Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The chamber was dim, lit only by a handful of floating torches suspended from the arched ceiling like trapped stars.

Thick red curtains muted the wind from outside, and the air smelled of scented oils and quiet ambition. A long dark table stretched through the center of the room, polished to a perfect mirror, so each face reflected their own mask clearly.

Twelve nobles sat around it.

Most wore veils or half-masks, subtle signals that this meeting was not official, not binding. And yet, they were all aware that tonight’s whispers would dictate tomorrow’s legacy.

The vote for the new Council seat would be cast at dawn.

The fourth Chair—temporarily occupied since the "disappearance" of Lord Lugard—was a prize not offered lightly. Its power encompassed the city’s hidden arteries: Arena, power, blood. Whoever took that throne would be feared as much as they were respected.

Lord Anderson sat at the head of the table, fingers laced beneath his chin.

"This isn’t a matter of loyalty," he said calmly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "It’s a matter of survival. House Elarin may have once been a corpse dressed in robes, but that corpse now carries a blade none of us are eager to face, one even more terrifying than Eli."

"Blades don’t matter if the Council refuses them coin," growled Lord Drayven Kaelthorn. His heavy ringed hand thumped the table. "We choke her coffers, and she’ll drown in debts like she formerly did."

"That didn’t stop her," muttered another—Lady Saan, resplendent in a robe of wine-dark silk. "She’s gained support despite the debts. You saw what happened in the Crucible. Even my beast-masters are saying nothing can be done about him."

There was a moment of silence.

No one said his name. They never did in rooms like this.

Velrosa’s champion was a problem none of them could quite measure. But it wasn’t just the killing. It was the indifference with which he did it. That kind of calm was of someone who was yet to show his limits.

It came from evil so far above the norm, it laughed.

"Then it’s simple," said Lady Alurelle, her voice sweet as ice wine. "We vote for her. We back her. We make her owe us."

Gasps and low mutters followed, but she raised a single gloved hand.

"Better a dog with teeth we feed, than a wolf we leave to grow wild. Velrosa has ambition, but ambition needs structure. If she gains the Fourth Chair, she gains responsibility. If she fails in that role..." Alurelle smiled. "Well. Then we’ll simply replace her."

They all nodded slowly.

"Let us put it to consensus, then," he said. "We do not name sides here. We simply decide where the river flows."

One by one, silent nods passed around the table.

None of them said Velrosa’s name aloud.

But all of them heard it anyway.

---

Far above the murk and glow of Esgard, Ian stood on the rooftop of the Elarin manor, cloaked in shadow, the city stretching below like it was living and breathing.

It was.

Torches flickered along main roads. Magic-lit signs glimmered from brothels and gambling dens. Chimneys coughed smoke into the night.

He said nothing.

The wind tousled his hair slightly, bringing with it the iron-salt scent of far-off sea and blood.

Behind him, something shimmered—then a figure stepped out from the darkness like a mirage solidifying.

Fang.

The soulbound’s robed form drifted rather than walked, his face hidden beneath the layers of black and violet. Two of his soul-rods flickered behind his back, folded like the wings of a crow.

"Quite the city," he said lightly, coming to stand beside Ian. "Loud, filthy, very much alive."

Ian didn’t look at him. "Report."

Fang inclined his head.

"The Pillar Houses are working. They say our little displays have made noise farther than you’d like. Especially the Crucible. Word’s reached the main tribunal of the Sanctum, the Imperial City... and now, the gods-chosen."

Ian’s fingers curled along the edge of the parapet.

"You mean him?"

Fang didn’t need to clarify who him meant.

The gods-chosen.

The one the Pillar Houses had pledged to shield the outer provinces from. The golden son of divine blood and political perfection. The man who whispered into emperors’ ears and broke rebellions with a prayer and a sword.

"He’s taken an interest," Fang confirmed. "Whether it’s curiosity or something else... it’s enough to move the pieces."

"Is he coming?"

Fang shrugged lightly. "Hard to say. He may send his own envoys. Or worse—his proxies."

Ian exhaled slowly. The light caught his eyes then, making them gleam like dulled silver.

"They said the Pillar Houses would keep the Empire’s leash from tightening. They told me they wouldn’t come here."

"They’ll say a lot of things," Fang murmured. "But getting rid of one envoy or a spy? That’s manageable. You can twist the knife in shadow. Bury it. But if he walks through our gates, with banners and blessings from the gods themselves..."

"Stopping him would be treason."

"Exactly."

The silence between them thickened. Far below, a distant bell chimed midnight.

Ian’s jaw tensed.

"He’s not here for politics."

"No," Fang said. "He’s here for you."

Ian said nothing for a long time.

Then, finally, his voice broke the quiet. Low. Unyielding.

"If he steps foot in this city," Ian said, "I’ll damn the consequences and bury him in it."

Fang chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. Only cold satisfaction.

"And yet," he added, "what if it’s not him? What if he sends someone else—less divine, more subtle?"

Ian’s eyes narrowed.

"Then I’ll kill them quietly."

The Soulflame flickered faintly across his palm, unbidden.

The air felt colder.

And above them, beyond the haze of torchlight and cloud, the stars shifted.

As if watching.

Ian had settled with the plan of a slow takeover alongside Velrosa, raise and army at the same time they raised their strength, it was a good plan—a safe plan.

He wasn’t certain he could take Mark head on, the Seer said he couldn’t.

But it didn’t matter, if Mark stepped into his city—it’d be the last city that bastard drew breath.

No matter what it cost.