Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Steel sang beneath a gray morning sky.

Hammers rang on iron. Torchlight hissed against wet stone. Lines of men and women filed through half-formed barracks, armor clinking, weapons being distributed by calloused hands.

Along the eastern camp's main path, the first banners of Esgard fluttered—black, with the sigil of a crown wrapped in broken chains.

New colors. New war.

The city had changed.

What had once been scattered mercenary camps and half-loyal noble guardlines was now an engine—grinding forward with purpose.

Seven thousand strong, and still swelling with each dusk. The first major wall was halfway done, its bones of blackened steel rising like jagged teeth from the ashen soil. Runes lined the base, etched in silver by Saan's arcane forgers.

But it wasn't the wall that caught the eye now. It was the people.

The army of Hollow Flame.

They were not a uniformed legion. No ranks of polished gold or drilled, expressionless faces. This was something rougher. Wilder. Harder. Survivors of Blackblood. Gladiators from the Crucible.

Mercenaries from the Teeth. Dune-riders from the southern wastes. And undead. Hundreds of them—still and silent—moving beside the living without fear or command, as if waiting for music only they could hear.

Among them moved the lieutenants.

Caelen strode through the southern flank, checking spear lines and inspecting formations.

His presence brought silence, then tighter discipline. Even now, after all they had faced, men lowered their gazes before his.

Lyra perched high above on the unfinished scaffolds, watching with that catlike stillness. Scouts moved through shadow at her gesture. They'd been sleeping in trees and tunnels for weeks now—part of the forest more than the city. She did not speak unless needed.

Her knives did the talking.

The Iron Ranks, Caelen's old warband, had already set up command tents and begun drawing reinforcement paths in the dirt. Chalk lines became trench estimates.

Timber piles were cataloged.

They'd begun training the Esgardian volunteers—men who once worked for nobles or drank their weight in cheap ale. No one laughed anymore. Not after the first beheading drills. Not after seeing what magic-warped beasts had done to previous squads.

Behind them all, a force with no heartbeat.

The risen.

One thousand, just as Ian said. Some wore partial armor. Some were still marked by fire or blades that should've killed them. They didn't speak, but many remembered. Their eyes glowed faintly when called by name.

A boy of thirteen walked past one—his father. Dead three years now. The man didn't stop. Didn't reach out. But his jaw clenched like it remembered love, even in death.

No one questioned it. Not anymore.

They had seen worse.

General Aenys Drael—recently elevated to command over the living force—stood atop the southern ridge, overlooking it all.

A scar bisected her cheek, and her left arm bore an arcane brace where flesh once was. She watched the troops with arms crossed, flanked by two war clerks who scrawled reports at her nods.

She did not smile. She never did.

But the rows were forming. The army was becoming real.

Still not enough.

Still too few.

And yet… something was shifting.

Hope? No.

Conviction.

That was when the horns sounded.

A slow, guttural horn that echoed down from the western watch.

A rider? No—no hoofbeats.

A shadow passed overhead, then a ripple of magic pulled across the spine of the encampment like cold air down the back of the neck.

Eli stood near the war table with Blackrat, mid-discussion, when he paused.

He looked up.

A man in the lower ranks said "He's here."

His friend blinked. "What—how do you kn—"

"Because the wind stopped."

The soldiers gathered without needing to be called. The entire camp slowed. Torches dimmed. Words stopped mid-sentence. Men stood. Undead turned their heads. And from the road that cut through the heart of the east ridge, he came.

Ian.

Sovereign of the Hollow Flame. The Demon Blade. The Whisperer of Death.

His coat trailed ash with each step. He wore no armor, yet he looked like something built for war.

A being sculpted not by birth, but by trial. The wind curled around him like a servant. A black blade sheathed in silence hung at his side—Judgment, though he hadn't drawn it since the Crucible.

Eli met him first.

"You're late."

Ian gave a dry look. "Didn't realize we were keeping schedule."

"Blackrat took bets on your return."

"I assume he lost."

"I assumed I'd win," Rat said, stepping forward. "Now I owe half the southern bunk a week's food rations and one undead footman. Thanks for nothing."

Ian smiled, his presence loosened the camp, somehow. The fear melted slightly. Not because the Sovereign offered warmth—but because he was here.

And that meant the storm hadn't taken him.

Ian stepped past them all.

No fanfare. No trumpets.

He moved to the central rise—a jagged stone mound marked with flags and wooden pylons, where the banners had begun to accumulate.

He climbed.

Not hurriedly.

Each step deliberate.

Each soldier, living or dead, turned toward him.

When he stood at the summit, he turned slowly, casting his gaze over the camp. Over the men and women who would bleed for him. Kill for him. Die for something most of them didn't even understand.

Then he spoke.

No shouting. No magic amplifying his voice.

Just words.

Low and steady.

And they carried.

"You know what's coming."

The wind picked up behind him. Ash curled at his boots.

"I don't need to tell you about the beasts. The blood. The screams in the night."

He looked toward the wall. Half-built. Already blackened.

"I've walked into the forest. I've seen what they send ahead. What they breed. What they worship. It's not nature. Not survival. It's hatred. Woven into bone. Shaped into things that shouldn't think, but do."

He let that hang in the air.

"Most of you came here with nothing. Thieves. Orphans. Runners. Bastards of a city that never wanted you."

He turned.

"But look now. Look what you are."

He raised one hand—and flame sparked in his palm. Not wild. Not violent. A steady, flickering glow.

"This is what they fear. Not my sword. Not this city."

He clenched the flame, and it vanished.

"They fear what we've built. The Crucible. The Council. The wall that's rising. The will of the dead who walk with us—not because they are forced, but because they remember why they died."

He looked over them all.

"And I promise you, we will not fall."

The wind howled now.

Louder.

Fiercer.

Ian raised his voice—not shouting, but steel-willed.

"I swear by my name. I swear by the name I carved into every cursed stone of this city. No beast, no cult, no god, no Sanctum-made abomination will breach what we've made."

He stepped forward, and the ground seemed to steady beneath him.

"We are not soldiers. We are survivors."

A beat.

"We are not loyalists. We are chosen."

Another.

"We are not victims. We are the fire that rises from the last grave."

He drew his sword.

Not in flourish.

Not in rage.

But in ceremony.

Judgment's edge shimmered with cold light, even as it's blade was only darkness.

And then, slowly, he planted it in the earth before him.

"We are the Ash-Bound Host."

All around, torches lit.

One by one.

As if summoned by his words.

"We do not kneel. We do not beg. We do not forget."

He looked toward the forest now, distant but looming.

"To the horrors watching even now—send more."

He smiled.

"They won't make it past the wall. They won't make it past us."

Cheers followed. Not the high-roared ecstasy of a drunk crowd. Not the manic chant of Crucible bloodsport.

Something quieter.

Harder.

Conviction.

The sound of seven thousand hearts pounding in time with their Sovereign.

Caelen turned without a word and began ordering the next training cycle. Eli sighed and returned to the war table, muttering about digging trenches twice as deep. Lyra vanished into shadow, no doubt dispatching scouts already.

And Ian stood alone for a moment more.

His hand rested on the pommel of the sword.

A wind stirred around him—neither cold nor warm. Just heavy. Like history breathing through his lungs.

He closed his eyes.

Whispers on the edge of memory called from Blackblood. From the pits and crucible sands. From the days before he had a name.

He opened them again.

And beneath that vast and broken sky, the Sovereign of Hollow Flame turned to rejoin his war.

The wall would rise.

And Esgard would be ready.