Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 141: Shadows That Linger

Ian stood at the edge of the balcony a while longer, the moon draping silver over Esgard’s towers and tiled roofs.

Somewhere in the haze of night, the city slept uneasily—oblivious to the quiet war playing out beneath their cobbled streets and aristocratic masks.

But Ian was not thinking of the city.

Infact, his mind had wondered far off even while looking at it.

He was thinking of her.

Velrosa.

The ghost of her lips still lingered on his. Soft, sharp, commanding.

The scent of her hair—jasmine and winter steel—clung to his memory like smoke would to cloth.

He blinked again. And again.

"She’s in your head now," he muttered to himself.

Irritated by the words as he were the truth of them.

"Oh look at you—mass murderer turned lover boy," came a voice from above.

Ian didn’t look.

He knew who it was.

Perched lazily on the sloped shingles of the roof like a crow was Cardinal Fang. Or rather, what remained of him—twisted soulbound tethered to Ian’s will.

His form wavered like mist in moonlight, more shadow than man now, with glowing ember-eyes that glistened with mischief.

Ian let out a long, tired exhale. "Why the hell are you sentient again?"

"All soulbounds are sentient," Fang replied with a smirk. "I talk to the others sometimes. Good folk, bit screamy though."

"Yes, but none of them summon themselves constantly and drone on like a fucking tavern drunk."

"Ha! You expected me to be mindless?" Fang said, stretching like a cat. "My soul’s far too strong for that. I may be yours in body and command, but I’ve got eternity to entertain myself. Might as well do it with style."

Ian rubbed his temple. "Have fun less, or I’ll barnish your soul into the Void or something. See how stylish that feels."

Fang grinned wider, unbothered. "Speaking of stylish... nice kiss. Bit soft for someone now known as the ’Butcher of the Reach.’"

Ian turned away, his gaze dropping to the glowing grid of the city below.

The silence between them hung brittle.

Fang tapped a ghostly claw against the roof tiles. "Now I’m no expert in love—obviously, I was a devout man of the church before a devout man of the empire, hah—but you do know she’s manipulating you, right?"

Ian nodded slowly. "Yeah. I’m not stupid."

Fang tilted his head. "Then why does it seem like you’re gonna let her?"

"Because it’s not manipulation if she wants me to know," Ian said, voice low. "She’s not hiding it. She’s offering a bargain. Power for power. Influence for blood."

"Ah," Fang grinned. "So she gets her precious victories, and you get some kisses, maybe a night with the princess if you’re lucky?"

Ian rolled his eyes. "She’s far more calculated than that."

Fang leaned forward, eyes narrowing like coals. "Then what is she offering?"

"She’s telling me this," Ian murmured. "Use me for your goals, and I will use you for mine. No masks. No lies. Just ambition."

Fang nodded thoughtfully, then smirked. "Sure, sure. But maybe she meant use each other’s bodies too?"

"Oh my days, can you shut the fuck up?" Ian snapped. "You weren’t this much of a dumbass when you were alive."

"Yeah, well, being alive came with obligations. Now I’m just floating and killing. It’s freeing, really."

"There’s nothing free about your soul," Ian said coldly. "It’s mine."

Fang gave a mock bow. "Yes, my grim sovereign. May I never forget who obliterated my body and dragged me into damnation."

"You may not."

Fang grinned again, then tilted his head toward the stars. "Still, think about it. What was that kiss really for? Was it strategy? Was it a mistake? Or was it something she doesn’t understand herself?"

Ian didn’t answer right away.

His eyes trailed across the velvet sprawl of Esgard, shadows flickering like ink bleeding across silk.

"I don’t know," he finally said. "And I don’t think she does either."

———

The courtyard lit low by fire-bowls and arcane lanterns, their glow stretching long shadows across the smooth stone floor.

Ian stepped in silently, boots echoing faintly as he moved.

He spotted Eli first—lounging against a pillar like a tiger at rest. Two others flanked him like worshipers before an idol.

Caelen stood with arms crossed, his stern face softening just slightly as he saw Ian.

Beside him, Lyra laughed loudly at something Eli had just said, her scarred knuckles resting on her hips, eyes gleaming.

"To think we’d ever see the Plague of the West in the flesh," Lyra was saying. "Come on, tell us a story. Like how you pulled off killing the Kelai king? Or how you made it out alive with half their army after you?"

Eli glanced past her, spotting Ian. He groaned.

"Can you get your puppies on a leash before I have to cut their tongues?"

Ian smirked. "I missed you too, Eli."

"At what point?" Eli retorted. "When you were slaughtering hundreds in the Reach?"

"They asked for it."

"Oh yeah?" Eli raised a brow. "How?"

Ian shrugged. "When they refused to kill themselves first."

The room went dead silent.

Even Lyra’s mouth hung open.

And then Eli burst into laughter.

A low, throaty rumble that shook his shoulders and echoed through the courtyard like distant thunder.

"It’s good to have your crazy ass back," he said.

Ian stepped forward, the heaviness of contemplation still clinging to him like dust—but lighter now.

These people weren’t exactly his allies.

But they were something close.

Comrades of shared ambition, maybe. Or war-forged ghosts who kept showing up again and again.

Caelen nodded once. "We came here, because we are ready to be champions."

Lyra elbowed her brother. "Hell yeah we are!"

Ian looked at them, and something shifted in his chest.

The firelight danced in their eyes. The night smelled of blood and odd feelings.

And in the distance, above them all, the coliseum towered like a beast with its mouth open—waiting to be fed.

And it will be.