Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 88: Siblings of The Waste

The wind screamed across the Wasted Reach, dragging veils of dust across cracked earth.

For a long, brutal moment, the five Church infiltrators stood frozen in place, their grins wilted into grim lines, their hands drifting too close to hidden blades.

Ian watched them without blinking.

He did not posture or threaten.

He did not need to.

He was a statue carved from blood and silence, his hands loose at his sides, his twin bone daggers humming faintly at his back— a sound no living ear could hear, but one the soul instinctively feared.

The daggers had tasted too much blood in too little time.

And yet, they were never satisfied.

Not anymore.

Tension lit the air, brittle and dry like leaves in a flame.

Every breath was a dare.

Every twitch, like a spark.

A single wrong move, and violence would erupt like thunder from the skin of the world.

Then—

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, everyone relax!" a new voice called out, bright and almost musical, as if mocking the moment.

All eyes snapped to the ridge nearby, where two figures appeared from behind a shattered column of basalt, walking in the casual way only madmen or legends could afford.

A man and a woman.

Travelers by the look of their cloaks, both dust-streaked and weather-beaten. Yet there was a weight to them — a presence, impossible to name but harder to ignore.

The man was tall, broad across the chest, with shoulders like a city gate and a calm that seemed to bend the air around him.

His hood was pushed back slightly, revealing dark hair tied at the back of his neck, a jaw rough with stubble, and eyes like tempered steel.

At his hip rested a sword in a worn leather scabbard, the grip darkened from years of use.

The kind of weapon that hadn’t been polished in years — but never failed its wielder.

Beside him strode his opposite — shorter, wiry, a smirk flickering at the corners of her mouth like a match threatening to catch. Her movements were all sharp grace and sudden play, half saunter, half dance.

Her hood remained up, but pale strands of hair danced free, catching the dying sun like threadbare silver.

Where her brother was stone, she was fire. And the world moved to make way for both.

They looked like they belonged here — in the broken realm beyond the Black Fall. Dusty boots, patched cloaks, weapons marked by real blood.

But something in their eyes said they had not been born in the Wastes.

They had chosen them.

The girl raised both hands dramatically, as though halting a play.

"Come on, thy holiness... holinessess?" she chirped, cocking her head at the Church rats. "Can’t you see he’s not interested in joining your cult of Jupiter’s cock worship?"

The Church agents stiffened.

Ian did not move, but his eyes narrowed.

The way a killer wolf might study a second pack encroaching on a fresh kill.

The tall man offered a nod and a faint, wry smile to the cultists.

"Best to leave it be," he said, voice low and even. "You’re outmatched. Walk away while you still can. No shame in surviving."

One of the Church men, lean and twitchy, licked his lips nervously.

"You don’t know who you’re interfering with—"

The woman’s grin widened like a blade.

"But i know you do," she interrupted, sweet as sin. "And if you want to keep your kneecaps intact, you’ll start walking. Pride’s expensive out here."

She let her hand drift — almost lazily — to the hilt of a vicious, curved knife at her belt. It was a light touch.

Not a threat. A promise.

One she intended to keep.

The silence that followed was heavier than iron.

Ian said nothing. But in the quiet shift of his weight, in the way his gaze flicked just once toward the earth at the agents’ feet, he made his judgment.

The Church rats must have felt it.

With sour expressions and clenched jaws, they turned and began to retreat, silent as condemned men, swallowed by the swirling haze of dust and heat that forever danced across the Reach.

Only once they were gone did the girl exhale loudly, tossing her hood back with a flourish.

"Well, that was almost exciting," she said, grinning as she dusted off her hands. Her face was sharp and fox-like, charming despite the dirt. "Another two seconds and I would’ve had to kill someone before breakfast."

The man rolled his eyes.

"You already had breakfast."

"Yeah, but violence is like second breakfast. Essential. Builds character."

He sighed. The sound of a man used to this nonsense.

Ian still hadn’t moved.

The siblings turned their attention to him.

Their gaze didn’t probe or challenge — it invited.

"You," the girl said, pointing a finger as if identifying an artifact. "Tall, pale, and murdery."

Ian stared.

"You’ve been standing here for hours every day, staring at that," she added, jerking a thumb toward the horizon.

There, rising like a scar across the world, was the Black Fall Gate — the abyssal fault that split the Wastes in two, where light bent strangely and the dead sometimes whispered.

"Planning on entering," she asked, "or just brooding until you grow roots?"

Her brother stepped forward, nodding once — not out of deference, but out of basic courtesy.

"Name’s Caelen," he said. "This is Lyra. My sister."

She gave a mock curtsy, her knife flashing for just a heartbeat beneath her cloak.

"And you," Lyra added, eyes gleaming, "are either about to make the dumbest decision of your life — or the most legendary."

Ian’s lips twitched.

Not a smile. Just... the memory of one.

Caelen’s mouth quirked in return.

"You’ve been out here too long," he said. "Trust me, I’ve seen it before. This place eats men till they forget how to speak. And worse, it forgets they existed."

Lyra nodded solemnly. Then ruined it.

"And also, there’s this tavern not far from here. Full of drunk fools and cursed mercs who think dying gloriously makes up for a lack of talent. The ale’s bad. The stew’s worse. But there’s laughter. And heat."

"And alcohol," she added helpfully. "Did I mention the alcohol?"

Caelen glanced at Ian again.

"What she means," he said dryly, "is you’re welcome to join us. You look like you could use a fire. And maybe a reason to remember your own name."

Ian was quiet.

His instincts screamed at him to say no. But somewhere deeper — somewhere human — there was a silence.

A pause.

He hadn’t heard anyone joke in weeks.

He hadn’t been offered a name, not a number or a threat, in longer still.

Finally, he exhaled.

"Fine," he said, his voice low and rough, as though scraped over coals. "Lead the way."

Lyra whooped and spun on her heel, marching ahead with a spring in her step.

Caelen waited a beat, then fell into stride beside Ian.

They walked in silence for a while.

Behind them, the black gate stood like a god waiting for penance.

And ahead — a tavern of madness, warmth, and perhaps, something dangerously close to hope.

But never it.