Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion

Renner's head tilted back.

He smiled.

He'd bitten the crown. He had proven enough. The mountain did not break—but the mountain DID bleed.

He would climb again.

–——

In the heart of the Empire, past miles of ivory avenues, tiered lodges, and arches, Seraphim's Hold towered as though it were proof to divine authority.

Marble spires shimmered like mirages in the midday sun, and leyline veins pulsed beneath cobblestones, embedding the city with steady currents of mana.

Statues of emperors draped in ivory stood silent along the streets, their stone eyes watching citizens—a silent but clear reminder that power watched every breath.

Yet, beneath the grandeur and subtle light magic dancing between columns, tension threaded through the city like a cold breeze.

Rumors of Ian Night—the Sovereign Titanslayer—had already slipped through the marble gates, spurred by whispers of beast tides, broken bones, a colossal wall—and the death of a princess named Velrosa.

Most believed her dead. Burnt in the Crucible's collapse. Gone beneath the shadow of war. And by all accounts, that was grand design.

In the Empire, what broke was easier to tear down than what remained.

Within the Sanctum's central conclave chambers—vaulted halls buried deep beneath Seraphim's Hold—Cardinals and the Hierophant's voice echoed through liturgical silence.

They sat before the Black Obsidian Altar, a stone monolith engraved with the all-seeing eye and sanctified through flame. Scribes hovered at ink-stained tablets.

Paladins lined the walls in polished armor, candles reflecting in the sunburst shields. Threatening heat hummed beneath the wax.

"We've lost contact with Esgard," Cardinal Varlen began, voice flanked by incense. "Their patrols… vanished. The new wave of Oathbreakers breached, but the wall still stands."

Mavrek's jaw clenched. "The beasts did not fall back. They regrouped. Yet still—they do not push."

"Fortifications don't die of fear," Varlen countered. "But what holds the tide? We believed rising undead or wards would falter beneath pressure."

They exchanged uneasy silence. Cathedral flights swelled overhead—spirit-cries echoing through stained-glass windows. The Sanctum had expected failure. Yet Ian had defied probability. It upset the equation.

"The Sovereign and his wall stand strong," said Grand Censor Doramir, voice low, pacing behind them. "He stirs the tide deliberately… calls it blood-pacts."

Varlen glared. "Blood is his currency: ending beasts, wielding undead. Perverting our doctrine."

Every heartbeat in that chamber acknowledged the coming confrontation. Doctrine versus dominion.

Beyond high halls, Seraphim's Hold was alive in its underbelly. In shadowed salons, taverns, betting dens of the undercity, the rumors peaked.

In one such suite—The Crimson Veil—elderly courtesans traded encrypted whispers. A eunuch read tea leaves for aristocrats in silk robes. A betting ring thrummed: a single man expected to give Eegard a throne—a singular figure known as the Prophet of Death.

The odds were shifting.

"The exiled princess is dead," insisted a graying lord. "It ends there."

"But Ian still stands," hissed a younger noble. "His wall has held. Tide isn't done—but they say he's holding them back."

"Do you not realize?" the older man retorted. "If Velrosa lived, they press harder. If she fell—this becomes a city of martyrs—with him in front!"

Coins clinked. Wagers placed. Eyes turned to the flickering hearth. Esgard became battleground. But the capital sensed the tremor, the ripple beyond the wall.

Inside the Hall of Grace—a vaulted choir lit by soft moon-infused mana—stood the Great Priestess. Veiled white and blindfolded, she hovered over an obsidian basin filled with silvery tears.

A silver hand—cursed by prophecy—scribed constellations on the water's surface. Beneath, incandescent runes shimmered:

"When lion's flame glows black, and mountain stands taller than ruin, the world fractures in silent collapse."

She recited each phrase in ancient tonality.

Behind her, the scarred Inquisitor murmured. "This aligns with the reading from Velrosa's fall."

The Priestess continued:

"Absence births obsession. A void calls out, unmarked. The Sovereign's wall breeds unlife. An oath broken—unmade."

Then her voice grew softer:

"The final pillar shifts. A crown awaits. His claim will be borne by blood."

She collapsed the basin. A single tear escaped beneath the blindfold. Not from sorrow—but prophecy's exhaustion.

She spoke once more:

"We cannot act… yet. Too direct, and they collapse it by decree. We must let the storm expend."

At the base of the Temple Terrace, Archdeacon Merith and high Censor Doramir convened with General Solen Varkos. They paced along the vaulted garden where sanctified vines still bled luminescence.

"How long until the higher rank beast tide reaches the wall?" Varkos demanded. His face was gaunt with tension. "Weeks? Days?"

