Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

The sound of hammer and chisel echoed down the half-formed trench line, striking with a rhythm that mimicked war drums.

Somewhere to the north, near the edge of the forest line, a wyvern shrieked—a distant warning, or perhaps just hunger—but the workers didn't pause. Not anymore.

The beasts had been circling for weeks. The forest knew what was coming. So did the men.

Ian walked slowly along the scaffolded wall-line, his boots coated in dust and fine white stone. Sunlight cut through the clouds in hard bands, revealing the incomplete ramparts rising from Esgard's western quarter.

This was not ornamental stonework—this was fortress masonry. Thick blocks, rune-etched and reinforced with flame-charred steel, aligned in cruel angles meant to catch siege magic and hold against talons.

Beside him, Eli kept pace in silence.

From up here, the world looked bare.

The hill sloped outward into a barren floodplain where crops used to grow, now flattened for fieldworks. Rows of sharpened stakes bristled like thorns, and beyond them, massive trenches still being dug by the dredgers—hulking constructs of bone and iron animated by Ian's flame.

The wall would span from Blackwater Crag to the southern canal—a curved fang of stone. An unbroken line between what had once been borderland and what must now become citadel.

Below, soldiers moved in clusters. Some barked orders, some carried lumber, others sat half-armored in the dirt, sharpening blades or binding wounds.

Not from battle, but from exhaustion.

"The western rampart's nearly a third up," Eli said finally, arms crossed over his black-gold cloak. "Thalia's mages have started fusing the foundational runes. It'll hold against small flanks. For a time."

Ian didn't respond immediately. His eyes followed the path of a child-sized soulflame drifting through a camp below—one of his lesser sentries.

A glowing remnant of someone once loyal to House Elarin. It paused beside a pyre, then drifted east again, searching.

"How many shifts are we rotating through?" Ian asked.

"Three. Daylight work crews, mid-dusk military drills, and night foragers. You're running them hard."

"I have to."

Eli nodded, though something flickered behind his golden eyes. Not disagreement. Something older. A memory, perhaps.

They stopped at the central watchpoint, where a steel-and-stone platform had been raised for surveying the perimeter. A scribewright sat beneath it, furiously transcribing reports from a cluster of junior officers.

All along the wall's inner edge, new armament platforms were being installed—arcane ballistae, pivoting fire-lanterns, even bone-cannons repurposed from Hollowtech prototypes. Not elegant weapons. But effective.

"Seven thousand," Ian said, finally breaking the silence. "That's what we've gathered so far."

Eli gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment, neither impressed nor disappointed.

"Five thousand Esgardian," Ian continued. "Some veterans. Most are green. The old watch from the tower districts, miners with blades, ex-arena champions who want a chance at real war. They're not trained for the Reach, but they'll hold steel steady if the walls break."

Eli nodded again. "And the others?"

"Caelen brought six hundred from the Western Vale. Iron ranks. Disciplined. Good at formations, but they don't trust the necromancy. They'll need tight command lines."

"Lyra's scouts?" Eli asked.

"A few hundred. Infiltrators, saboteurs, flank-hunters. They work best in shadow, not ranks. I've got them rotating with Thalia's shadowbinders—learning new signal patterns."

"And the mercenaries?"

"Four hundred or so. Varran's Teeth. Mostly sellsteel, but hardened. They'll do what they're paid for. Don't expect loyalty."

Eli snorted. "It's a war. Loyalty is a luxury."

They reached the overlook where a temporary table had been set up—maps pinned with weighted daggers, notes scrawled across in red chalk.

Ian set a hand on the wood, studying it. Lines denoting the outer ramparts, fallback positions, tunnel collapses. Beast routes were marked in spirals, each one circled again and again in growing red ink.

"And then there's the dead," Ian said quietly. "A thousand raised under my own hand."

Eli looked at him. "How many still speak?"

"Most of them," Ian replied. "Some from the Crucible. The ones who died with purpose. They remember their names. They stand when I call, speak when commanded. The rest…" His eyes dropped to the edge of the map. "The rest are less talkative."

"You're keeping them separate?"

"For now. The thinking ones are stationed in the inner circle. Guard detail. Ration line protection. They're more… stable."

"And the others?"

"Caged in the catacombs. If they break ranks, they break there."

Eli's expression didn't shift. He simply stepped beside the map and traced a gloved finger across one of the spiraled symbols.

"You saw them, didn't you? The ones chasing the tide."

Ian nodded. "In Blackblood. Eyes within eyes. Marked with spirals. Like i said they're not just hunting—they're herding. Steering the beasts toward us."

"And you think they'll come through here first."

"I know they will."

The wind shifted then, carrying with it the dry scent of stone dust and burnt wood. Somewhere behind them, a flame lantern sparked to life. Work crews along the western section began changing shifts—new guards replacing the exhausted ones, sorcerers arriving to reinforce foundation lines with molten runes.

Eli leaned forward on the table. "Even with all this, we're short. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Short on horses. Short on munitions. Short on time."

"I know."

"You can't raise another thousand without consequence. Not without drawing the attention of worse things. The more you bend the dead, the more that evil stirs. You saw what happened last time."

Ian's jaw clenched. "Then we train harder. We rotate smarter. I don't care if they sleep standing, or dream in fear. They hold the line."

Eli gave him a long look—unjudging, but not soft.

"You're burning yourself, boy," he said, voice low. "Little by little. Each command you give to the flame takes something from you."

Ian's response came cold. Flat. "Then let it."

Silence.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Below, the soldiers kept marching. Kept lifting. Kept sharpening, digging, hammering. Building a wall that might not hold, for a war that hadn't begun, against a force none of them could yet understand.

"You sound like her," Eli said finally.

Ian turned. "Velrosa?"

"No. Her mother."

The name lingered between them like smoke.

"She said something like that the night of the siege. That she'd let the fire take her if it meant the gates held. I was there, Ian. I saw the look in her eyes when she gave the order to direct am army to her own family's door so other may escape."

"And did it work?"

Eli nodded once. "It saved some, not many enough to matter."

Ian looked back over the wall. Far in the distance, just beyond the furthest trench line, Blackblood Forest held—a dark and endless tangle of roots and nightmare. Birds no longer sang near it. The air felt thinner with each day. As if something vast had begun breathing in.

"I don't need the city to survive me," Ian murmured. "I just need it to survive."

Eli's voice softened. "You think that's what she wants?"

Ian didn't answer.

Not at first.

Then: "No. But it's what we need."

The wind picked up again. This time colder. Sharper. The scent of ash and rot carried with it, and somewhere in the dark beyond the tree line… a howl.

Not beast. Not man. Something between.

Eli straightened, cracking his knuckles. "If the tide hits before the north gate's reinforced, we're done."

"Then it won't."

"You better be right, Sovereign."

"I have to be."

They turned together and stepped down from the overlook, the world behind them a fortress in birth, and ahead of them, a war already begun.

Not of flame. Not of steel.

But of bone, blood, and will.