Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Ian looked to the stained glass again—the flaming eye of the Hollow Flame crest watching like some old god.

"Then we bleed, but we've gotten quite good at that too."

Eli nodded once, then turned and walked into the dimming hall beyond.

Ian stayed behind.

Alone, as always.

As outside, dusk withered into night, and war's shadow grew tall enough to swallow cities.

And perhaps it would.

———

The chamber smelled of lavender and old ash.

It was dimly lit—by design.

Almost no windows, no open fire. Just the low hum of arcane sconces along the curved stone walls, offering soft violet light across the dark stone and high-backed chairs. It was a place built for secrecy, not comfort. A shelter for whispers, or ghosts.

Ian stepped through and closed the door behind him.

Velrosa stood at the far end of the room, her back to him, fingers resting lightly on the edge of a blackwood table.

She wore white—simple, flowing, not courtly—and it made her look more spectral than royal. Her silver hair was bound high, revealing the clean lines of her neck and shoulders. Unarmored. Uncrowned. Yet still every inch a ruler.

She didn't turn.

For a moment, there was only the silence. Awkward. Taut. Like the final inch of a bowstring drawn too long.

"Been a while," Ian said at last.

Velrosa gave no reply. Just the faint sound of breath. Measured. Still.

"I've just come from the council chamber," he went on, voice low. "The vote passed. Construction starts at dawn. Stone, steel, flame—and arcane channels underneath. Thalia's scouts are in position. And the Crucible is…" he paused, watching her back, "doing its job. Fear is turning to fury. The crowd chants for something now."

Still, nothing.

He shifted his weight, jaw clenched.

"In Blackblood," he said, "I found something."

That made her shift. Not much. Just a glance, over one shoulder. But it was enough.

"They are old things," Ian continued. "Evil and persistent, awakened by the Sanctum perhaps with intent against us. These things… they don't just feed. They mark. A spiral in blood. Eyes within eyes. They're following something, while pursuing the beasts toward us aswell."

She turned then.

Slowly.

Her expression was unreadable—noble mask affixed like stone. But her eyes… they gave her away. That same fire she always tried to hide. Dimmed now, not gone. Just wounded.

"And you went alone," Velrosa said. "to what could have been certain death."

Ian didn't flinch. "Well, it wasn't."

"You acted on your own."

"I made a decision."

She stepped toward him then—just once pace. Enough to close the room between them like a blade.

"And if you died out there, Sovereign?" Her tone didn't rise. But it cut deep. "If something had taken you? If what returned wore your face, but not your soul?"

"It didn't."

She said nothing.

Her gaze drifted over him—his coat, still stained with ash and dried blood, a burden still slung behind his back like a curse half-carried.

"I heard what you did in the Crucible," she said, quieter now.

Ian looked away. "It kept the crowds fed. Kept them angry at the right things."

For a long moment, neither moved.

Then Velrosa turned away again. Back to the table. Her fingers curled into the grain.

"I know why you went," she said. "I know what you're trying to build. This wall. This council. This city of ash and second chances. But…"

"But?"

"You scare me."

He blinked. Not in surprise—but in the quiet ache of hearing it spoken aloud.

"You look at war and don't flinch," she continued. "You take life like it owes you something. And maybe it does. But every time you walk out there, into the dark, into the forest, into the sands… I wonder if the man who returns is the same one I found."

He stepped forward. Just one pace.

"And I wonder," Ian said, "if you regret it sometimes."

She didn't respond.

The silence twisted again—different this time. Not awkward. Not cold. Just… raw. Unarmored.

"I didn't come back just to report," he said. "I came because I owed you the truth."

"I'm tired of truths," she whispered.

"Then let me say it plain."

He moved again. Closer. Until there were only inches between them.

"I needed to know," he said. "I needed to see what was coming with my own eyes. Because if I'm going to hold this city, if I'm going to keep us alive—I have to understand the storm before it hits."

"And if it breaks you?"

"Then It does."

"You speak like sacrifice is your only language."

"What else do i have?"

Velrosa turned toward him fully now. Her eyes burned—not with fury, but something deeper. Quieter. A grief that had no grave.

"I can't let you die," she said.

Her voice cracked, just barely.

"You won't," Ian said, softer now.

They stared at each other.

For the first time in weeks, no mask. No title. No crown, no blood, no war.

Just the ache of two people who built a kingdom on the edge of ruin—and forgot, somewhere along the way, that they bled the same.

"I don't know how to be near you," she said.

"Neither do I."

His voice was quiet. Unsteady. Unfamiliar.

And then he stepped forward. One last step.

Close enough that the scent of her hair reached him. That his breath stirred the fabric of her sleeve. That if he moved even an inch—

He kissed her.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't calculated.

It was instinct. Hunger. Madness. Mercy.

Her hands didn't rise. Not at first.

But she didn't pull away.

Not until breath returned, and the fire between them cooled just enough to speak.

When she opened her eyes again, there was no mask left.

Only Velrosa.

Only the girl who once held a sword against her father's throne. The woman who chose death over submission. The queen without a crown, whose soul matched his flame for flame.

"Come closer," she said.

Ian did.