Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 152: The Wolves at The Door

The estate of House Berreth sat like a bloated brick just north of Esgard’s inner wall—a crumbling monument to past wealth and forgotten pride.

Its dark banners still fluttered along the parapets, stitched with the fading crest of a mountain split by a golden pickaxe.

Once, they had been one of the wealthiest mining houses in the northern frontier. Blackstone. Manaite. Even raw soul core from the Reach.

But veins ran dry. And old names meant nothing in the brutal grounds of Esgard.

Inside the manor’s central hall, panic rippled like a sickness.

"Seven million gone," Lord Halric Berreth growled, pacing behind a long table strewn with ledgers, writs, and stamped scrolls.

His fingers twitched, smudged with dried ink.

His hair—once jet black and slicked back with pride—had grayed around the temples. A ring of gold bit into his knuckles, the signet of his house. It trembled when his fist slammed the edge of the table.

"Seven gods-damned million. How?!"

"The odds were in our favor, my lord," said Maester Vohn, his steward, voice hollow. "Every chart said Veyne had the upper hand. His mana output was steady. His win ratio—"

"Win ratio means nothing if your fighter get butchered like a sack of meat after one attack attempt!" Halric bellowed.

In the corner, his daughter Maela stood silent.

Young, sharp-eyed, and recently returned from the Mage Colleges, she said nothing, but her gaze lingered on the papers.

She didn’t need to ask how much was left. She’d already done the math.

House Berreth was bleeding out.

They had leveraged everything on Veyne.

Sold claim rights to their secondary mine.

Gambled their treasury on backdoor contracts with other nobles—silent oaths traded in dark lounges, sealed with the confidence of arrogance.

Now, the calls for repayment had begun.

Twelve million owed. Seven lost. And of the nobles who’d bet alongside them, two had already slithered away and pinned the losses solely on House Berreth.

"Father," Maela said finally. "We need to talk to the underbanks."

Halric froze.

He turned, bloodshot eyes full of warning.

"You want us to kneel to them?"

"Not kneel," she said, carefully. "We leverage what we have left. We cut our losses. Sell the southern holdings. Liquidate the trade fleet. Focus on the core mine."

"You think I haven’t thought of that?" he spat. "There’s no time. The banking covenants require payment within the moon’s turn. And those jackals you want us to grovel before? They’ll smell the rot."

As if summoned by his words, a shadow passed over the stained-glass window behind him.

Neither of them noticed it.

But far above them, across rooftops and gutter lines, Blackrat was already moving.

---

He watched from a gabled roof opposite the Berreth estate, cloak pulled tight against the wind, a long-lensed spyglass pressed to one eye.

"Still pacing," he muttered, voice low and amused. "Still doesn’t know the knife’s already in his ribs."

Beside him, Kessa knelt in silence, scrolling through a list of debt holders on a gray-dyed parchment.

"They took out loans with three major fronts," she said. "All above board. But they hedged their bets with a fourth—unregulated, off-book. We own it now."

Blackrat grinned, his teeth glinting faintly in the moonlight.

"Ah yes. The Hollow Coin Consortium. The one that doesn’t technically exist."

She tapped a point on the scroll. "Berreth owes them four million gold. Contract says repayment within ten days. Otherwise, asset seizure and full debt auction."

"Which includes?"

"Their title to the eastern manaite vein. The last viable mine in their entire network."

Blackrat lowered his glass.

"And the vultures?" he asked.

"Waiting," Kessa said. "But not circling yet. They still think Berreth will buy their way out."

Blackrat’s voice turned quiet.

"Good. Its better they hope. Let them think the storm will pass."

He stood and reached into his coat, drawing a crimson wax seal—an unmarked sigil, burned smooth on the edges like it had been branded by fire rather than pressed.

"Deliver this to the Hollow Coin’s front office. Activate clause thirteen. I want a reclamation order posted on their gates before dawn."

Kessa took the seal, nodded, and vanished into the shadows.

Blackrat remained, eyes still fixed on the manor’s crumbling walls.

"When will they learn, a bet against him is always losing," he murmured.

---

The knock came just after sunrise.

A dull, polite tapping against the front gates.

Maela opened it herself, still in her nightclothes, half-expecting another creditor or screaming nobleman demanding blood.

But instead, she found two men dressed in gray coats, expressionless, holding a scroll stamped with red wax.

"Hollow Coin Consortium," one of them said. "We’re here to serve notice of default."

She blinked. "What—? No. That can’t be right. We have ten days."

"You had ten days," the man corrected. "But your collateral value was reappraised. Contract clause thirteen was invoked. Early collection rights now apply."

He handed her the scroll.

She opened it.

Her eyes widened.

"This—this isn’t possible. We just—"

"Your mine, your shares, your inner holdings. All now under evaluation for auction. Effective immediately."

Maela slammed the door shut in their faces and turned.

"FATHER!"

---

By evening, word had spread.

Berreth was collapsing.

The mine was being seized.

Two major creditors had already sold off their stake to anonymous buyers—buyers who offered half the price just to close quickly.

And at the center of it all, invisible yet ever-present, Blackrat watched from the edges of every meeting, every whispered deal.

He moved coins through puppet accounts.

Pressured minor houses to pull out their support. Encouraged the remaining bankers to tighten their terms. Whispered promises to Berreth’s rivals that they could buy the remains once the body stopped twitching.

And soon it would.

---

In the shadowed cellar of an old guildhouse, Blackrat stood before a crude map of Esgard.

Red pins marked every house currently in financial turmoil.

Berreth’s pin had already been turned black.

"couple more weeks," he said to the room. "And the east quarter of the noble district will be a graveyard. Just in time for the spring tournaments."

Behind him, Kessa crossed her arms.

"Berreth still has allies," she warned.

"Not for long," he replied. "Once the Council sees House Elarin rising again, no one will want to be associated with a sinking ship."

He moved a pin.

"Especially not one who challenged Ian."

---

Somewhere deep in the city, Halric Berreth drank alone in a chamber lit by dying lanterns. He stared at a letter of reclamation, hands trembling, lips stained red from the wine.

Maela stood behind him, a silent statue.

"Everything I built," he whispered. "Gone. For a fight."

"Not just any fight," Maela said softly. "This was a setup. That was a warning."

He turned to her, glassy-eyed.

"What now?"

She met his gaze.

And said nothing.

Because there was no answer left.

However what better way was there to own a noble house, than to save it from the dogs you sent?