Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 79: Blood on Stones

The iron scent of formality filled the council chamber — velvet drapes, ancient banners, and gleaming black marble underfoot — yet nothing could mask the stench of blood that clung invisibly to the air.

Lady Morlain stood before the assembled Council and noble houses, her silver hair braided tight against her skull like a warrior preparing for execution.

Her hands were still, perfectly composed.

But her eyes—

Her eyes burned.

"Esteemed Council of Esgard," she began, her voice steady but alive with a dangerous undercurrent. "I come before you not with trivial grievance, but with a grave claim of bloodshed and betrayal."

The council chamber felt smaller with every word she spoke, the air tightening like a garrote.

Ian stood distant, silent, eyes cold and unblinking as a hawk’s. He noted the smallest tremors of movement: nobles shifting in their seats, subtle glances passed between the powerful, hidden calculations scratching themselves into the ledger of alliances.

Morlain’s voice echoed against the vaulted stones.

"I accuse Velrosa Lionarde of orchestrating the murder of my House’s envoy, a sworn representative sent under the sacred seals of negotiation. A diplomat who carried no sword, only parchment."

A murmur rippled across the room — dry as rustling leaves, sharp as a hiss of steel.

Velrosa stood still.

No flicker of guilt touched her face.

Lady Morravel, seated at the head of the Council, narrowed her eyes slightly but offered no comment.

She let the tension fester and swell.

"If true," murmured one noble to another, too quietly to be caught except by Ian’s sharp hearing, "it would demand more than fines. It would demand dissolution."

House Elarin destroyed. Velrosa stripped of title and bloodright.

The noose had been braided long before today.

Now they simply waited to see if it would tighten or snap.

Eli’s hands twitched slightly at his sides, a fighter’s instinct screaming to act.

But this was not his battlefield.

Not yet.

Lady Morlain pressed on, voice growing sharper with every word:

"My envoy was unarmed. A man of letters, not arms. He bore my seal. He sought only peaceful settlement of our ancient debts. Yet he did not return. He did not even leave your gates, Princess Velrosa."

Her words were icicles driven into soft flesh.

Precision, weaponized.

Ian’s jaw tightened.

He knew the truth was a weapon more lethal still.

And he knew that Morlain lied — just enough to damn herself.

The council chamber became a forge, and they were the iron being hammered into new shapes by accusation and silence.

Lady Morravel’s hand lifted lightly, a sovereign’s gesture to still the rising buzz of conversation.

"Have you evidence to present, Lady Morlain?" she asked, voice flat.

Morlain bowed her head briefly.

A perfect picture of wounded nobility.

"I have testimony," she said. "A witness willing to swear under oath—"

She hesitated.

Only for a breath.

But in that breath, something snapped behind her carefully arranged façade.

Ian saw it — the glint of fear veiled by feint uncertainty.

He saw it — and he remembered.

---

Days Earlier

The smell of damp stone and mold filled the hidden chamber — far below the noble avenues of Esgard.

Ian stood alone before the witness: Ser Darius Fenn, a knight of lesser blood but loyal to House Morlain.

Ser Darius had believed he would meet only a courier.

Instead, he found a ghost in human shape.

Ian dropped a leather satchel on the table between them.

From within, a handful of stained letters spilled out — penned in the envoy’s hand.

Orders not for negotiation —

—but for sabotage.

Plots to undermine House Xavier’s armies.

Bribes to incite desertions among Velrosa’s soldiers.

Plans to collapse the supply routes before the League battles began.

Ser Darius stared at the papers, face draining of color.

"I did not know—" he started.

Ian’s voice sliced across him, soft as a blade slipping through ribs.

"Spare your lies."

He leaned closer.

"Your name appears six times," Ian whispered. "Six times, tied to acts that would see you hanged beside your master if these letters ever surfaced."

Ser Darius’s mouth worked soundlessly.

Ian reached into the satchel again.

This time he produced a second sheet.

A list.

A ledger.

Names of debts owed. Names of lovers hidden. Names of crimes buried beneath layers of noble immunity.

Ser Darius’s crimes.

The knight’s hands began to tremble.

"You have a choice," Ian said, voice cold and grave-deep. "Stand by Lady Morlain’s accusations — and we will tear you apart in front of this Council."

He let the threat settle.

Then, softer still:

"Or lose your memory. Forget what you were so eager to swear."

Ser Darius bowed his head, crushed under the weight of his own secrets.

The deal was struck without another word.

---

In the council chamber, the witness was summoned.

Ser Darius Fenn stepped forward, armor gleaming, oath chain heavy around his throat.

He opened his mouth —

—and hesitated.

A single moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Lady Morlain’s eyes widened.

"State your witness," Lady Morravel commanded.

Ser Darius swallowed hard.

Then — voice thin, faltering:

"I... cannot confirm... the envoy’s intentions beyond rumor," he stammered. "There is no evidence of foul play... no direct proof that Princess Velrosa bore responsibility..."

Silence slammed into the room.

Like the moment before a blade falls.

Lady Morlain paled, blood draining from her cheeks.

The strongest stone of her accusation had crumbled into dust.

The nobles shifted.

Some turned their faces to hide their smirks.

Others leaned forward, smelling blood — but not Velrosa’s.

The weight of proof was slipping fast.

Lady Morravel’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, pinned Lady Morlain in place.

The Council demanded strength — not just accusations, but the strength to gut one’s enemies with them.

Velrosa waited.

Waited until Lady Morlain’s words died, a corpse cooling before the Council’s eyes.

Then —

Velrosa stepped forward.

Her dress whispered against the stone.

Ian’s heart quickened, not with fear —

—but with the knowledge that the blade was about to swing the other way.

Excitement.

Velrosa’s voice, when it came, was soft — but it carried, cutting through the thick tension like the first crack of a storm splitting a mountainside.

"My Lords and Ladies," she began, a faint, mocking smile touching her lips, "let us not forget that every envoy carries more than parchment. Sometimes, they carry poison, but i can testify regardless—i killed no innocent envoy."

The room leaned in —

drawn, helpless, to the beginning of the hunt.

She had not finished yet.

No.

The exiled royal was just beginning to bleed her enemies.