Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 57: Knifes Among Thrones

The banquet continued, but for Velrosa, the taste of wine had soured.

Gilded laughter spilled across the long hall like honey over a blade. Nobles raised crystal goblets, toasting to false victories and forged alliances.

The air bubbled with glamours and subtle wards, each noble house cloaked in its chosen finery and protected by silent spellwork. Illusions flickered behind depictions, and unseen servants moved like ghosts between the tables.

But all Ian saw was her hand.

Velrosa’s fingers, pale and trembling just beneath the embroidered edge of the table, gripped the base of her goblet like a vice.

Her expression—ever so beautiful, yet cold as carved marble—did not betray the storm beneath. Only those who truly watched her could see it.

Ian did.

He stood behind her, still and alert, a shadow draped in black and muted sigils. His eyes swept the halls like it did ever so often. Around them, the nobles of Esgard’s high society murmured in cloaked tones.

Some sent glances toward Velrosa, tasting blood like vultures who had circled too long without a feast.

Across the banquet table, Duke Malrec Lugard now sat where Kaelthorn’s herald once stood. Cloaked in deep violet robes stitched with platinum thread, the new councilor raised his glass to the room with the smugness of a crowned wolf.

A gold chain of arena tokens hung from his neck—symbols of conquered gladiators and slain beasts.

"To progress," he said, his voice deep and rich, like oil in a fire. "And to the future of Esgard’s glory."

Polite applause followed, though some clapped with venom in their eyes.

Ian studied him—tall, broad-shouldered, with graying black hair tied back in a noble’s knot.

His hands were calloused from swordplay, but his smile was pure politics. Ian had seen men like him in his world.

They never fought their own wars. They let others bleed for their ambition.

Malrec’s gaze drifted to Velrosa.

"Lady Lionarde," he said, raising his goblet just slightly higher. "It does my heart well to share the same table. It’s been... too long."

Velrosa smiled.

And it was ice.

"Indeed, my lord," she said. "I’d nearly forgotten how you looked seated above the filth."

A ripple of restrained laughter broke from a few nobles down the table. Some concealed it behind coughs and sips of wine. Others turned away quickly, fearful of being seen reacting.

Malrec’s smile twitched.

"But not how I smell, I hope," he replied smoothly. "After all, House Elarin has been dining below for some time now. It’s good to see you back... among wolves."

Ian could almost hear the tension behind Velrosa’s breath. Her hand hadn’t moved. Still clutching the base of her goblet, as if it were the neck of the man speaking to her.

"You mistake me, my lord," she said, her tone velvet-lined steel. "I didn’t return to dine. I returned to take back what i was owed."

Malrec raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, the mask slipped. There it was—disdain, thin and flickering like smoke behind his gaze.

"Is that so?" he said quietly. "Then I suppose you’ll be leaning on your new champion."

He turned his eyes on Ian.

"I hear he made quite the entrance."

The silence that followed was intentional, heavy with implication.

Ian didn’t move.

Didn’t blink. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

He merely tilted his head slightly, just enough for the light to catch the scars etched into the neck stemming from his chest. Shadows clung to him like smoke, and for a heartbeat too long, even the flickering braziers dimmed in his presence.

Then he spoke.

"Would you like to see the exit?"

Velrosa didn’t stop him. She didn’t even turn.

Malrec chuckled—but it lacked teeth.

"I’ll pass, champion," he said, raising his goblet again. "For now."

The conversation resumed elsewhere, and the clamor of the hall returned like a tide sweeping over fresh blood.

The musicians struck up a new melody, and a pair of courtiers began a slow, graceful dance beneath the chandelier of blue mana-glass. But the tension at the high table lingered, coiled like viper beneath silk.

Velrosa finally exhaled.

She set her goblet down with precision, her fingers loosening only after the glass touched the table.

Ian leaned forward slightly. "You knew this was coming."

"I feared it," she murmured, eyes locked on nothing. "But not this soon. Not during the banquet. Not while I still..."

Ian followed her gaze.

Across the room, councilors whispered to one another, exchanging notes behind subtle nods and half-glances. Velrosa’s rivals were already shifting alliances, recalibrating their positions with the speed of courtiers trained to kill with smiles.

"Kaelthorn’s seat wasn’t supposed to be vacant," she continued. "He was an ally... of sorts. Ruthless, but predictable. Lugard is worse. He’s unpredictable and ambitious. And now he controls the arena."

"Which means," Ian said slowly, "he controls me?"

Her jaw tightened.

"No," she said. "Not yet. But he’ll try. And if he can’t control you—he’ll try to break you. Publicly. Just like the others."

Ian thought of the matches to come. Of noble champions bred in mage academies. Of blood-soaked gladiators loyal to coin and threat. Of rituals hidden behind silk curtains and deals made in the dark.

"I’m not so easy to break," he said.

Velrosa’s hand found his beneath the table—just a brush, a touch of cold fingers against his scarred knuckles. Not affection. Not comfort.

Something older. Like a pact sealed in silence, deliberacy and desperation.

"I know," she whispered.

A new bell rang at the far end of the hall. Golden chimes, sharp. The steward returned, this time with a silver scroll in his hands.

"The second order of the banquet," he announced, "shall be a challenge."

Murmurs rippled instantly through the crowd.

"Per Esgard’s tradition," the steward continued, "new members of the council may offer a boon—or a spectacle. Duke Lugard has chosen the latter."

The silver scroll unfurled with a flick of mana, revealing blood-red ink across its surface.

"House Lugard," the steward read, "invokes a Grand Duel. The Duke wishes to honor his ascension with a match... between his champion, and a challenger of House Elarin."

A roar of interest surged through the nobles. Already, they turned their eyes toward the Lionarde table.

Velrosa’s hand froze.