- Chapter 7: In the wake of battle -

The Overlord sighed softly as he watched her leave, a low tremor marking her departure for the netherworld. It was a bittersweet prospect, having to part ways so soon after their reunion. If possible, he would have liked to stay with her a bit longer. He was relieved to see her safe and even more so to find that she hadn't forgotten about him. Still, he knew he couldn't leave just yet, not with the minions still running wild. Leave them to it and by tomorrow morning there wouldn't be much left of Nordberg to conquer. And so, with the promise of good things to come – getting reacquainted, as it were – the Overlord allowed himself one final, longing glance at the obsidian structure before shifting his focus back to the present.

With a wave of his gauntlet, the warrior watched as a handful of minions sprung from their pits, giddy and eager to serve their new master. Keeping his words simple and short, he proceeded to instruct them on what to do before sending them into the streets of Nordberg to carry out his orders. His chest swelled ever so slightly as he watched them scurry away with purpose. Looking out over the pillars of smoke rising towards the starry sky, the Overlord allowed himself a self-assured grin.

Nordberg had fallen. The battle was over. The only thing left to do was to cement his claim over it.

But first... the warrior thought as he turned his eyes towards the rear gate, the grin fading from his lips.

The thought of what lay beyond made his heart feel heavy and anxious. Still, he knew he couldn't ignore it – not after coming this far. And so, with reluctant steps, he began to head for the gate.


The road was quiet and empty as he trudged along the familiar path, leaving the chaos and turmoil of the town proper behind him.

In a way, it was almost eerie how little Nordberg seemed to have changed in his absence, as if the cold winds of midwinter had managed to freeze even time itself. How long had it been since he walked this road? How many years since his feet last trod these very stones? And yet it felt like just yesterday that he picked up his club and set out to wreak havoc upon Nordberg.

And now, twelve years later, here he was again: the Overlord, bane of the empire, conqueror of Nordberg.

If only he didn't feel so empty...!

Had his armour always been this heavy, he wondered? Had his feet always been made of lead? Was it the thought of Kelda waiting for him back in the tower that willed his feet to turn around, or the fear of what he might find at the end of the road?

Shaking the thought from his head, the Overlord cursed at his own weakness. A fine conqueror, indeed...!

High above, among the stars, the moon watched in silence as the lone warrior finally stopped in front of a house.

The Overlord said nothing as he stared at the frosted old windows, now dim and darkened in the night.

Tearing away the wooden planks blocking the entrance, the Overlord paused with his hand upon the door, eyes narrowed in a conflicted scowl, before steeling himself with a deep breath and pushing the door open.

As he stepped inside the house, the sound of laughter greeted him in the doorway. It was a merry, careless kind of laughter that filled his chest with warmth and a sense of comfort he hadn't felt in years. He paused in stunned silence as the familiar sound of music reached his ears: a lullaby he had once known by heart but had since forgotten the lyrics of. Across the room, he could smell the savoury aroma of fish stew simmering in the cauldron as fire danced merrily upon the hearth, as if begging him to join in. He watched, in silent awe, as Torvid and Alma turned to face him, their smiles every bit as warm and welcoming as he remembered.

Then he blinked – and wished he hadn't.

Standing in the doorway, the Overlord stared blankly at the barren room before him. Like stepping into a barrow, only silence and shadows seemed to await him beyond the threshold. The air was thick with specs of dust drifting in the moonlight, filtered through frosted windows and a decade's worth of cobwebs.

Slowly, almost reverently, he stepped further into the chamber. The floorboards creaked in protest as he crossed the room, shifting his focus from place to place, watching in silence as memories from a different time – a happier time – began to play in his mind.

As he reached the other end of the house, the Overlord stopped and looked down at the hearth. It's embers, once warm and welcoming, were now long since dead, leaving only ashes in their wake. The cauldron was still there, hanging above the fireplace, patiently waiting for someone to use it again. The ladle, once hefty and clumsy to use, felt light as a feather in his hand.

