Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 140: Thrones of Stone and Smoke

The Grand Hall of Concordance—a monument to power—nine thrones of blackstone and silver, each carved with the sigils of Esgard’s ruling families.

At the center stood a round table of veined obsidian, where no man sat at its head—for in theory, none ruled over the Council of Nine.

But everyone in Esgard knew that theory was a lie.

The first Chair ruled.

It was clear she did.

The room was low lit by cold magefire, suspended in crystal orbs above each seat.

The light did not flicker. It burned steadily, like the will of those who governed this old city.

Lord Varek Durnhal of the Second Chair arrived first, flanked by his scribe and three iron-masked debt-hunters.

He seated himself without ceremony, drumming thick fingers on the table’s edge, impatient.

His presence brought with it the scent of old ledgers and dried blood.

Lady Caldrein Morravel came next—the First Chair.

She walked like shadow and silk, her silver-blonde hair bound in a knot of thorns.

When she sat, silence claimed the room.

Even Lord Durnhal quieted, lowering his gaze.

One by one, the others entered:

Archmage Serel Vaunt, wrapped in violet flame, eyes hidden behind shimmering lenses of truthglass.

Lord Tharros Yvain, tall and scarred, his armor still dusted with arena sand.

Lady Velmira Saan, fragrant and veiled, trailed by her perfumers and poison testers.

Mistress Thalia Virex, who wore no visible mark of wealth save for the dagger sheathed at her thigh.

Lord Regor Kaelthorn, beastlord of the pits, who smiled too much and spoke too little.

And finally, Grand Priest Eltharion Vale of the Seventh Chair, a vision of divine austerity, his white robes whispering holiness and judgment.

They waited.

Then the doors opened once more, and the room shifted.

Prince Liam Xavier stepped in with measured poise, black coat trailing, his insignia modest yet unmistakable: the three-winged crest of the Xavier royal line.

The Third Chair bowed to none, but Liam offered a slight nod to Morravel as he passed her throne and took his seat.

Nine chairs. Nine powers.

The Council of Esgard was complete.

A breathless stillness fell over the hall.

Lady Morravel broke it first. "We convene under moonlight, and that should concern us all."

"It concerns my time more," Varek Durnhal grunted. "Bankrupt nobles and blood-drunk champions are draining the coffers. I’ve half a mind to close the arena season early."

"You’d be stoned in the streets," Regor Kaelthorn chuckled. "The city lives for the arena. You shut it, you kill the last joy Esgard has left."

"Joy is not our concern," Eltharion Vale said coldly. "Sin blooms in that arena—falsearts, sacrilege, heresy. The gods demand restraint."

"The gods demand silence from hypocrites," Mistress Virex murmured, barely audible, but the insult lingered in the air like smoke.

Archmage Vaunt tapped his staff against the obsidian floor. "We are not here to squabble like fishwives. Something festers in the sand. We all feel it."

Morravel nodded. "House Elarin rises in ways too unique and problematic. The princess Velrosa has tasted oath sworn blood and victory she did not pay for, and now she drinks deep."

"Through a ghost of a man," Tharros Yvain growled. "Ian. Her shade. Her sword. I’ve heared the rumors—we all did. All who entered the first reach with him, slaughtered. That isn’t normal. That’s not an average man."

"Worse," Vaunt said. "He isn’t human."

A quiet shiver passed through the council.

Even Liam Xavier raised a brow.

"Speak plainly," Velmira Saan said, adjusting her jeweled veil. "What do you mean?"

"He is bound to death," Vaunt said. "I’ve seen the residue. His soul burns like blackglass. Something older resides in him—something not native to this realm. And worse—he grows stronger the more he kills."

"So he truly is a demon?" Virex asked.

"No. A vessel," Vaunt replied. "But for what, I cannot yet see."

Eltharion Vale crossed his arms. "Then the Sanctum must act gods accepted or not. If he is an abomination, he must be purged before he poisons the city’s soul."

"Convenient," Liam said softly. "Your crusades always are."

Eyes turned to him.

"You accuse without trial, condemn without proof. The last time the Sanctum ’purged’ someone, it led to four weeks of riots and over a hundred dead," Liam said. "We will not repeat that mistake."

"Then what do you propose?" Yvain spat. "We let House Elarin grow fat off blood and corruption until she has enough strength to challenge us?"

"She already has," Morravel said. Her voice was cold as winter steel. "And if you think this is merely about a princess with ambition, you haven’t been paying attention."

"She has backing," Durnhal muttered. "Someone’s been clearing her debts in secret. Someone powerful. Someone rich."

"There’s more," Vaunt said. "A vision came to me three nights past. Fire over the Council. Death upon the sand. And in the heart of it all, a man cloaked in shadow...and beside him, a woman crowned in ash."

"Elarin and her champion," Velmira whispered.

"No," Morravel corrected. "Velrosa...and Ian."

Silence again.

Then Liam Xavier spoke, slow and precise. "If what you’re all implying is true—if these two wish to challenge the Empire itself—we must decide here and now how far we are willing to let them rise."

"I say we kill him," Yvain said.

"I say we kill her," Virex countered. "The man is dangerous, yes. But the woman is clever. Remove her, and the beast may wander without a leash."

"Do both," said Durnhal. "Make it look like an accident. The people won’t mourn too long."

"And if they survive?" Liam asked. "If we provoke too soon and fail, what then? You think they’ll forget? Also have we just forgotten Eli, the princess dies and all we have is gone."

Morravel’s gaze burned. "Then we do not provoke. We contain."

"How?" Velmira asked.

"We offer a seat at the table," Morravel said.

Shock rippled through the chamber.

"You’re mad," Yvain said.

"No," she replied. "I’m cautious. Let the lion think she rules the pride. Let her think we fear her. Let her play our games. The moment she shows her true hand...we’ll crush her. When Ian becomes a weapon she cannot control, we will make them each the executioner of the other."

"That is the path of spiders," Eltharion said, disapproving.

"Good," Morravel said. "Because we are not wolves. We are not lions. We are not kings."

She stood, voice like the ring of a deathbell.

"We are the web. And when the flies are fattened with hope and vengeance—we feed."