Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

A month.

Thirty-two days since the first stone was set. Since Ian gave the order.

And now, it stood. A wall not merely of mortar and bone, but of desperation. Twelve spans tall, ribbed with rune-etched steel and sections reinforced by necromantic lattice—souls compressed into glyphs to harden stone.

Its base spread outward like a claw gripping the land, fangs of sharpened obsidian lined into kill-funnels, and murder holes dotted across watchtowers like unblinking eyes.

They'd named it The Rise, though none said it aloud.

But the wall brought more fear than comfort.

Simply because of what lay beyond it.

The land had grown still. Too still. No crows flew from Blackblood Forest. No winds blew from the western vale. And at night… the stars were wrong. They shifted when you weren't looking. They seemed to blink.

They watched back.

And so the city of Esgard did not celebrate.

It waited.

Smoke coiled upward from the Crucible barracks. Soldiers in black-and-iron marched in organized columns through the mud-choked southern encampments, their armor marked with Elarin's shattered sigil—a rose broken into halves.

Most bore no rank insignia. In Esgard, you earned that by bleeding.

On the upper steps of the southern gate, Captain Gren Thorne watched the horizon in silence. A broad-shouldered man, face scored with burn-scars and lips always wet with liquor, Gren had served through the Breach War.

He'd seen cities fall. He'd seen friends eaten alive by things that weren't beasts. And yet even he didn't speak today.

He chewed a bit of salted meat. Spat. Then spoke to the woman beside him without turning.

"They're out there."

She said nothing.

"Three nights ago, the crows stopped crying. Two nights ago, the wolves stopped answering. And last night?"

He turned slowly, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

"I heard the ground breathe."

The woman beside him was one of Lyra's scouts. Short. Gaunt. Her left eye milked over from a scar. A fresh one, recently stitched. Her name was Kett.

"I still don't think it's the beasts we should worry about," she said.

Gren squinted. "What then?"

She lowered her voice.

"The ones driving them."

In the makeshift barracks, mercenaries from Varran's Teeth sharpened weapons under flickering torchlight. A heavy rain had passed hours earlier, and the mud still clung to their boots like a curse.

Many of them—some formerly slavers, some debt-sold—wore mismatched armor and carried blades notched from three dozen wars.

In the center of their huddle, a young soldier named Halek whispered a tale.

"They say the Oathbreakers don't eat meat. They collect it. Like artists. They break bones but don't shatter them. They hang men upside down and peel the skin in rings—like tree bark. And they're tall."

He gestured wide with both arms. "Taller than a gate. Skin white as frost. Eyes that bleed even when they're calm. And if you speak your name to one, it owns your voice."

An older man scoffed.

"Shut it, runt. No one wants your bedtime piss-ghosts."

Halek's face twisted. "I'm serious. That caravan from Rephra Vale—the ones sent to resupply the eastern watchpost? Never came. Not a track. Not a bone. Just their wagons. Neatly stacked. Food untouched. And a mirror left where the driver would sit."

They went quiet.

Everyone knew about the mirror.

Atop the wall, scouts watched the tree line.

And the tree line watched back.

What once had been forest—dense, old, tangled with green—was now a skeletal mockery. Trees leaned like broken ribs. Their bark was flayed. The branches cracked not in wind, but in rhythm. As if some vast thing paced just behind them.

Animals no longer wandered out.

No refugees came from the outer hamlets.

Instead, each morning, there were tokens.

Once, a dozen horses, their hooves arranged in a spiral and their eyes missing. Another time, a child's music box still playing a distorted lullaby. Most recently—six suits of armor filled with blood, but no bodies.

Each one placed exactly fifty paces from the wall.

Each one facing east.

As if waiting.

By the third week, the whisper started.

The word passed from mouths to ears with growing dread.

"They're coming."

No one knew who said it first. Perhaps it was one of the Light deserters now pressed into Ian's service. Perhaps it was a drunk slurring warnings in the taverns. But the phrase stuck.

It wasn't screamed.

It was said softly. As if louder words might summon it faster.

"They're coming."

It showed in the way mothers held their children tighter at night. In the way Caelen's Iron Ranks began to sleep in full armor. In how the Crucible's arena had gone quiet—no new blood spilled for a week. Not because of mercy. But because of fear.

Even Ian had ordered the city's bells silenced.

The time for warning was over.

At the city center, in the shadow of the obsidian tower, Blackrat shuffled out of a betting den with a sour face and a scroll tucked beneath his arm.

He looked up at the sky. Saw the blood-red clouds forming again. Smelled the strange iron tang in the wind.

He licked his chapped lips and muttered, "Odds are getting shit."

No one responded.

The streets were thinning now. Merchants had either boarded their stalls or left altogether. Nobles remained inside. Some prayed to gods that now hated them. Others wrote letters they'd never send.

But some—

Some armed themselves.

The Hollow Flame had turned all of Esgard into a crucible. And now it would be tested.

Then, on the thirtieth night, the horns blew.

A single note. Long. Low. Like the moan of a dying titan.

The wall was manned in minutes. Souls lit. Wardstones pulsed. Catapults were rolled into position, and mages began to chant across graves rigged with tether-bones.

And on the highest tower, Ian arrived.

No fanfare. No retinue. Just him, in black, and the wind.

His eyes swept the horizon. And then—

They came.

Not all at once. Not in a swarm.

But in tension.

The forest buckled.

A ripple passed through the ground.

Far beyond the tree line, something screamed. It sounded almost like a man. But longer. Hungrier. Broken across too many teeth.

Ian did not move.

Eli appeared beside him—quiet as breath.

"Feels like the end of the world," the old warrior said.

Ian's voice was low.

"No. Just the start of another one."

Below, the soldiers waited.

Seven thousand strong.

Each armed. Each chosen.

Some were criminals. Some were war-born. Some had nothing left to live for but this fight. But all were ready.

The dead stood among them. A thousand more. Still. Cold. Bound in soulsteel threads.

And then, Ian stepped forward.

Onto the wall. Over the edge.

He dropped down, slowly, feet touching the carved stone with a whisper of blood-soaked air.

He stood before them.

And they saw him.

The Demon Blade.

The Whisperer of Death.

And still—still—they waited for his voice.

He gave it.

Not loud.

Not proud.

But enough.

"You feel it, don't you?"

He let the silence hold.

"The dread. The taste of ash. The shaking hands. You hear them in the dark. You feel your own breath slowing. That's not cowardice. That's truth. And truth is what they want to break."

He stepped forward.

"They think we'll run."

Another step.

"They think the wall is fear."

Another.

"They think this city is already dead."

His voice began to rise.

"But I know what stands behind me."

He gestured to the soldiers.

"To the woman who spies in the dark. To the man who gave his last blade. To the child who watches from the roof and dares to hope."

His tone became fire.

"They want to take. To devour. To end what we built with ash and blood."

His gray eyes burned like warsteel.

"So we show them—what a grave really is."

He drew both blades. Vowbreaker sang.

"Not one step back."

A thousand boots struck stone in unison.

"Not one breath wasted."

Spears lowered. Shields locked.

Ian raised a single finger toward the coming dark.

"Let them come."

And they did.

From the trees.

From the ground.

From the sky.

Beasts—hundreds—chased by monsters even worse. The Oathbreakers, tall and wrong, came walking like executioners.

And Esgard held its breath.

But not in fear.

Not anymore.

In readiness.

In defiance.

The wall stood.

The army braced.

And the city of ash prepared to burn them all.