Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 81: Chains of Greed.

Hours had gone since the trial begun.

Yet—the Council chamber had never been so still.

Velrosa Lionarde stood alone before the assembled lords, the colored banners of their houses hanging limp in the stifling air. Torchlight guttered, casting long and shifting shadows.

Every breath, every heartbeat seemed a betrayal of silence.

And even then, as the herald’s voice faded after reading the fourth accusation, another figure stirred.

Lord Lezarius of House Volmir.

A man with the gaunt face of a vulture and the gleaming black hair of a noble too vain to accept the ravages of age.

His fine robes, heavy with green velvet and gold sigils, swept around him as he took the center floor.

He bowed low — mockingly low — to the Council.

"My lords, my ladies," Lezarius said, his voice smooth, oily, dangerous, "it is with no small sorrow that I must step forward."

He straightened, turning to face Velrosa with an expression of calculated pity.

"As much as we respect the traditions of noble houses, we cannot — we must not — allow the blood rites of the Arena to be soiled by... greed."

A murmur rippled through the benches.

"Princess Velrosa Lionarde," Lezarius said, savoring the title, "stands accused of illegal manipulation of Arena betting. Not merely through silent influence, but direct, coordinated actions."

He produced a sheaf of papers, sealed with the crimson crest of House Volmir.

With theatrical flourish, he handed them to a council scribe.

"Testimonies," he said, "of tavern and betting house owners across Esgard. They swear under the Council’s binding oaths that a known criminal — one Blackrat, an underlord of the betting circuits — placed extraordinary wagers in favor of Ian Night, the ’Demonblade.’ Even in matches where the odds were catastrophically against him."

Lezarius turned, pacing slowly, the wolf among crippled lambs.

"And who," he asked, voice low and tremulous with false sadness, "could have foreseen such unlikely victories? Who would dare stake fortunes unless they knew the outcome?"

He paused.

Looked straight at Velrosa.

"Only one who commanded the fighter."

The words hung there.

Sharp.

Poisoned.

The council buzzed — soft voices like insects under a rock.

The accusation was surgical — striking at the very heart of what made nobility sacrosanct.

Their warriors fought for pride, for blood, for honor.

If that sanctity was corrupted, the entire order unraveled.

Velrosa met Lezarius’s gaze without blinking.

Far above her, Ian remained still — but his blood burned with a slow, rising fury.

He knew this was planned.

He could feel the trap tightening.

And yet —

he had laid his own snares.

———

Three nights ago.

Under the rotting underbelly of Esgard.

Through the black mist and damp stone halls of the Warrens.

Ian knelt in a forgotten crypt, hand pressed to the cold floor.

From the depths of the Void, his soldier of shadows woke.

Pitbrawler.

A soulbound born from the essence of of his first kill, bound by death magic and Ian’s own will.

It crawled out of nothingness — a gnarled, massive thing with thick limbs and broken tusks — and waited for orders.

Ian’s whisper was like a blade scraping against stone.

He relayed the information given to him by the Mistress of the 9th Chair.

And finished his order with a simple command.

"You know where to look, bring it to me."

The creature obeyed.

No walls stopped it.

No locks, no barriers, no hidden caches buried in faerie-protected vaults.

It moved through darkness and shadows.

Pitbrawler found the ledgers hidden in the cellars of Volmir’s estate:

The real records.

Lezarius’s sins.

His rigging of Arena beasts.

Secret breeding pits, chemical enchantments, broken blood pacts to weaken certain gladiators while strengthening others.

The truth had teeth.

And now it sat, coiled, ready to bite.

———

Present day.

Velrosa’s voice rang out, clear as the strike of a bell.

"Lord Lezarius," she said, "may I ask you a simple question?"

Lezarius turned, indulging her with a smile.

"Of course, Princess. Truth is the foundation of justice, is it not?"

She nodded once.

"You claim Blackrat wagered large sums on Ian Night’s victories. How do you know this?"

Lezarius’s eyes narrowed, sensing the trap but unable to retreat.

