Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 158: Threads of Power

The city was always shifting with life, oblivious to the quiet shift of empires beneath its skin.

Velrosa walked ahead, her silhouette cutting a graceful path through the cobbled streets of Esgard’s lower quarter.

She wore no veil today, no mark-laden cloak. Just a flowing dress of deep violet, cinched at the waist, its hem brushing the stone with each step. Her silver hair was tied in a braided knot that glinted beneath the sunlight.

Ian followed her in silence, boots crunching beside hers.

For once, he wore no cloak, only a dark tunic and gloves that hid the scars of battle. Vowbreaker rested sheathed and unnoticed at his back—though his senses were never truly at rest.

They moved through a narrow street flanked by merchant stalls and leaning buildings.

The scent of spice and oil drifted through the air, mingling with smoke from nearby chimneys.

Children darted past with wooden swords, and a street bard hummed a ballad about the Crucible’s champions—though he skipped the verse about the Demon Blade.

Velrosa stopped in front of a modest building with a painted sign: Berreth Shipping & Trade Co.

She turned to Ian with a small smile. "This used to be the front for their smuggling network. Everything from taxed herbs to enchanted metals moved through this place."

Ian’s gray eyes scanned the structure. "Doesn’t look like much."

"It’s not supposed to," she said. "That’s the point."

She pushed the door open, revealing a narrow hallway that led to a back office and a stairwell leading downward. Two men greeted them with bows—former Berreth men, now wearing Elarin colors.

They stepped aside as Velrosa descended the stairs without hesitation.

Ian followed her into the underground vault.

It was wider than he expected. Dozens of crates lined the room, along with ledgers, maps, and a carefully etched mana-seal on the wall that pulsed faintly.

"Hidden transfer portals," Velrosa said, gesturing to the rune. "They used this place to move goods in and out of the southern ports without drawing taxes. Berreth played it safe—too safe."

Ian tilted his head. "You plan to keep smuggling?"

"No," she said, glancing back at him. "We improve it."

She moved closer to one of the crates and tapped its side.

"Berreth barely touched the potential. They were too afraid to offend the Council’s trade alliances. But we’re not building a house to survive—we’re building one to rule."

She turned fully to face him now, voice softer.

"This is how it begins, Ian. Less with knifes as much as it is with coin. We buy loyalty where fear can’t reach. Feed the starving. Fund the Crucible. And when the Council realizes what we’ve done, it will already be too late."

Ian watched her in the low light. The flicker of arcane glyphs danced across her bronze-hued skin.

She spoke like a queen, but he saw the steel beneath it—the will of someone who was ready to crawl through the dark and build her throne from broken bones.

He didn’t reply.

There was no need to.

They visited three more sites that day: a grain silo that now bore the mark of Elarin, a blacksmith’s forge previously locked into Berreth debt, and a quiet port warehouse along the river, where mercenaries stood guard in discreet formation.

At each stop, Velrosa explained the system she was building.

Not a patchwork of holdings, but a network—connected, flowing, protected.

Ian saw the outline of it: trade routes secured by Elarin blades, supplies channeled to keep their fighters armed, the Crucible sustained not just by blood but by economy.

And throughout the day, something else hung in the air between them.

An ease neither acknowledged.

Perhaps for the first time, this two had let their guard down.

Because unlike with everyone else, they didn’t see themselves as potential enemies—just enemies.

However one they didn’t need to worry about, not yet. Because perhaps what makes a knife most dangerous, is not knowing when it’ll stab you.

At the forge, she wiped ash from Ian’s cheek with a linen cloth, the contact lingering longer than it should’ve.

At the port, she paused by the water, watching ships drift in the distance.

"I used to dream," she murmured, "of sailing away. Before the Empire branded me a bastard. Before Esgard. I thought there was peace somewhere far from here. A quiet place without politics or war."

He stood beside her. "And now?"

"Now I understand," she said, looking at him. "Peace isn’t found. It’s built from words and blood."

They stood in silence, the wind tugging lightly at her braid, the river rippling like molten glass.

As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in red-gold hues, they made their way back through the merchant roads.

The crowd had thickened—traders, gamblers, servants running errands before the dusk bell.

Then something shifted.

Ian felt it before he saw it.

A flicker in the crowd. A scent—bitterness, acrid and sharp—cutting through the baked bread and cinnamon.

Then he saw the cloaked figure. Not one of theirs. Too fast.

"Ian—" Velrosa began.

He moved.

A blur of motion, drawing Vowbreaker in one hand, spinning into a crouch as the assassin lunged.

Steel flashed.

But it wasn’t aimed at him.

Velrosa gasped, stumbling back.

The blade grazed her side—not deep, but red bloomed against her dress. The attacker spun, withdrawing a second dagger.

Ian was already there.

He drove Vowbreaker forward—not into the assassin’s chest, but into his leg, pinning him to the ground. The man screamed. Civilians scattered.

More footsteps. Another cloaked figure rushing from the rooftops.

Ian turned, grabbed Velrosa, and pulled her behind him.

The second assassin leapt, twin blades raised, teeth bared beneath his mask.

And Ian frowned.

The world slowed.

He moved fast, so damn fast.

With one swipe, he shattered the attacker’s momentum, grabbed the wrist mid-strike, and twisted. The snap echoed louder than the scream.

The man dropped.

The first assassin had managed to crawl free, but he didn’t get far.

Ashvaleth came from the alley like a shadow uncoiling. The predator-beast lunged and tore the would-be killer from the ground like a toy.

When it was over, Ian stood breathing slow and steady.

Velrosa was pale, but upright, clutching her side.

"Assassins," Ian growled. "Two. Maybe more."

She nodded, expression cold, jaw tight.

"That’s surprising," she whispered. "My enemies are desperate, not foolish,"

Her words stopped.

Another sound.

A whistle.

Ian’s eyes widened.

From the rooftop, a glint of silver.

A crossbow bolt cut through the dusk like a serpent.

It flew—straight for Velrosa.

Ian turned.

Too slow.