Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion
Chapter 190: The Crown Weighs Nothing

The room burned low with a rust-hued glow.

Torches, set in black iron sconces along the stone walls, flickered as dying breaths would. Shadows curled in the corners—long, stretched things that swayed as if listening. The scent of ash and oil clung to the walls.

Ian sat in a worn leather chair, motionless.

A cigarette dangled from his lips, one hand cupped around the end as he struck the match. The fire flared briefly, casting a moment's worth of orange clarity across his face—jagged, tired, scarred. He inhaled deeply.

Smoke filled his lungs. Then, with a slow exhale, he let it drift from his nostrils like a dragon too weary to breathe flame.

Behind him, her voice rose soft and curious.

"What does it feel like... to be king?"

He didn't answer right away.

He lifted his gaze slowly, and there she was.

Velrosa.

The princess that should have been dead.

She sat at the edge of the bed, legs crossed beneath silk robes that shimmered like falling dusk. Her silver hair was loose tonight, draped over the bed in glimmering waves. It caught the light like strands of the moon itself, framing a face that had stopped a war once—because no man who truly looked at her could bear to destroy what he saw.

She watched him with eyes like cold stars.

Ian stared back, quiet as a grave.

"Worthless." he said finally.

Velrosa tilted her head. Just slightly. Just enough.

"I... understand," she said, a ghost of a smile flickering across her lips—fragile, beautiful, and already dying.

Ian stood. The leather creaked under him. He walked across the room, the cigarette still burning between his fingers, and leaned by the narrow window. Cold wind drifted in, and the torchlight curled in its presence like it feared the night.

He exhaled another plume of smoke.

"It always bothered me how easy it was to take this city..." he murmured.

Velrosa didn't move. "Esgard itself was never the true resistance," she said. "It was always those who would flock to save it."

Ian's eyes narrowed, watching the wind tug the smoke upward like a ghost fleeing into the sky.

"So why? Why didn't they come?"

She looked at him—really looked. Not like a lover. Not even like a queen. But like someone watching a tide come in that she knew would swallow the world.

"Because the Sanctum knows," she said softly. "They always have."

Ian turned to her, the light casting his face in amber. She went on.

"That's why they never moved to kill me. Why the Council kept whispering, but never acted. Why the Emperor chained me here, behind marble and silk instead of a sword."

"Because they knew what it would take for me to rise."

"They knew that for me to become what they fear—" she paused, voice iron now— "I must first die."

Silence cracked between them like thunder in a stormless sky.

"They've told the Emperor," she said. "And now they wait. Not for the fall of Esgard. But for the moment of my revival."

Her smile faded entirely.

"This city is not the war prize. It's bait. It always was. A glittering corpse left in the open to lure back the Demon Queen."

Ian rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So the moment you return to rule it..."

"...is the moment they send everything they have," she finished.

He cursed softly and flicked the cigarette out the window. The ember vanished in the dark.

"You know there's a demon close. Hunting you," she said.

"Renner," Ian replied.

"You let him live?" Her tone was not judgment—just quiet disbelief.

"He'll be useful. Eventually."

Velrosa arched a brow. "You're certain?"

Ian gave a half-shrug. "He has more enemies than he knows. One day, that'll be useful."

He crossed the floor slowly. As if the space between them was a battlefield and he didn't trust the ground.

Then, wordless, he laid down beside her. His head found her lap.

He sighed.

"I don't like this. This throne-building. This... chess game. It's not my thing."

"I know," she said gently. She ran her fingers through his hair, slow and smooth, like brushing the mane of a beast that might break at any moment.

"But the moment I show my face again," she whispered, "it will mark the start of a war. One we must be prepared to win."

Ian closed his eyes, listening to her heartbeat against his ear. It was steady. Strong. He envied it.

"We've gathered seven thousand so far," he said after a moment. "Most are Esgardian, some Caelen's iron ranks from the western vale, Lyra's scouts, the mercenaries from Varran's Teeth. A thousand more undead I raised myself."

"Most of them still remember their names."

"The rest are... less talkative."

She laughed. The sound was low, rich, and full of something close to sadness. "That's more than I expected."

"And still not enough," Ian said.

"No," she agreed. "But enough to begin."

He nodded, eyes still closed.

"If we lose this time..."

She ran her fingers down the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble, the healed scars.

"We won't."

"And what if we do?" Ian asked.

She bent low, her lips near his ear. Her breath warm against his skin.

"Then I'll take them all with me."

"What does that me-"

The firelight wavered. Somewhere distant, a bell tolled. The sound came from the outer wall—a warning bell, low and slow.

Ian opened one eye. "That's not a good bell."

Velrosa stood.

The silk robes whispered around her legs as she crossed the floor to the window. The torches in the corridor outside had flared. She could see it reflected in the glass—panic, swift and blooming.

A knock came. Then Elise's voice—cool, efficient, urgent.

"There's movement on the northern ridge."

"A rider. He bears the mark of the Sanctum."

"He says he's not here to fight."

"He says he's here to deliver a prophecy."

Velrosa and Ian exchanged a glance.

He sat up. His face was hard now, the softness stripped clean.

***

Ten minutes later, the rider stood in the middle of the city square. He was young—too young to wear the gold eye of the Sanctum across his breast. He was pale, trembling, and soaked with the stench of divine fear.

He knelt.

"I bring a vision from the Hall of Grace," he said.

Some in the crowd stiffened.

The boy nodded, voice shaking. "She weeps crimson still. She speaks a name in her sleep."

The boy looked up, tears in his eyes.

"She says the skies will fall and the sea will scream."

"That only in dying can the true lord be born."

A silence fell like a guillotine.

A man took a step forward. "What lord?"

The boy swallowed, trembling harder now.

"The one buried but breathing. The one who walks between flame and nothing."

"If she returns...this world will have one chance, nothing more—I beg you all to chose wisely, do not stand by a demon."