"The tavern owners," he said. "They witnessed it. They testified."

Velrosa tilted her head.

"And were those bets placed openly? In Blackrat’s own name?"

A hesitation.

Barely half a breath.

"No," Lezarius said slowly. "But they were linked. Through witnesses and patterns."

"And," Velrosa said sweetly, "how precisely did you trace illegal wagers — an act hidden by nature — to House Elarin?"

Lezarius’s nostrils flared.

"The sum and timing—"

"So," Velrosa interrupted, her voice turning sharp, "you admit there is no direct proof."

Lezarius opened his mouth, closed it.

Murmurs grew louder.

The Council leaned forward, scenting blood.

And then Velrosa smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

It was the smile of a queen setting fire to a field of enemies.

"I regret to inform the Council," she said, voice trembling just enough to sound wounded, "that Lord Lezarius himself has a more direct relationship with Esgard’s arenas than he admits."

She snapped her fingers.

A pair of attendants rushed forward, bearing a heavy iron chest.

Velrosa opened it, revealing carefully preserved parchments — ledgers, contracts, breeding diagrams.

She lifted the first document high.

"Here is proof," she said, "that Lord Lezarius personally oversaw the illicit breeding of Arena beasts. Creatures whose bloodlines are forbidden for public matches under Council law."

Gasps and cries rose like a storm.

Velrosa did not falter.

"Here," she said, unrolling another scroll, "we see orders to chemically enhance certain beasts for specific fights — altering their strength and behavior, violating every tenet of fair Arena combat."

More shouts.

More outrage.

Lezarius staggered back, face draining of color.

"You lie!" he snarled. "You forge—"

"The documents are sealed with your own House Volmir signet," Velrosa said coldly.

"And verified by the Arcanum under the scrutiny of the Ninth Chair."

At this, Thalia Virex inclined her head — a tiny, deadly confirmation.

The Ninth Chair’s word was iron law.

Lezarius’s mouth worked soundlessly.

Ian watched as the council benches fractured — some nobles rising in fury, others shrinking into their cloaks.

Whispers flew like arrows.

The fire Lezarius had stoked now consumed him.

And yet —

Velrosa’s eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat.

A warning.

This was not a true victory.

Not yet.

Because the council’s anger — though turned for now — had been roused.

They tasted weakness.

They wanted more blood.

Any blood.

The herald, pale and sweating, staggered to his feet once more.

He lifted the next parchment with shaking hands.

"The Council finds that charges of illegal betting and manipulation," he stammered, "against Princess Velrosa Lionarde... remain under investigation. Evidence presented has weakened the claim — but does not absolve it."

A verdict that was no verdict at all.

Velrosa bowed her head, accepting the council’s cowardice without visible reaction.

But Ian saw it again — the tiniest crack in her facade.

The chains around her spirit tightening.

The cost of every gambit she was forced to play.

The herald coughed, swallowing, then opened the final scroll.

The room fell so silent it seemed the walls themselves leaned closer to hear.

"Final accusation," he read.

Voice heavy as a tombstone falling.

"Princess Velrosa Lionarde stands accused of collusion with a Demon."

His voice cracked.

"Sheltering the creature known as the Demonblade — Ian Night — under her house’s banner. Shielding a being suspected of demonic affiliations, in violation of the Sacred Decrees."

The words echoed across stone and bone.

And this time, the silence was not mere tension.

It was horror.

It was revulsion.

Even some of Velrosa’s silent allies recoiled.

Ian’s fists clenched at his sides.

The air around him darkened subtly — a shimmer of soul-deep rage trying to surface.

But he stayed still.

Because Velrosa had not yet fallen.

Because she would fight.

Even if she stood alone against all the thrones of men and gods alike.

Slowly, Velrosa lifted her eyes.

And for the first time in that endless day —

a flicker of sorts— odd and real passed over the Council’s faces.

Because her gaze was no longer human.

It was different now.

Elemental.

As if the silver-haired princess had crossed some invisible threshold —

and become something they could neither tame nor understand.