Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion
Chapter 189: She...Loved?

The Hall of Grace looked less like it was built—it seemed as though it was sung into being.

Its walls glowed with veins of crystal and breath-light stone, where the prayers of thousands echoed without sound.

No one entered it without purpose.

No one left it unchanged.

At the far end, beneath a ceiling that curved like the inside of a chalice, the Blind Priestess sat upon a dais of woven silverroot, legs folded beneath her.

A silk-white blindfold covered her eyes, luminous and impossibly clean despite the crimson tears that slipped from beneath it.

She glowed faintly. Not with magic. Not with sorcery. But with divinity.

And tonight, she wept.

Seven figures stood before her—each a towering presence within the Sanctum of Light. Robed, armored, or crowned in the golden sigils of their station.

Inquisitors. Lightbearers. Archdeacons.

One of them was the Cardinal Judge of the Eastern expanse, his breastplate carved with the sunburst of Judgment. Another was Grand Heirophan Revas, whose fingers were inscribed with holy chains said to bind truth from lie.

All watched her in silence.

The tears ran freely now.

"…You ask me of her," the Priestess whispered.

Her voice did not carry, but the air bent around it. The walls inhaled the sound. The lights in the chamber dimmed as if straining to listen.

"You ask of the flame that walked in mortal flesh. The girl crowned in shadows. The exile of Ivorian gold. You ask of Velrosa Elen Lionarde?"

A tremor passed through the assembly—slight, but not unseen.

"She was a princess in name," the Priestess said. "And nothing in truth. A child carved from two worlds that never wanted her. Her mother's blood was Shewati—descended from sandwalkers and gutterborn miners who spoke to stones and bore curses like prayers. Her father's blood was Imperial—satin and steel, descended from a line of kings too proud to kneel even when slain."

A pause. The faint glisten of new tears traced her cheeks.

"Her mother was taken by force. Her people broken by the Empire's cruelty. Her brother left to die. And when she was born—when the child of ruin and royalty gasped her first breath in the golden halls of a palace that had slaughtered her kin—they tried to name her blessing. Tried to bind her in royalty and ceremony. But truth has sharp teeth."

The Priestess exhaled. Her voice softened, mournful.

"She was a curse."

"She was marked," said one of the Sanctum figures, his voice like glass ground on stone. "The etchings on her back—ancient, matching those found on the Sixth Reach."

Another nodded. "The same symbols carved into demon altars. Xul'Vek named her the Demon Queen. Do you confirm it, Priestess?"

"I confirm," she whispered.

Silence followed.

"She was born of death and vengeance. The sky knew it. The earth knew it. And the Emperor knew it. That is why she was sent away—not cast to the gutters, not thrown to the sword—but buried in nobility. Sent to Esgard with a name that carried weight, but no army. No coin. No kin. A cage built of velvet."

"She made it a throne."

The voice came from the Archdeacon, soft with reluctant awe.

The Priestess bowed her head.

"Yes. She did. She arrived with nothing but a dead mother's memory and a bastard's shame. Yet she built a House—House Elarin. Not with faith. Not with wealth. But with cunning. With blood. With champions."

Images flickered in the minds of those present—glimpses of the past carried by the Priestess's words.

Velrosa walking through Esgard's undercity alone, eyes like cold sapphire fire.

Velrosa at the Crucible gates, placing coin and whispers into the hands of men who'd killed for less.

Velrosa watching, always watching, from the highest balcony as her fighters bled in the Arena for her cause.

"She played the game as only the damned could," the Priestess said. "Every noble that tried to bury her, she outlasted. Every councilor that mocked her name, she baited into ruin. And still—she smiled."

"Was she already turned?" asked the Cardinal. "Had the demon inside her begun to wake?"

The Priestess tilted her head, and for the first time, her expression changed.

Pity.

"No. That was not the demon. That was the girl. The broken daughter. The exile who clawed meaning out of mockery. If you seek the moment she began to change, you must look to what was taken from her."

The room darkened.

"You must look to Ian."

A hush fell. Even the sanctified flame in the central brazier dimmed.

"Her champion. Her blade. Her undoing."

The words echoed.

"They found him in the pits. A thing weak at the time. Blood-matted and voiceless. Something no one would claim. And she chose him."

"And bound him."

"And...loved him? She failed herself, not one moment could she had conceived being that vulnerable, letting herself be."

The last word cracked like old wood under pressure.

"She would never say it. He would never believe it. But it was love. Not pure. Not gentle. But the kind born from two broken things trying to stay standing. He fought for her. Killed for her. Rose for her."

The Priestess's hands folded over her lap.

"And when the gods sent their champion, and the city turned to ash, and the Demon Blade was shattered—she did not beg for her life."

A memory surfaced like a breath breaking water.

"She begged for his."

"Mark spared Ian," whispered Revas. "But only so the wound would fester."

"Yes."

"And then he killed her."

"Yes."

The crimson tears flowed freely now.

"She died with his name on her lips. In his arms. Not as a queen. Not as a demon. As Velrosa. A girl who was left with nothing."

"Why would she, who had done everything to survive...walk to her death?"

No one spoke for a long while.

Finally, the Inquisitor asked, "Then what is she now?"

The Priestess's body went still. Her glow brightened for the first time. A holy light like dawn after massacre.

"She is memory made flame. She is the fulcrum upon which the end tilts. Her blood bore the marks. Her soul bore the chain. And now—she is gone."

"She is dead," said the Archdeacon.

The Priestess did not answer.

Instead, she reached slowly to the blindfold across her eyes.

And lifted it.

What lay beneath were not eyes.

Just pits of white fire, like starless voids rimmed with gold.

The room shook.

"You believe this death was her end," she said, voice now echoing in tones that did not belong to a mortal tongue.

"But the only way for a Demon Overlord to truly awaken—"

The lights flickered.

The brazier behind them went out.

The stone beneath the dais cracked with a faint scream.

"—is to die."

And in that final silence, as every Sanctum figure stared in horror at the impossible truth—the blind woman smiled.

And wept.