Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The Spiral Chamber had never been this quiet.

Not during a war vote. Not even during the fall of Houses. This silence wasn’t political—it was spiritual. Paralyzing. Like the collective heart of Esgard had forgotten how to beat.

The God-Chosen stood beneath the chamber’s high dome, and it was wrong how natural he looked there. As if he hadn’t just walked in from the distant Imperial City without escort or announcement, but had always belonged here—like this stone was built around him, not the other way around.

He was tall. Not monstrous. Not draped in impossible armor or shimmering relics.

Just a man. Pale robes, bare feet dusted with travel. But power clung to him like a mantle of ash.

The kind of power that didn’t flare—it simply existed, undeniable and absolute. It was in the way people stared too long. In the way guards suddenly remembered their sins.

In the way even the torches dimmed slightly, humbled by a light that wasn’t fire.

And the longer he stood there, saying nothing, the more everyone felt the need to say something. Or confess something. He hadn’t yet spoken, but already every noble present had measured their words a dozen times in their minds.

Then, unexpectedly, movement.

Grand Priest Eltharion Vale stepped down from his throne.

The man who once threatened inquisitions against "unholy bloodlines." The man who claimed to speak for the gods themselves.

He knelt.

Not as a show.

Not as politics.

He knelt, and kissed the God-Chosen’s hand with trembling lips.

"My lord," Vale whispered. "It is... our honor. My honor."

The God-Chosen touched his head. "Rise, Eltharion. You have served the Light. Today, you rest."

And Eltharion smiled. Like a dying man offered peace.

He stepped back and said nothing more.

The God-Chosen finally turned to the Council.

Velrosa sat frozen in her chair—her hands folded in ritual calm, her face impassive. But her knuckles were white beneath the sleeves.

She felt Eli’s presence nearby, just behind her throne. A shield. A blade.

But even he would be ashes if this turned hostile.

The God-Chosen gave a shallow bow, and spoke.

"I did not come to disrupt. I bring no chains. No condemnation. I come only to offer congratulations to the new voice among the Nine."

His eyes lifted. Pale, gleaming, endless. "Lady Velrosa Lionarde. You sit where power and burden intertwine. May your soul endure both."

"Your presence honors us," Velrosa said smoothly, though she barely recognized her own voice. "I did not expect a messenger from the Empire so soon—let alone one such as you."

He smiled. It was a gentle thing. Kind, even. But so empty it made the room colder.

"I find titles exhausting. Empire, Dominion, Seat. They are all layers of cloth draped over fire. You will learn, Lady Lionarde. All power costs. All gifts bear teeth."

He walked slowly, each step echoing unnaturally loud in the chamber.

"I watched your vote," he said. "Some call it clever. Others, ruthless. I saw something else."

Velrosa’s gaze didn’t shift. "And what was that?"

"A woman who wants to rule more than she wants to survive. That is... rare."

Eli took a slow step forward, just behind her shoulder.

The God-Chosen’s eyes flicked toward him.

He did not speak to Eli.

But he knew him.

Then, the God-Chosen turned his gaze back to the center of the chamber and asked, in a voice that sounded too soft to be so loud:

"Tell me... where is the Esgard Champion I have heard so much about?"

The room shifted.

Velrosa felt her breath catch.

"The... Champion?" she echoed, too slowly.

"Yes," the God-Chosen said, almost amused. "The Whisperer of Death. The one who bled the Crucible dry. The one who walks with ghosts. I believe they call him Ian."

His lips curled slightly.

"Such a name. I had to see the Prophet of Death myself."

The way he said it—like a priest invoking a heresy—set Velrosa’s heart pounding.

’Fuck.’ She cursed internally.

Ian was watching. She knew he was. Somewhere, high above. Somewhere cloaked in shadow.

He would never let something like this go unnoticed.

He would never let the God-Chosen’s words pass unanswered.

After all he told her himself, this was his greatest enemy.

Velrosa offered a thin smile. "Ian is... recovering. He fought recently."

"A shame," said the God-Chosen, turning as if to leave—but he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped forward again, walking toward the center of the Spiral Chamber. He circled the floor slowly, as if studying the thrones, the nobles, the very stonework.

Then he looked upward at the high glass dome above them.

"The heavens are watching," he murmured. "They do not forget."

He turned back to Velrosa, and this time his smile was poison.

"Do you think he dreams, Lady Lionarde? Your Champion. Do you think he dreams when he kills? Or has he become something else entirely?" freewebnøvel.com

Velrosa’s voice was colder now. "He does what is necessary."

The God-Chosen tilted his head. "So did the Wretched King."

No one spoke.

Then he looked to the chamber guards, then to the council, and back to her.

"Tell your Champion," he said softly, "that the eyes of the gods are on him. That we remember names. And titles. And sins."

Velrosa didn’t reply.

She couldn’t.

Because in that moment, something warm and wet hit the back of her hand.

A drop.

She blinked, confused.

Then another fell.

She looked down. Her hand trembled.

Red.

Not sweat. Not water.

Blood.

Her breath caught. She touched her cheek.

It was damp.

She touched her nose.

Another drop.

Blood.

Then she saw Eli step closer, a warning rising in his eyes. He too was bleeding—thin streams down from his eyes. Not pain. Not a wound.

Something else.

She looked across the chamber.

One noble dropped a handkerchief, stained crimson. Another clutched at his mouth.

Blood.

Dripping from faces.

From everyone.

Velrosa’s stomach twisted as her vision swam for a second.

The air was thick now. Heavier than before. Like it had been saturated with something old and evil—and it was pressing down on the flesh of mortals like a vice.

Her hands clenched on the throne’s arms.

No one screamed.

No one dared.

But every face was pale.

Even Eltharion Vale, who had knelt so eagerly, now looked as though he had seen a hole into the abyss and regretted peering in.

The God-Chosen stood in the center of it all, untouched. Unsmeared. A pale pillar of calm.

Velrosa’s vision swam again.

Her mind screamed.

Please, Ian. Don’t.

If she was bleeding—

If they all were—

The Void was demanding.

And Ian was answering.

"Fuck," she whispered.