Perhaps, if given the chance, he could've cooked them a proper meal by now? Sat around the fire, eating together, listening to Torvid as he told them tales of clever fishermen and crafty hunters, brave warriors from across the sea and creatures too strange and exotic to even imagine.

The Overlord huffed dismissively as he put the ladle back in its place.

Nothing but childish fantasies!

As if by habit, his eyes turned towards the bed standing in the corner of the room, now empty and abandoned. Beneath a thin layer of dust, the furs and bedding remained, untouched. Wordlessly, the warrior approached, pausing only briefly to run his fingers along the wooden frame, before easing himself onto the furs. Resting his weapon against the wall, the Overlord proceeded to sigh deeply as he struggled to recall the words of her lullaby.

Her songs were all he had to remember her by. He only wished he could remember all of them. Over the years, far too many had slipped from his memory. What he wouldn't give to hear her sing just one more time...!

Wordlessly, the Overlord reached up and removed his helmet. He proceeded to stare blankly at the hollow crown.

Borius was gone. Nordberg had fallen. The empire had been defeated. By all accounts, his first conquest as Overlord had been a great success.

But so what?

So what if he had conquered Nordberg? So what if he had beaten the empire?! In the end, it didn't matter how many towns or kingdoms he conquered! It didn't matter how much wealth he hoarded or how many subjects he had or how many enemies he defeated! Because no victory – no matter how grand – could ever bring them back!

Gripped by a sudden burst of rage, the Overlord roared as he stood and hurled the helmet across the room. He watched it smash against the wall with a hollow racket, bouncing across the floorboards before finally coming to a rolling stop.

His anger subdued for now, the Overlord breathed deeply as he ran a hand across his face, silently willing himself to calm down. Feeling his senses slowly returning, he proceeded to glance down at his helmet, still on the floor. It almost seemed to be glaring at him. The Overlord glared back. Then, just as he was about to go and retrieve it, he paused as he noticed the wall behind it.

One of the boards had been knocked loose by the impact of the helmet, revealing a small, hollow space within the wall. His eyes widened in silent recognition as he bent down to inspect it. In his mind, he could see a vision of a much younger self glancing over his shoulder as he sealed up the hidden space with that very same board.

Reaching into the shadows, he proceeded to pick up one of the objects hidden within the wall.

It was a small, wooden statue of a bear, no bigger than his thumb. Thinking back, he vaguely remembered Torvid giving it to him years earlier. Though he wasn't quite sure what he had done to earn it, he did remember Torvid's smile as he pressed the wooden sculpture into his palm. Twisting and turning the wooden sculpture in what little moonlight he could find, the Overlord couldn't help but to marvel at the level of detail preserved on the figure. He could almost feel the fur as he ran his thumb against its surface.

Gripping the figure tightly, like you would a great treasure, the Overlord proceeded to raise it above his head as he struggled to hold back a cry of triumph. He would've thought that most, if not all trinkets belonging to Torvid had been shipped out to sea as part of the funeral ceremony. He was glad to see that he had been wrong.

Turning his attention back to the space within the wall, the Overlord found a folded piece of white cloth waiting in the shadows. Watching it unfold between his fingers, his eyes widened, once again, as he recognized the handkerchief that Kelda had used to bind his wounded arm. How Alma ever managed to get the bloodstains out of it, he had no idea. Regardless, it was enough to twist his lips into a broken smile as he fought to hold back the tears threatening to emerge at the thought of her.

A loosing battle, he realized, as he bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, letting the tears roll off his nose as he gripped the trinkets tightly, hugging them against his chest.

This place. These memories. They only served to remind him of what he had lost.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to destroy them. For as much as it hurt to remember, he would rather suffer than forget.


From atop the wooden platform, the Overlord watched as his minions herded the last of the townsfolk into the square. Their faces, as revealed by the flickering torchlight, spoke of terror and exhaustion. Some carried cuts and bruises, others patches of soot from putting out the fires. He watched, in silence, as they shuffled in place, exchanging weary glances and whispering amongst themselves. Above all, they seemed tired and confused, unsure of what to make of the situation.

