Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The figure stepped from the red-sigilled doorway, draped in veils of starlight fabric that had moon like patterns.

Her hair flowed like river smoke, pale violet fading to dusk, and her eyes—her eyes were not mortal things.

Glassed-over. Pale silver. Spiraled. Seer-eyes.

House Ardeval.

Fang stepped back reflexively.

He hadn’t heard her approach. Hadn’t even felt a shift in the darkness that blanketed the chamber. And that alone was terrifying.

"Still haven’t learned to check the edge of time for footsteps," she said, her voice a quiet lilt, too soft for a battlefield but too sharp for a dream. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

"...Yvanna," Fang whispered, as if speaking the name would conjure up things best buried.

"You remember," she said, tilting her head. Her lips curled—not quite a smile. "I thought you would’ve forgotten me the moment you bound yourself to a corpse-throne."

"Your vision didn’t exactly end with tea and flowers," Fang muttered, eyes scanning the room for tricks, traps—anything.

Yvanna Ardeval stepped closer.

She moved with the unnatural grace of one who had long ago surrendered her body to fate and let the currents of prophecy move her limbs.

When she paused, it was not for breath, but because the moment required it.

Rathen watched in silence, unmoving on his dais.

The echoes flickered, as though unsure whether to act.

"You shouldn’t be here," Fang said, voice low.

"I walked the dream-roads, Fang," she murmured. "I saw a city drowning in ash. A throne of bone. A prince of ruin, bound to a shadow-thing, walking among the dead like a god among prayers. And do you know what stood beside him?"

She was close now. Too close.

Fang didn’t move. Couldn’t.

"A blade," she whispered. "You. Or what you could become."

"I am not-"

Yvanna tilted her head again. "Aren’t you? Even now, I see it in you—threads leading to his throne. Knots bound by death and vengeance and something deeper. older."

"You see too much."

"It’s my curse," she said softly. "And yours."

The tension between them hung like a noose between two gallows.

And then—the air shifted.

A soft sound.

Not a step.

Not a breath.

The absence of both.

A shape moved behind Fang.

Then a voice, velvet-smooth, cold as truth:

"Settle down, gentlemen."

Fang didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to.

He knew the voice.

Ian.

Ian stepped from the wall of shadows as if he had been there the whole time, a darker ripple within a sea of black.

His cloak trailed ash. His eyes gleamed with that soul-glint—gray steel over black fire. His presence made the room colder, heavier, quieter.

"I’m usually one to opt for violence," Ian said, dragging a chair from the corner with a scraping groan, "but today, I’m in a good mood."

He sat slowly, crossing one leg over the other, eyes narrowing to slits of suspicion and promise.

"So tell me..." He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. "Why are you all in my city... and why should I let you leave alive?"

Silence.

A silence so deep even the runes hesitated to hum.

The echoes froze. Yvanna blinked for the first time in minutes.

And then—Rathen spoke.

"Demonblade," he said, voice smooth, unfazed. "We’ve heard much about you."

Ian’s mouth twitched.

"At this point," he said, "who hasn’t? Skip the ass-kissing and just tell me what you want."

Rathen inclined his head. "The truth is—we have no intention of causing trouble."

Ian’s eyebrow lifted. "Ah yes. I sensed that when you sent those lovely gentlemen to try and kill me."

"They weren’t sent after you," Rathen corrected. "They were targeting the exiled princess."

"And that alone is enough disrespect to me," Ian said, voice lower now. "A sin worth dying for."

Rathen let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh. "well that, Demonblade, is the very essence of what we sought to understand."

Ian leaned back slightly, studying the masked man.

"Why didn’t you just try asking nicely?" he said. "Would’ve saved you some limbs. Maybe a head."

Rathen turned slightly. "That... is the job."

A low hum of truth held behind his words. Cold, clinical. An Assayer’s logic.

Yvanna moved then, stepping forward as if on cue.

"We aren’t here to fight you," she said softly, "no matter how much the future may demand it."

Ian glanced at her. Studied the eyes. The glow.

"Seer," he said. Not a question.

She nodded once. "The Seers of House Ardeval have long warned of great shifts in the weave. But we’ve never seen anything like this. The city—Esgard—is no longer just a stage. It is a fulcrum. A pivot."

"A hinge of fate," Rathen muttered.

"Exactly," she said.

She looked at Ian. Truly looked.

"And at the center of that hinge... is you. And her. Velrosa. Two names stored in blood, in betrayal, in something far deeper than crowns or corpses. Something we cannot yet define."

Ian’s expression didn’t shift.

"Poetic," he said. "But unclear."

Yvanna tilted her head. "We sense war. Not one of swords alone, but of worlds. One will rise. One will fall. And whether we like it or not... you will tip that scale."

Ian tapped a finger against the table’s edge.

"And you’re hoping not to be under it when it falls."

Rathen stepped forward, robes whispering. "Correct."

"Then speak plainly."

Rathen nodded. "Three houses once stood as Pillars in the old Empire. Four, before Kyreth fell. The Pillars were built not on land or legacy—but on purpose. Ardeval for Vision. Solmere for Judgment. Kyreth under Solmere for Evaluation. And one more..."

He trailed off.

Ian’s eyes narrowed. "Go on."

Rathen met his gaze. "House Solmere remains. As does Ardeval. Kyreth lives in silence, but it watches. Together, we form a... consensus. A quiet alliance."

"To do what?"

"To decide," Yvanna answered. "Who to support when the world splits. Who to not stand against when the tide becomes inevitable."

Ian’s lip twitched again. A half-smile now, cruel and amused.

"Are you saying you’re willing to help me commit treason?"

Rathen’s mask turned. "No. We are saying... we are willing to refrain from destroying you."

Yvanna added, "And perhaps give you more of a fighting chance. Subtly. Quietly. When it matters."

Ian stared.

Long and hard.

Then, slowly, he stood.

The chair scraped back. His shadow stretched far too long behind him, flickering with purple veins of Voidlight. Fang straightened instinctively.

Ian stepped close to Rathen.

And then he turned.

"Fang. We’re done here."

Without another word, he vanished—into smoke, into shadow, into nothing.

Yvanna let out a slow breath. "He’s just as terrible as I saw."