Fortress stood bathed in flickering torchlight, its towering columns stretching high into the vaulted ceiling, casting elongated shadows across the polished blackstone floors. The banners of House Soient, crimson and adorned with the sigil of the coiled wyrm, hung solemnly from the rafters, their tattered edges a reminder of the hard-fought battles that had led to this moment.

And at the center of it all, seated upon the throne of war, was Asira.

She wore black and crimson armor, its surface polished to a dark gleam, the sigil of House Soient now emblazoned upon her chestplate. The once-loyal consort of Zarphinion, now the undisputed ruler in his absence.

Before her, warriors and nobles alike knelt in unwavering respect.

For three months, she had held the throne, her rule unchallenged—but not without difficulty. Dissent had stirred among the lesser lords, whispers of weakness in Zarphinion's absence. Fools had thought she would falter, that she was nothing more than a figurehead waiting for her king to return.

They had learned otherwise.

Holding the Kingdom Together

Asira had crushed the dissenters with ruthless efficiency. Those who spoke against her met their end in the dungeons of Blackthorn, or on the executioner's block. Rebellious lords who sought to splinter from Soient rule were dragged through the streets, their severed heads placed upon spikes as a warning to all who would doubt her.

She had taken command of the armies herself, issuing orders with the same precision and force as Zarphinion once did. She doubled training efforts, strengthened Blackthorn's defenses, and oversaw the reforging of broken alliances.

To the soldiers, she was both terrifying and revered. They whispered of her iron will, of the cold determination in her eyes, the way she stood upon the castle walls at night, watching the horizon for any sign of the enemy.

She had ruled as a queen should.

And when Zarphinion awoke, he would find his kingdom unbroken.

The Unmoving King

But in the dead of night, when the castle halls fell silent, Asira was no longer the queen of Blackthorn.

She was simply a woman standing by the bedside of the man she refused to lose.

Zarphinion lay motionless upon the great blackwood bed, his body draped in silken sheets, his once-imposing figure now eerily still. The room smelled of medicinal herbs and incense, an ever-present reminder of the endless attempts to rouse him from his unnatural slumber.

Asira had tried everything.

Healers, mages, potions brewed from the most potent elixirs in the land.

None had worked.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand resting against his cold, unmoving chest. She could feel the faint rhythm of his heart, a slow, steady drum that promised life but refused to give her what she wanted most—his return.

She clenched her jaw, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "You are stronger than this," she whispered, her fingers tightening against the sheets.

But he did not stir.

She had watched over him every night, waiting for the moment his fingers would twitch, his lips would part, his eyes would open.

That moment never came.

And so, she turned to more desperate means.

Desperate Measures

The alchemists of Blackthorn were known for their knowledge of rare concoctions—some designed to mend wounds, others to ignite the soul and awaken dormant strength.

Asira demanded the strongest of them all.

A small vial, filled with a deep crimson liquid, was placed in her hands.

"It is said to rouse even the dying," the alchemist had told her. "But it carries risks. The body must be strong enough to endure it."

She did not hesitate.

Back in the candlelit chamber of the king, she poured the liquid between his parted lips, watching, waiting.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, his body tensed. A flicker of movement in his fingers. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden.

"Asira…?" The whisper was barely there. A ghost of a sound.

Her heart leapt. She grasped his hand, willing him to wake fully. "Zarphinion! Open your eyes!"

But the moment faded as quickly as it came. His body relaxed again, falling back into stillness.

Asira's nails dug into her palms. It wasn't enough.

The Most Intimate Attempt

The final method was one spoken of in ancient texts—a ritual long whispered about in the hidden corners of sorcerous circles. A union of body and soul, meant to awaken even the lost.

The belief was that the strongest bond between two souls—one forged through desire and passion—could ignite the spark of life in one who had drifted too far into the abyss.

Asira was not one to believe in myths.

But she was desperate.

She slipped beneath the silken sheets, her hands tracing the familiar lines of his chest. Memories of him filled her mind— the nights they had spent tangled together in the aftermath of battle, the way his voice had growled her name in the darkness.

She kissed him, whispering against his lips. "Come back to me."

Her body pressed against his, skin against skin, warmth against cold.

She poured everything into that moment— her longing, her devotion, her fury, her love.

But he did not wake.

The spell, the potion, the touch—none of it was enough.

And so, as dawn broke over Blackthorn, Asira stood once more at the throne, her eyes harder than before.

She turned to Elyndra, who stood silently at her side.

"When he wakes, we will move against Malrik."

Elyndra hesitated, her gaze flickering to the unmoving king. "And if he does not wake?"

Asira's gaze burned like molten steel. "Then I will burn Malrik's world down myself."

And as she spoke, deep within the keep, Zarphinion's fingers twitched.

The shadows of his past had failed to consume him.

And soon, he would return.