Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 83: The Price of Sin I

The Great Hall had never been so silent.

The kind of silence that lived in tombs.

The kind of silence that came just before the first stone was thrown, before the first blood was spilled.

Dust hung in the air like falling ash, drifting through pale shafts of light that slanted from the towering cathedral windows.

Above, the banners of the Council swayed — vast, heavy things — the ancient crests embroidered in thread-of-blood and bone-white, hanging like nooses from the black-stone pillars.

And beneath them gathered the wolves.

Every noble.

Every priest.

Every armiger and guard.

All seated, all watching, all waiting — breath held, eyes gleaming with the hunger of a final judgment.

Ian stood in his observation alcove, shadowed but visible, a figure carved from iron.

And at the heart of it all, beneath the searing gaze of Esgard’s nine thrones, stood Velrosa.

Rigid. Proud. Alone.

Her silver hair, usually flowing like riverlight, was bound tightly behind her head.

Her dress was stark midnight blue — no jewelry, no embellishments — only a simple, unyielding line of a woman who won’t yield.

She did not bow her head.

She did not tremble.

But Ian, watching from afar, saw the whiteness of her knuckles where she gripped the edge of her chair so hard her skin split and bled.

A silent telling to how much it cost her to remain still.

Then the Verdict Procession began.

The massive black doors swung open with a dull, sonorous boom.

High Priest Eltharion Vale, Seventh Chair of the Council, swept forward like a specter wrapped in sanctified gold and white.

His robes whispered across the obsidian floor, and in his hands he carried a great tome bound in iron — the Book of Judgment.

He mounted the central dais and turned to face the Hall.

When he spoke, his voice was the voice of finality itself.

"I call forth the names of the accused," Eltharion intoned, each syllable weighed with ceremonial gravity.

"Velrosa Lionarde, of House Elarin."

"Ian Night, called Demonblade."

A ripple of murmurs trembled through the gathered lords and ladies, but no one rose to object.

No one dared.

Eltharion opened the iron-bound tome with a groaning creak that echoed like a grave unsealing.

He began to read the charges.

First:

"Ian Night, whose feats in the Arena betray inhumanity — endurance unnatural to mortal blood, sorcery alien to the righteous Order."

Murmurs rose, sharper now, like the first winds of a coming storm.

Second:

"Testimonies sworn under Sanctum seal. Witnesses who claimed Ian Night’s aura reeked of the Abyss. A scent of death unholy and profane."

The weight of the words filled the chamber until breathing itself felt like blasphemy.

Third:

"Velrosa Lionarde, who, knowingly, shielded the creature and defied the will of the Sanctum by harboring corruption."

Ian’s teeth ground together so hard he could almost taste blood.

In the crowd, nobles turned to one another, whispering behind jeweled hands.

Deals were already being made, allegiances shifting like sand in a storm.

Still, Velrosa sat unmoving.

When Eltharion’s golden eyes turned to her — when the Council demanded she denounce Ian, renounce his deeds, distance herself from his damnation — she did not.

She met their gaze with a flicker of steel, a defiance so pure it scorched the air.

Ian saw the tremor that ran through her arms.

Saw the blood staining her fingers where her nails bit into flesh.

Saw the cost of her pride and loyalty.

It broke something inside him.

This was a different trial, it was a holy one—she had no option for defense.

They simply presented the facts and the Council would make conclusions.

Then came the vote.

One by one, the Councilors rose.

Rings bearing the ancient sigils of their houses were raised high.

One after another.

"Guilty."

"Guilty."

"Guilty."

Each pronouncement fell like a hammer driving nails into a coffin lid.

Even those who had once feigned neutrality or truly allied with here now stood cold and silent, unwilling to risk themselves for a doomed House.

When it was done, the Hall was a graveyard of broken hopes.

Eltharion’s voice rose once more.

"The sentence is thus."

He lifted a scroll and let it unfurl.

"House Elarin — stripped of rank, titles, and holdings. Its banners to be torn down. Its line to be cast into dishonor."

"Velrosa Lionarde — sentenced to Holy Detainment within the Sanctum’s Keep. A life of penitence and silence."

"Ian Night — condemned to public execution before the Altar of the First Flame. Cleansed by fire, that his soul may find peace beyond mortal corruption."

The words seemed to darken the very light in the Hall.

Guards moved — not just from the main gates, but from hidden alcoves, side corridors, trapdoors.

An ambush prepared long before this day.

Some were already stationed behind Ian’s own private alcove — swords half-drawn, moving into a slow, inevitable circle.

It had always been a trap.

Betrayal layered upon betrayal.

Ian shifted his weight, feeling the way the air tensed, the way every eye fixed upon him — predator and prey, moments before the kill.

Then — a ripple.

A tremor in the fabric of the room so subtle most missed it.

But Ian felt it.

Felt the cold.

Felt the killing intent sharpen the very air.

From the side of the Hall, a figure stepped forward.

Cloaked. Silent. Still as death.

Eli.

He moved like a shadow of form, cutting through the armed ranks without pause, without fear. freewebnσvel.cøm

When he spoke, his voice was a low blade, slicing through the thick suffocation of judgment.

"Did you really believe I’ll let you do this?"

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Eltharion only smiled — slow, cold, inevitable.

As if he had wanted Eli to reveal himself.

The High Priest raised one hand, a gesture already prepared.

And the great doors of the Hall thundered open again.

Sanctum Light Crusaders marched in — knights towering in platinum-forged armor, shields engraved with the sunburst and the all-seeing eye of judgment.

They were not city guards.

They were not mere soldiers.

They were executioners of the holy will.

Each one bore an enchantment powerful enough to shatter mages and monsters alike.

The ground itself seemed to tremble beneath their approach.

Ian felt it then.

Strength that rivaled Eli’s.

For the second time since he had awoken in this broken world.

True fear.

Not the fear of pain.

Not the fear of death.

The fear of being crushed beneath a power so absolute, so vast, that even struggle would become meaningless.

Eltharion’s smile deepened as the Sanctum Crusaders took their positions, their spears lowering in a unified, gleaming line.

"This is no longer a trial," the High Priest said.

"This is a cleansing."

And somewhere deep in the Hall, as the first light of their enchanted weapons crackled to life, Ian knew:

He would have to make a decision.