Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

They spoke her name, and the room forgot how to breathe.

Velrosa still had not moved.

Not a twitch, not a flutter of lash or gown.

Her expression was a masterstroke of poise, a calm lake that dared the wind to ripple it. That stillness carried power, the kind that unsettled.

Ian could feel it shift in the air—the tremor beneath elegance and wine. Power once suspected now confirmed. It twisted in the stomachs of courtiers, a subtle nausea that tasted like fear.

Because now it was real.

Not just murmurs. Not rumors from the Crucible stands. Not reports filtered through wine-soaked noble mouths.

The council had spoken her name.

Of the five names called, hers had landed like a Boulder.

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not triumphant. Just enough to say what was needed to be said.

They didn’t applaud.

They never applauded danger.

Instead, the room swelled with murmurs—measured, practiced, hushed—but loud in their meaning. Some leaned close, muttering to spouses or allies.

Others watched Velrosa as one might study a flame too close to dry parchment.

Ian leaned closer to her ear. "We expected this?"

Her voice came soft, cotton wrapped around a knife. "We engineered it."

His eyes narrowed. "Oh yes, still playing the long game huh,"

"Always."

The council’s list was read again for formality.

Lord Yareth—known for his estates along the river, and his discreet deals with House Morravel. Lady Maelien, highborn and harmless. The Sanctum’s Talroth—a statement of war in priestly robes. Mistress Elva—politics with poison and lace.

And Velrosa.

The outcast daughter of an empire. The corpse-blooded survivor. The Lady of Corpses.

No longer an insult. A title now.

Lady Morravel’s voice rang once more, as cold as it were absolute. "The vote will take place at the end of the week. Until then, all candidates shall remain under council protection. Any attempt to coerce, influence, or sabotage this process will be met with execution."

Velrosa along with the rest curtsied, elegant as a falling petal. "As the Council wills."

The formalities dissolved.

Nobles shifted again, but they looked at her differently now. Some with widened eyes. Some with envy. Some with barely veiled malice.

Ian stood at her side, gaze sweeping the chamber, reading the room the way a lion reads a herd. Movement, weakness, tremors of panic.

"They’re scrambling," he said.

"Expectedly," Velrosa replied.

"They’ll move against you."

"I’d bet most already have."

Her hand brushed his arm lightly as she passed him.

The touch was incidental. Meaningless, surely.

But it lingered in the same way her scent did—jasmine, steel, and something like dying roses. He followed her toward the banquet floor.

She didn’t pause. She danced with the moment.

Nobles now approached again—but not as earlier, not with empty praise or pleasantries. Now they measured their words. Now their tones were edged, their questions sharper.

"Lady Lionarde," said a baroness with eyes like coins, "a council nomination! And to think, just a year ago..."

"Yes?" Velrosa’s smile was razor-thin. "A year ago?"

The baroness faltered. "I—only meant how swiftly fortune changes."

Velrosa’s voice was syrupy smooth. "Fortune is such a helpless thing. It changes for those who claim it by the throat."

Ian stood behind her, expression unreadable, arms crossed. His mere presence made many skip pleasantries altogether.

One noble even turned around mid-approach after locking eyes with him.

"Still scaring them?" Velrosa asked without turning.

"Well, they scare easy."

"They do, don’t they?"

She accepted a glass of crimson wine and gestured for him to take one too. He declined with a grunt.

"Think they’ll try something tonight? Another duel or something like last time?" Ian murmured.

"Not anymore," she replied. "Not while the possibility of having power over them now lingers. They’ll wait. Let the wolves sniff each other out."

The rest of the evening became a blur of conversations—some sincere, most not. Allies old and new presented themselves.

Enemies smiled with teeth too polished.

Velrosa flowed through all of it like smoke through lattice. Graceful. Untouchable.

Ian remained the silent gravity beside her.

Eventually, as the hour deepened and music dimmed, they found themselves near the outer balconies.

The open air cooled their skin. The distant sound of city bells echoed across Esgard’s spires.

Velrosa leaned against the balustrade, wine still half-full. Her hair was pinned high, a few silver strands slipping free, kissed by wind. Ian stood beside her, eyes on the city rather than her.

But he still felt her gaze.

"You’re quiet," she said.

"I don’t like games where everyone smiles and lies. It reminds me of things i’d rather forget."

"That’s the only kind nobles play."

He grunted. "They’re not very good at it though."

"They don’t need to be. Most lies are sold not because they’re clever—but because people want to believe them."

She sipped. "Tonight, they wanted to believe I’m still harmless."

"Even after everything?"

"Especially after everything. They need to. Fear corrodes the mind. Better to pretend the axe is ornamental."

Ian’s eyes found her. "But it never is, is it?"

She met his stare. "You tell me."

The silence stretched.

A beat.

Two.

Then Ian looked away.

The balcony held them in stillness.

Far below, the city breathed. Esgard with its flickering lanterns, its smoke and coin, its blood and rising towers. Somewhere out there, old enemies moved. Somewhere closer, new ones were born.

Velrosa broke the silence. "If they vote for me, it won’t be because they trust me."

Ian nodded. "It’ll be because they fear the alternative. You’ll make them fear the alternative."

"Look at you, understanding politics."

"They’ll try to tame you after," he added. "Put you in a cage, call it a council seat...this is only a way to make you let down your guard."

Her voice was quiet. "I know."

A smile touched Ian’s lips—rare, brief.

"You’re one devious noble miss Velrosa,"

"Oh, you flatter," she said softly, not looking at him.

And then—

A bell tolled thrice.

A signal.

Servants swept through the halls, relighting the sconces. The council had finished its private deliberations and was departing for the night. Guests were guided out in slow tides.

Velrosa stepped back from the rail.

"Time to leave."

He offered his arm. She paused—but took it.