Seizing upon their confusion, the Overlord began to pace in front of the crowd. Slowly, methodically, as if gauging their worth. With every thud of his dark iron boots hitting the platform, he watched them shrink in terror – every step a rhythmic, sinister herald of doom.

Finally, he stopped and turned to address the crowd.

"Who will speak for Nordberg?!" he bellowed in a voice like thunder and metal, his delivery only amplified by his helmet.

The Overlord smirked as he watched them cower at the sound of his voice, their eyes wide with dread. He could get used to this.

The air was thick with tension as the crowd stirred with silent trepidation. Finally, just as it seemed like no one was willing to step up, a man from the crowd seemed to rally himself and stepped forward, wearily.

"P-please, m'lord! Spare us! We're simple folk, not warriors!" the man stuttered from under his hood, his head bowed low. "Nordberg is yours! W-we surrender!"

The Overlord opened his mouth to respond – as if they had a choice – but stopped short as a distant memory began to stir in his mind. Stepping forward, the Overlord bent down and forced the man's hood back from his face. His eyes widened, then narrowed, as he recognized the man's face.

Bjork.

The nordbergian barely had time to yelp before the Overlord grabbed him by the neck and forced him off the ground. Even with one arm, it was an easy enough feat. The crowd gasped in horror as they watched their spokesman dangle above their heads, legs kicking the air in desperate search for leverage.

"Oooh! A bit of rough-housing to keep the rabble in check? Good idea, sire!" Gnarl's voice seemed to perk up at the prospect of violence.

Basking in the intoxicating sense of power coursing through him, the Overlord allowed himself an evil grin as he watched the man claw at his gauntlet in a vain attempt to free himself, eyes darting in abject terror.

"Bjork!" a new voice suddenly cried out, shattering the triumphant moment like ice.

Glancing down, the Overlord watched as a woman from the crowd began to push towards the platform. Seeing his minions ready their weapons, he quickly raised his gauntlet in a gesture to stand back.

He watched in curious silence as the woman crossed the square, nearly tripping over herself in her desperate scramble to reach them. At first glance, her sluggish movements seemed almost comical. That is, until he noticed her bulging stomach. Stumbling forward, the pregnant woman finally reached the base of the platform, barely catching herself against the wooden structure.

"Please! Don't 'urt 'im!" the woman begged as she struggled to find her breath. "'Ave mercy on my 'usband!"

"Elsa, get back!" Bjork croaked in a strained voice.

"Whatever 'e's done to offend you, please, forgive him!" Elsa continued without pause.

The Overlord scowled as he watched her grovel at his feet. If she wasn't pregnant, he probably would've kicked her.

"P-please! Don't 'urt 'er!" Bjork sputtered, as if able to read his thoughts. "She's with child!"

The Overlord scowled as he felt his own grip tighten around his neck.

"Trying to play the hero, eh?!" Gnarl's voice crooned in the back of his mind. "We'll see about that! Go ahead, sire! Show this snivelling worm what happens to heroes!"

Wordlessly, the Overlord turned his eyes towards the broken bridge, a dark idea forming in his mind. As he began to drag his former tormentor away, he could hear the woman – Elsa, was it? – crying out behind him. Pushing her protests out of his mind, he proceeded to raise Bjork into the air, watching him dangle over the icy stream.

The water looked cold enough. And if the water wasn't enough, the bits of broken stone at the bottom of the crevice would surely do the trick.

He could see the realization – the terror – in Bjork's eyes now as they shifted between him and the rushing water below.

"Wait! Wait!" he screamed, eyes wide with sudden recognition. "I-it's you, isn't it?! The witch-boy?" Bjork asked, grasping at his gauntlet for support as he struggled to form words. "Look, I'm sorry! I'm sorry about all those things I did! I-I was just a kid! I didn't know any bedda'! Just– please... don't kill me! I 'aven't even seen my baby yet!"

The Overlord paused at the sound of his whimpering pleas. He had expected him to beg for his life, to cower and howl as he watched his final moments approach. But to actually hear him begging with such raw emotion – the tears in his eyes, the cracks in his voice – it was enough to make him stomach lurch.

