Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The golden doors parted.

Velrosa stepped through first, her stride measured, her dress a midnight tide that danced like ink drawn under a hunter’s moon.

Beside her walked no slave.

No bound worthless from the pits. But a man that had engraved his name in this city by blood alone.

A man Esgard had learned to speak off only in low tones—

The Demon Blade.

Ian walked at her flank in tailored black. The crest of House Elarin was sewn above his heart in dark thread, subtle enough to miss unless you were looking. Many were.

A year ago, they’d entered the same hall—her in a less appealing gown, held upright by pride alone, with a slave everyone had already counted out.

Whispers then were crueler, open.

Eyes lingered with the same pity one might offer a fallen star too dim to rise again.

But tonight?

Tonight, the stares were different. Lingering, yes—but calculating. Hungry. The courtiers didn’t circle like vultures now.

They approached like worshippers before a new altar. And the altar smiled.

Velrosa received them all.

A countess in red offered compliments laced with a subtle invitation. A minor lord from the eastern quarter bowed so low it was almost comical.

Even the widow of House Maltrune, who once called Velrosa a "living grave," now pressed a kiss to her gloved hand and called her "dear heart."

Each smile Velrosa returned was perfect. Warm enough to seem real. Sharp enough to cut if studied too long.

Ian stood just behind, an afterthought with edges. He didn’t speak unless addressed, and when he was, his replies were brief enough to choke the conversation entirely.

"You honor your house well, Champion Ian," a young noble said nervously, adjusting the cuff of his doublet. "The Crucible speaks your name louder than even the city bell."

Ian’s expression didn’t shift. "I know."

The noble stammered something about watching from the east gallery and hurried off.

"You’re scaring them," Velrosa murmured from the side of her mouth.

"They came scared."

"Then do try not to make it worse."

"Fine." He sighed.

She laughed softly, not from humor, but from weariness, the kind only a year of clawing back power could give.

They moved through another round of greetings, each more delicate than the last.

Even Houses that once spat the name Elarin with disdain now bowed low, offered wine, or asked after her health like loyal dogs pretending they’d never snarled.

A masquerade, polished and practiced.

And yet—

The deference was real. Earned in blood.

Earned in Ian’s wake.

And all the corpses he had left behind.

When the tide of noble greetings finally ebbed and the space around them cleared, Velrosa exhaled deeply, her shoulders relaxing the tiniest fraction.

"That was painful," she murmured.

Ian shook his head and scanned the hall. "Why’d they suddenly set their ass-kissing dial to a hundred?"

Velrosa didn’t look at him.

Instead, her gaze swept the ballroom, where chandeliers glittered like webs of gold and music hummed faintly from a quartet in the alcove.

"Because," she said, voice soft and sardonic, "when the axe enters the forest... the trees will say: the handle is one of us."

Ian grunted, a dry sound. "You nobles and your riddles."

"Well," she replied. "You know what i mean."

He did.

She was the handle, and he was the axe’s blade.

The call to order rang out across the hall.

A herald dressed in layered clothes stepped onto the dais, voice projected with practiced authority.

"All honored guests of Esgard, take your seats. The Council of Nine arrives."

The nobles moved. Conversation tapered off. Laughter dimmed like a snuffed candle.

They fastened to their seats in curved rows table and chairs facing the throne dais, a semicircle of power and ambition cloaked in civility.

Velrosa and Ian took their place near the forward edge of the chamber, where House Elarin’s banner now hung with grim dignity.

A seat earned, not given.

Nothing here was given.

The doors groaned open once more.

Nine entered.

One by one, they strode in with robes like oil and metal, gold-threaded cuffs, arcane insignias etched on their chests. Each carried with them the weight of centuries-old bloodlines and the chill of decisions that had ended wars—or started them.

Lady Caldrein Morravel, First Chair. Cold and elegant as carved marble, her every bit represented Law and Binding.

Lord Varek Durnhal walked in, Second Chair. Broad and silent, veins of coin and contract flowing through his family for three generations.

Prince Liam Xavier, Third Chair. The diplomat, the neutral fire—still cloaked in his kingdom’s colors, his expression unreadable.

And so on, until all nine were seated.

Ian leaned slightly toward Velrosa, his voice low.

"I remember now. Lugard was made a council member at the last banquet, wasn’t he? Fourth Chair."

"He was," Velrosa said without looking away from the council platform. "For a time."

"What happened?"

"Not certain," she said, tone cool. "After the council removed Lord Regor Kaelthorn last year—claimed he was quietly aligned with me. He wasn’t. Just refused to openly oppose me...."

Ian raised a brow. "So neutrality is a sin now?"

Velrosa’s smile was faint. "Only when it threatens a majority."

She continued, voice soft but sharp. "However you then destroyed Lugard’s champion in the banquet last year, he resigned his chair. Claimed ’pressure from within his house.’"

Ian’s expression darkened. "Coward."

"maybe," Velrosa said. "Ambitious, but without spine. Regor was reinstated after performing public acts of ’loyal disdain’ toward me. But even then—only for a while, a temporary thing."

Ian glanced at the dais. "So he’s just a borrowed puppet again?"

Velrosa’s lips quirked. "The seat will open soon. And they know it."

The council began their announcements. Ritualistic pleasantries, the reading of oaths, recognition of returning nobles, the promotion of a new trade inspector—all meaningless waves brushing against the edge of the real storm.

Until—

"Now," Lady Morravel said, her voice cutting through the air like ice on steel, "the matter of the Fourth Chair must be resolved. Lord Regor Kaelthorn’s temporary reinstatement reaches its end tonight. The Council has reviewed its options."

A hush descended.

"The following five have been nominated for consideration. A final vote will take place within the week."

She lifted a parchment, its edges sealed with nine wax sigils.

"In no particular order:

Lord Yareth of House Solmere.

Lady Maelien of House Ardeval.

High Inquisitor Talroth of the Sanctum of Light.

Mistress Elva Virex, of the Ninth Chair’s blood.

And—"

She paused.

A beat too long.

"Velrosa Lionarde. House Elarin."

The silence was loud.

Some gasped. Others whispered like serpents brushing against each other in dark corners.

Velrosa did none.

She only smiled.

As if she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life.

As if she had always known.

The smile said: Of course.