Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 116: Night Before The Trial

Night was coming.

It always was.

The light above the Reach had already dimmed to a pale, copper hue, bleeding slowly into violet, then promising black.

Shadows thickened across the cracked plains, slithering like hungry things eager for the dark to arrive. Ian stood still, his eyes scanning the distant ridges where figures moved—some mortal, others less probably so.

He spoke without turning.

"What do we do for shelter? When the dark comes."

Caelen was beside him, arms folded across his wide chest, steel-gray eyes already focused on the horizon.

"Tent," he said simply. "Long as you’re inside before night falls, they can’t touch you. Doesn’t matter what’s out there. Just don’t be out there."

Lyra was crouched nearby, tossing stones at a patch of dirt with all the idle, chaotic energy of a storm barely leashed. She hummed something tuneless, pale strands of hair catching what little dying light remained.

"We’ve got one," Caelen continued. "If you want in."

Ian hesitated, weighing his options.

He was not arrogant enough to believe he could ignore the laws of this place. Not the Reach. Not at night.

"I’ll take it," Ian said finally.

They moved quickly.

The tent wasn’t much—just thick canvas reinforced with arcane threading, anchored in etched stone nails.

But it would serve. Caelen and Lyra had set it up near the edges of a blackened crater, where most didn’t reside.

Inside, it was cramped, but the enchantments made it warmer than the cold, whispering air outside.

Lyra rolled into her corner almost instantly, curling up in her cloak like a cat, eyes fluttering shut as sleep took her without ceremony.

Ian lay down facing the ceiling, his hands behind his head, listening.

It didn’t take long.

They came with the dark.

A chorus of silence and whispers—bodies brushing against unseen veils, claws scraping against invisible threads of reality.

Some laughed. Others breathed heavy, laborious breaths, like beasts too large to fully exhale.

Ian could hear them outside, pacing, circling the tent, breathing fear in like smoke.

One false step.

One flap unzipped.

One curious fool—and they would pounce.

He glanced to his side.

Caelen was still awake, sitting up against one of the support poles, a blade on his lap. His gaze was fixed downward, but his voice was steady.

"Don’t worry. They can’t get in. Not unless you invite them."

"I’m not worried," Ian muttered.

But that wasn’t true.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

He hadn’t planned to stay in.

He’d wanted to leave—an hour before the first light returned again.

Just to see. Just to know if the one watching him would finally draw near.

The pressure had been building. He felt it more with each step through this damned place.

Someone was still waiting.

But now, surrounded by mortals who would scream at the first sign of a shadow, he wondered if it was worth it. Drawing attention to himself again before the trials even began could complicate things.

He closed his eyes. Let the thought slip.

For now.

---

Morning—if it could be called that, it couldn’t—came not with the sun, but with a dull shifting of sky color. Gray bled into rust.

Rust into blood-orange.

And then, light.

By the time Ian stepped outside the tent, most of the camp was already stirring, shaking off the night like a shroud.

Tents collapsed, weapons were checked, and armor fastened.

They were preparing.

For the Trial.

Ian moved through them like mist, drawing glances and whispered curses.

He saw it in their faces—the fear.

The resentment. The bloodlust.

They had not forgotten what he was accused of.

Many of them hadn’t accepted the tournament supervisor’s decree. Oathbound or not, they still saw him as a monster.

A few looked at him with something worse than hatred.

Expectation.

They wanted to see what he would do.

What kind of demon he truly was.

He spotted the church Subjugators first—rows of them, clean armor gleaming, holy runes etched into every plate.

Some bore spears. Others swords.

But all wore the same look of disdain.

Ian noticed the ones who’d sworn to kill him at Blackfall.

He also saw the ones who’d screamed for his execution. They made no move now, but their eyes burned holes in his back.

He didn’t bother glaring back.

He wanted them to come.

It was expected they’d try when the trials began.

Let them make their attempts.

He didn’t fear them.

Not in the slightest.

What he worried about was not among them.

He scanned the growing crowd.

Houses and factions all formed up by sigils and banners—some bearing beasts, others flame or stars.

Dozens of Subjugators—all powerful in their own way.

Some dressed like assassins.

Others like knights of forgotten realms.

Still, he did not see the one he had come here for.

The one that called him.

The one that watched.

Caelen joined him, brushing dust off his gauntlets. "You’ll need to be fast," he said. "If you want any of the relics."

Lyra yawned and stretched behind them, blinking slowly as she caught up. "And vicious. They’ll be tearing each other apart. Not all the relics are hidden in ruins or crypts. Some are just... on people. You know, inconveniently alive people."

Ian gave a quiet grunt. "Better that way. One place, one field—it just makes the hunt easier."

"See?" Lyra said, grinning wide. "This is why I missed you. So casually homicidal. Like a bloodstained poem."

Caelen ignored her. "They’ll blow the signal soon. Once it starts, we go separate ways. We’re tracking two confirmed relics—north ridge and the Hollow Spine ruins. You?"

Ian’s voice was low. "Doesn’t matter. I’ll find my way."

Truthfully, he had no clue what he was doing or how he would find them.

Caelen gave him a long look. "You sure you didn’t come just to kill half of them?"

Ian didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

They would all find out soon enough.

He turned back toward the field, where the wind was rising and the banners had begun to flutter.

The Trial of the Reach was about to begin.

And Ian was ready to see who bled first.