Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 77: Oaths and Ashes

The sun rose slowly over Esgard, shrouded behind thin gray clouds like a reluctant god watching a ritual it had long grown tired of.

Across the great marble bridges and through the heavy boulevards, the city rustled not with celebration, but with grim anticipation.

The bells that had been tolling since dawn did not call for prayer or festival today.

They called for a tribunal’s verdict.

---

The Tower of Stone sat in the heart of the old city, a spire built from the first quarried stones of Esgard.

It had been the place of countless noble trials, where bloodlines ended and dynasties were born under the eyes of the Council and the gathered Houses.

Here, legacy was not protected by right or birth.

Only by survival.

Inside the Tower, preparations unfolded with a brutal precise.

Clerics of the old rites moved between great carved pillars, spreading powders of blessed salt and iron dust.

They traced ancient runes along the floor, sealing the trial chamber against sorcery, illusion, and lies. Every spell woven here would snap or reveal itself.

Every tongue would be bound by oath.

No deceit could live within the Tower’s heart.

At the far end of the chamber, beneath a dais wrought of blackstone and gold, the Nine Thrones of the Council sat, already occupied by Esgard’s most powerful figures.

Their banners draped behind them — each house sigil stitched in stark, defiant color.

The First Chair, Lady Caldrein Morravel, Keeper of Law, sat at the center. Her silvered hair was braided into a coronet, and her robes bore the marks of a hundred verdicts.

To her right, Prince Liam Xavier, a foreign-born noble whose calm gaze betrayed little.

To her left, Grand Priest Eltharion Vale of the Sanctum of Light, whose presence darkened the air like a cloud heavy with storm.

The others—Virex, Durnhal, Vaunt, Yvain, Saan, Kaelthorn—completed the Nine, a grim circle of judgment and ambition.

Rows of noble spectators filled the outer gallery: Lords and Ladies from the high families, lesser bloodlines, favored merchants, and whisperers of the court.

All waited, restless, ravenous for the spectacle about to unfold.

---

Behind the preparation halls, Velrosa Lionarde stood alone in a chamber of dark oak and banners bearing her House’s faded crest.

She was dressed not in the vibrant flowing silks she wore at banquets, but in the traditional white and silver of an accused noble: a simple gown that offered no illusions of grandeur, no jewelry, no weapons.

Only dignity, stripped bare.

A priestess finished braiding her silver hair into a crown at the back of her head — not a mark of royalty, but of submission to the rites.

Velrosa glanced at herself in the mirror, noting the weariness hidden in her sharp blue eyes.

No armor today. No fanfare. Only her mind and her tongue to defend her.

She heard the door open and turned slightly.

Eli stood at the entry, dressed plainly, a dark cloak draped over his shoulders. His face was unreadable, but his gold eyes met hers with a steady, quiet intensity.

"You shouldn’t be here," Velrosa said.

"I know," he replied.

A beat passed between them.

Velrosa smirked slightly. "Planning to cause a scene if they start burning me at the stake?"

"I’m sure they’ll know better than that," Eli said.

They said nothing else.

The bells tolled again, deeper this time — a summons.

It was time.

---

The great doors of the trial hall opened, and Velrosa Lionarde stepped into the sea of judgment. freewebnoveℓ.com

Whispers flitted like insects through the air.

She caught pieces of them — fallen house, witch’s puppet, demon’s whore — but they did not touch her.

She walked with the slow, measured grace of one who knew she was already surrounded by wolves, and saw no sense in running.

With the beauty of a woman so perfect it enraged most with jealousy and envy.

Ian watched from the high balcony meant for retainers and servants. His hand gripped the iron railing loosely.

No one noticed him yet—or perhaps they did, but decided on ignoring his presence.

Clerics approached Velrosa in the center of the circle.

They carried a small obsidian basin filled with silver water. One offered her a ceremonial dagger — a slender thing, more a symbol than a weapon.

Velrosa took it without hesitation and pressed it against the center of her palm.

A thin line of blood welled up, bright against the pale skin.

She dipped her bleeding hand into the basin, watching as her blood turned the silver water dark and swirling.

The lead cleric’s voice rang out, cutting across the murmur of the hall.

"Velrosa Lionarde. Before the Nine, before the Houses, and before the gods above, do you swear to speak only truth within this hall?"

"I swear," Velrosa said, her voice clear and steady.

The cleric nodded and turned to the gathered nobility.

"Let none speak falsehood, lest their blood burn with the fire of binding," he intoned.

The old words. The old rites.

The room grew heavier, burdened with unseen chains that tightened around every throat. A single lie spoken now would not simply be a crime—it would be a death sentence.

Or at the very least, they believed it so.

Velrosa withdrew her hand, and a white cloth was offered to her. She ignored it, letting the blood dry as a mark.

Lady Morravel rose from the central throne, her voice as sharp as the blade Velrosa had just held.

"Velrosa Lionarde," she said, her words carrying the weight of centuries. "Among many lesser crimes—you stand accused of consorting with demonic entities, of the unlawful use of forbidden magic within the confines of the arena and beyond, and of harboring dangerous elements within your House that threaten the sanctity of Esgard."

Velrosa did not blink.

Morravel continued, her tone shifting slightly, becoming almost perfunctory. A question asked in every trial where demonic affiliations were whispered.

"You may now make a declaration," Morravel said. "Do you choose to denounce Ian Night—the slave accused of many demonic affiliations—and publicly declare that he and his alleged abilities are not representative of your noble house, and that you had no prior knowledge of his corrupt nature?"

Silence fell like a blade across the room.

The spectators leaned forward, breaths held.

The Council members fixed their gazes on Velrosa, waiting.

In the balcony, Ian’s gray eyes narrowed slightly.

Velrosa stood in the center of the circle, the sunlight through the stained glass washing her in muted color, as if weighing her every thought.

She could feel the path laid before her.

Denounce him, cast him aside, claim ignorance—and the trial would become survivable.

Perhaps even winnable.

If she chose otherwise...

It could mean war.

She smiled.

And when she spoke, her voice were as though a blade honed to perfect, devastating sharpness.

"No, I do not."

The words rang out, cutting the silence open.

Across the chamber, nobles shifted uncomfortably.

Council members exchanged glances.

The fire had been lit.

And Velrosa Lionarde stood ready to burn.

However, she would not burn alone.