Necromancer: Kingdom Building with My Legion of Undead Knights

Vrethka was not a place of peace. It never had been.

Most villages were not in peace. They always fought each other. It was a Game for Thrones in this region, a brutal, unforgiving place where survival was never guaranteed.

The villages and tribes that dotted the landscape were locked in a constant struggle for power, resources, and land. There was no such thing as lasting peace, only brief pauses between conflicts.

The setting was such that you were basically cooked nonetheless.

Be too weak, and a more stronger village beside you would come and claim your land. They would see your weakness as an opportunity, a chance to expand their territory without facing serious resistance.

Your people would be killed or enslaved, your resources taken, and your homes burned to the ground. It didn’t matter if you had done nothing to provoke them; weakness was its own provocation.

Be too strong, and you would be called a threat to others. Your neighbors would see your growing power as a danger to their own survival.

They would band together, forming alliances to bring you down. Or a much bigger village might come to claim your land, seeing you as a rival that needed to be eliminated.

Your strength would attract enemies, drawing them to you like moths to a flame.

And then there were the smaller villages. They would come to try to claim that strong village, hoping to gain glory and resources by defeating a powerful enemy.

They would see you as a challenge, a test of their own strength and courage. Even if they failed, they would weaken you, making you vulnerable to the next attack.

So basically, you were cooked in all means possible. There was no winning, no escaping the cycle of violence. The strong were always threatened, the weak were always prey, and the middle were always caught in between.

It was a world where conflict was the only constant, where peace was a fleeting dream.

That was the reality of Vrethka and its neighbors. It was a brutal, unforgiving world, and the only way to survive was to fight.

But the tension that had settled over the settlement in recent days was different from the usual readiness for conflict.

This was not the anticipation of a raid or the planning of a skirmish. This was the weight of something larger, something that threatened to swallow them whole.

Dross stood at the head of the war council, his scarred face illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

His warriors sat in a rough semicircle around him, their faces hard, their eyes tired. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of sweat. The walls of the war room were lined with weapons and trophies, reminders of past victories. But today, no one was celebrating.

Caef sat near the back of the room, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He had been part of Vrethka for days now, had fought alongside its warriors, had earned a measure of respect.

But he was still an outsider, a man driven by a purpose that no one else fully shared. His mind was on Percvale, on the Baron who had destroyed his village, on the revenge that had become his reason for living.

But that revenge would have to wait.

Dross waved his hand dismissively as he spoke to Caef, his voice carrying the weariness of a man who had fought too many battles. ”I just won a battle not long ago,” he said. ”And now another one? With a village as equally as strong as me?”

Caef nodded, understanding the frustration. Dross had been on a winning streak, claiming territory and building his power. But success had a way of attracting attention, and Harrowhold had noticed.

Dross explained the situation to Caef. Harrowhold’s forces were bigger, better equipped, and motivated by expansion. They saw Vrethka’s recent activity as threatening. The way Dross had been claiming other people’s territory, the way he had been growing stronger, it had made them nervous.

And nervous neighbors were dangerous neighbors.

”They want to claim mine too,” Dross said, his voice flat. ”They think I’m a threat, so they’re coming to cut me down before I get too big.”

Caef listened. He had been waiting for days, planning for his revenge, and now another obstacle had appeared.

The scouts who were supposed to watch Percvale had been recalled to fight. No one was watching Darion anymore. The Baron of Percvale was free to continue his rebuilding, to grow stronger, to become even harder to destroy.

Caef was frustrated. He wanted to focus on revenge, but he couldn’t ignore the war at his doorstep. Harrowhold was not a distant threat; it was here, now, demanding his attention. He could feel his plan slipping away, the momentum he had built fading with each passing day.

Dross was blunt. ”Revenge means nothing if Vrethka is gone,” he said. ”If we fall, there’s no one left to help you take down Percvale. We survive this first, then we get your vengeance.”

Caef wanted to argue, wanted to insist that his revenge was more important than anything else. But he knew Dross was right. If Vrethka fell, his cause would die with it. He had to accept the reality: they had to pause Percvale for now and focus on Harrowhold.

Dross thought they could beat them. He had seen enough battles to know that victory was possible. They just had to have the right motivation.

---

The war had been brutal. Vrethka’s warriors were holding their own, but they were losing ground. Supplies were low, casualties were high. The enemy was relentless, pushing forward with a determination that seemed unbreakable.

The battle scenes were brutal and chaotic. The clash of weapons echoed across the field, punctuated by screams and shouts. Vrethka’s warriors fought with desperation, their faces twisted with rage and fear.

They were outnumbered, outmatched, but they refused to break.

Dross fought at the front, his axe swinging in wide, deadly arcs. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of violence that cut through the enemy ranks like a scythe through wheat. His warriors followed him, their morale bolstered by his presence.

Caef fought beside him, his sword flashing in the dim light. He was not as skilled as Dross, not as experienced, but he was driven by a purpose that gave him strength. He thought of his village, of his brother, of the Baron who had destroyed everything he had ever known. And he fought.

The battle raged for days, the tide shifting back and forth. But slowly, inexorably, Vrethka began to gain the upper hand. The enemy’s morale cracked, their formation broke...