Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 60: Beneath The Gilded Mask

The night was reaching its end.

The halls of House Vallis gleamed beneath hanging chandeliers and a thousand floating candlelights.

Wine had flowed. Laughter had echoed. False smiles had been traded like currency.

Nobles had dined and discussed. Enemies had been made, their poison dipped in honeyed words, and situational friends—fragile and conditional—had been forged under the illusion of civility.

The Council had led them through various Orders of the night. There had been discussions, votes—ceremonial, most of them—on matters of trade, border security, inheritance claims, and proposed expansions to the Mage Registry.

Dry, politic things.

But every decision had its weight. Every vote was another shift in the ever-swaying balance of power.

Now, as the hour waned and the moonlight painted silver through tall stained glass, the grand ballroom had changed.

Music played softly.

The air was warm with perfume and wine. And nobles—those young enough or vain enough to care—swayed together in slow, deliberate dances.

A delicate ritual of grace and silent messages.

In this world, a simple dance was never just a dance.

A young master offering his hand to the daughter of a rival house might not seem like much—but it could signal an alliance. Or a truce. Or the beginning of political whispers that would ripple through court gossip for weeks.

Velrosa Lionarde remained seated.

She watched from her high-backed silver chair, spine straight, face unreadable. Her hair shimmered beneath the candlelight like strands of moonlight, and her expression held that same cold elegance that kept most at a respectful distance.

Few dared approach her. Most knew better.

To ask the princess for a dance would be to publicly signal an alliance—or worse, face a rejection so brutal it would echo through every noble house present. And Velrosa, so far, had shown no desire to grant such favors.

But that didn’t stop the brave—or the foolish.

Three men had tried so far. All handsome. All heirs of notable Houses. And all walked away with a polite decline and a smile so empty it chilled the room.

Ian stood behind her, silent as ever.

He’d said nothing through most of the night. Just watched. Observed. Letting the scene unfold before him like a staged play, one where he did not belong—but one he would eventually tear down brick by brick.

His eyes flicked from one couple to the next.

Reading posture. Eye contact. The stiffness or ease of motion. Even here, beneath the gilded masks and practiced elegance, there were cracks.

He leaned down slightly, voice low.

"Should we leave?"

Velrosa didn’t look back. "No," she said softly, "not yet. If we leave now, they’ll start plotting before I’ve finished my wine."

A faint smirk touched her lips. Ian returned to silence.

Then, after a pause, he pulled off one of his gloves—smooth, black leather—and extended his bare hand forward.

"Then..." he said, "want to dance?"

The moment froze.

Across the room, glances turned like leaves to flame. Whispers stirred almost immediately.

He’s asking her?

A slave?

Has he lost his mind?

Perhaps he thinks just because he’s strong, he can do anything.

She’ll put him in his place. Watch.

Ian heard it all. He wasn’t deaf, nor blind to their world. But he hadn’t thought much of the gesture. He didn’t understand the taboo. To him, it was just a hand extended.

A dance. Nothing more.

He began to withdraw it.

"My apologies," Ian muttered, eyes narrowing, "I didn’t realize—"

But before the sentence could leave his lips, Velrosa’s hand slid into his.

Her touch was warm. Certain.

"I’d love a dance," she said with a faint smile.

Gasps were muffled. The murmurs swelled louder, but none dared speak openly now.

Velrosa rose gracefully, and Ian led her—awkwardly at first—onto the center floor where nobles gave way like parting mist.

And then the music rose again, slower now. A piece played on harps and glass flutes.

They began to move.

Ian wasn’t elegant.

His steps were deliberate, functional. But Velrosa adjusted to his pace without complaint. One hand rested against her waist, the other gently held her fingers.

As they swayed between flickering lights and noble stares, Ian spoke.

"All this," he murmured, "why?"

She tilted her head, curious.

"This theater. These games. Politics. Why not let Eli stand at your side and claim the Council by force? I’ve seen what he is."

Velrosa’s eyes glinted. "And you think strength is enough?"

"In the pits and arena, it is."

"But not here," she replied. "Here, a blade wins a duel, not a kingdom. The Council would rally in fear. The people would whisper of tyranny. Even if Eli crushed them all, I would rule over ash. Strength without legitimacy is just another form of rebellion. And rebels rarely build empires. It wont be long before the Sanctum and imperial hold is rallied against me—and then, even Eli will fall."

Ian was quiet for a moment, digesting her words.

"Then what is your goal?" he asked.

"To build something that lasts," she answered. "Not just win. Endure."

The music carried them into another turn. Ian’s steps had grown smoother, more confident.

Velrosa studied him.

"And you?" she asked. "What do you gain, being here? In the arena?"

Ian’s answer was simple. "Death. Power."

Her smile faded. "That’s all?"

"For now."

She tilted her head. "How many more battles?"

"A few," he said. "Maybe more. I’ll know when it’s time."

"And when it is?"

Ian met her gaze. "I’ll hope I’ve done enough to be freed of my chains."

A pause.

"And if I refuse to free you?" she asked, voice soft but serious.

Silence.

Ian’s gray eyes were steel. "Then I’ll have no choice but to fight my way out."

Velrosa laughed, a soft musical sound like wind chimes caught in moonlight.

"You shouldn’t be so honest."

"I really shouldn’t," Ian admitted.

The dance slowed, the music drawing to its final stretch. The tension between them had softened, not broken—but shifted.

No longer command and slave. Something else now. Undefined.

Velrosa’s gaze didn’t waver. "Then listen carefully," she said, voice low but unwavering.

"I swear by my name, Velrosa Elen Lionarde, that the moment you fight your final battle in the Arena—you shall cease to be a slave."

The music ended.

And for the first time that night, the murmurs faded.

Because they had all seen it now—noble and common alike.

The Princess had danced with her shadow.

And whispered to him freedom.