Merith spread a map across marble. Tiny mana sigils glowed on dense forest. Beast paths radiated like veins. The wave was nearing.

"Three days," Merith whispered. "Then new cracks at watch 4."

"Three days?" Varkos swallowed. "Calamity rank beasts—"

Doramir swept his hand. "Not that. They'd collapse our own defenses."

"Then what? We pray?"

Merith nodded. "The wall stands because it endures. But the Sanctum must act… or submit."

Silence.

"If Velrosa returns," Varkos murmured, "we'll label her infernal. Code-sound the walls. The pillars will kneel."

But Merith shook her head. "If she lives. Only we—no, whose names I dare not speak—can neutralize Esgard."

He looked up toward Seraphim's peak. The weight of faith bore down.

Cards and whispers moved swiftly down undercity alleys. Betting odds were flitting between Ian and an unknown challenger.

Sicarii operatives took measures at embassies. Nobles sold silver and blackened secrets for votes. Church-sent assassins canvassed taverns, courting sins of 'demon summoning' even as the wall held strong.

But the Sanctum remained cautious. Public acts might fracture the Imperial Coalition. Instead, they fed whispers: controllers of undead, witches of the Hollowflame, curses betrayed by broken bonds.

In the Royal Theatre, an opera took turn:

A blade in moonlight.

A mask shattered upon stone.

The wall stands.

Yet silence screams.

It sold out every night.

Beneath vaulted domes, the Four Pillars—Ardeval, Solmere, Kyreth, and the missing fourth—met in twilight. Their masked envoy spoke of blood, power, prophecy. Ian's wall held. Esgard's future locked on that rampart.

"Sovereign of death," Ardeval's voice whispered through veil: "He holds. But we... we should watch the storms he draws."

"That mountain grows," Solmere countered. "If he fails—no wall will hold the Empire. We need his myth intact."

Kyreth murmured: "Let him be the shield we can hide behind—only until the tide breaks."

Nods all around framed the Pact. Political subversion in motion. They would not help claim Esgard—yet. They would allow it to stand, for now.

But their eyes still watched for cracks. And shadows grew in them.

As dusk came, the lines between faith and politics blurred. Gold lanterns spangled the streets. Priests offered their services. Prophets preached of storms. Unsigned graffiti scrawled: "Gods first, blade second. Stand, or let them break you."

Restaurants served wall cider; night markets sold sculpted wine flasks shaped as ramparts. The imperial city held ground—but the tremor beneath its marble bones was clear.

In one quiet courtyard, a lone man knelt before a small shrine—an Esgardian who fled after God's chosen's attack. Marble of Velrosa's face carved into candle wax. He traced lines of bone beneath her crown.

He offered blood-thin tears in return. He whispered:

"Show us, princess. Show us what remains. The mountain stands—but at what cost?"

He left as the candle guttered.

High in the Sanctum's conclave chamber, the black-stone doors barely closed behind them. The Hierophant, masked and silent, watched as Merith, Doramir, Varkos, and the Great Priestess bowed.

He spoke at last: "The wall stands—but prophecy shifts. Velrosa lives. And we now choose: remove the Sovereign… or bind the Crown with the Fourth Convergence."

He gestured, and spiral flames flared in a circle.

"Neither proceed alone. We have few days. Few days until the tide breaks the forest—or until the wall unravels Esgard's blood."

Silence.

The storm humming through the city's veins met the Sanctum's calm. The orders had been spoken. Any wrong move and the Empire would bleed from within.

By dawn, the city's streets buzzed louder. "Blood tide might crash today." "Ian might collapse tomorrow." "Velrosa is a curse." "Velrosa is alive."

Flyers posted across the Arcane Quarter demanded austerity.

Sermons will be held if the tide doesn't break.

Pray or perish.

Exchange houses jostled in whispers: Seven thousand undead in Esgard. Is this stability… or defiance? Hushed voices flicked to unseen corridors.

Esgard awoke unsure if dawn would bring blood or bold victory. The sanctity of the empire teetered on walls, treaties, whispers, and steel.

Whichever storm emerged next—beast wave, Oathbreaker horde, or divine reckoning—the city was awake. Fortress and heart, city and soul, all charged in union and fracture.

And beyond all of this, faster than rumor or rumor's ruin, Ian's wall still stood firm. Against the tide. Against broken oaths. Against the unseen threats summoned in darkness.

In Seraphim's Hold, men stood mobile. And somewhere atop marble, Velrosa's name—alive or dead—hung heavy in prophecy's wake.

Tomorrow, the storm drew closer, as it always did.

Esgard would wake alive—or bury itself in dust.

There simply, was no conceivable in-between.