"Oh, I do so enjoy it when they beg!" Gnarl chuckled wickedly. "Makes it all the sweeter when you pull the rug out from under them!"

The Overlord scowled as he struggled to get a grip on the whirlpool of thoughts raging within his mind. Why? Why shouldn't he take his revenge? He had the power, didn't he? Nordberg was his! He said it himself! It would be so easy – too easy, really – to just let go and watch him sink beneath the ice. Leave his wife to grieve. Make them suffer! Just like–

The image of Alma stabbed his eyes as he felt a pair of hands grab onto his loincloth. Turning his head, the Overlord looked down to find Elsa on her knees behind him, her head bowed low towards the ground as she clutched the crimson cloth like a lifeline.

"Please! I beg of you: don't take my 'usband!" she wept loudly. "If he dies, it'll be the end of me!"

The Overlord could only glare as the weight of her words sank in. If he could, he would've kicked her. But something within him just wouldn't allow it. As he continued to stare at her, all he could hear was the sound of Alma weeping in her sickbed, begging for Torvid to return to her. His stomach lurched again as he watched her raise her head. The desperation in her eyes was as evident as it was painful. It was a look he was all too familiar with; A look he never wished to lay eyes on again.

"Come now, Sire! Show these snivelling peasants what it really means to be the Overlord!"

Cursing under his breath, the Overlord turned and hurled the man across the square like a sack of fish, sending him tumbling across the stonework. Seeing her husband roll to a stop, Elsa let go of the loincloth and scrambled to his side as fast as her body would allow. Rolling him onto his back, she was relieved to find him still breathing. Battered, bruised, a little bloody, but definitively breathing. Resting her head against his heaving chest, taking comfort in the sound of his beating heart, Elsa thanked the heavens.

Her comfort proved short-lived as the heavy thuds of metallic boots came to a stop beside her.

Seeing a great shadow looming over them, Elsa froze. For a moment, she was afraid to even look up, for fear that the last thing she might see would be the glint of cold steel falling towards her. When the moment never came, her eyes began to work their way upwards, only to find the dark warrior standing beside her, facing the town hall. His breathing seemed strained. She didn't fail to notice the way he kept shifting the weapon in his hand, as if still weighing his options.

Finally, he spoke.

"You will serve, or you will perish!" he stated, loud enough for everyone to hear, eyes burning with repressed anger. "Remember this mercy!"

Elsa opened her mouth to speak, but failed to find any words. She had heard the creatures calling him "the Overlord". She could certainly see why. In the end, all she could do was bow her head and hope that would be enough. Thankfully, the Overlord seemed to think so as she watched him turn and begin to walk towards the town hall.

"Oh, come now, Sire! This is no time to get cold feet!" Gnarl groaned with a hint of disappointment. "A threat of violence isn't nearly as effective – or entertaining – as a show of violence." Pausing for just a moment, the elder minion added: "Though I suppose there isn't much use for subjects when they're dead!"

Pushing the elder minion out of his mind, the Overlord continued towards the gate. For now, his work here was done. The minions had been reeled in and the people of Nordberg knew to fear him. And if they didn't, well... he would just have to remind them.

"All hail the Overlord!"

The warrior almost flinched as he came to a full stop, eyes narrowed in silent bemusement. Though what surprised him the most wasn't the shout itself, but rather the voice behind it. Glancing over his shoulder, the Overlord watched as a bruised and battered Bjork dragged himself up off the ground, leaning against his pregnant wife, clumsily raising his fist to the sky as he repeated his shout in a strained voice.

"All hail the Overlord!"

"All hail the Overlord!" Elsa repeated, firmly.

"All hail the Overlord!" the crowd echoed in one voice, their shouts repeating into the night.

As the Overlord turned, he took a breath, drinking deep from the cold midwinter air. Then he sighed and stepped into the portal.


A/N: One final chapter to cap off the Nordberg saga. Now onto the chapters that started this whole project to begin with! It is time for love and drama galore! Let the waifu wars begin!