Rebirth: Necromancer's Ascenscion-Chapter 62: Forked Tongues and Silver Knives

Ian stepped through the door, the scent of cooked meat and sweat mingling in the air.

Two dozen eyes turned on him, every one of them trying to measure his intent, his identity, and most importantly—his threat level.

He said nothing at first. Just walked, slow and relaxed, toward the dining table.

The woman seated there flinched slightly but didn’t look at him directly. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap, hidden beneath the tablecloth.

Her eyes flicked toward him for the briefest second—then back down.

"Good evening," Ian said casually, pulling out the empty chair beside her and sitting down as if he’d been invited. "I hope I’m not interrupting anything."

Silence. The kind of silence that had sharp edges.

The broad-shouldered man sitting across from the woman—the one eating with such deliberate care—paused mid-cut. His knife and fork were silver, gleaming under the room’s low lamp.

He said nothing. Just watched Ian.

Ian, undeterred, reached for the second plate of steak on the table.

It was still warm. He took the knife and fork with the calmness of a nobleman at a dinner party and cut into it.

The first bite was tender, seasoned with restraint, but the flavor lingered. A second bite followed, and Ian let out a low hum of satisfaction.

"Compliments to the chef," he said, nodding toward the woman. "Truly—one of the best steaks I’ve had in a long time."

Still, none of the men moved.

Some looked to the broad man for direction.

Others just stared. They couldn’t decide if this man in a cloak, who walked into a lion’s den and helped himself to dinner, was a fool—or death incarnate.

Ian set his utensils down gently and leaned back in his chair. "Now that I’ve got a taste of the house cooking, I’ve got a question."

He looked at the broad man, eyes steady and sharp. "What’s your problem with Black Rat?"

The man didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin and then continued cutting into his steak with unsettling precision. Every movement was deliberate, perfect.

The way he held the utensils—the balance, the angles—spoke of refinement.

Not some gutter-born criminal.

He was trained. Military? Noble?

Or worse—.

The man finally spoke, his voice calm and smooth.

"Who are you?"

Ian gave a faint smile and leaned in, voice dropping low. "No, no. Let’s not ask stupid questions. You ask questions like that, you tend to die before you get the answers. Just answer mine."

A flicker of amusement passed through the man’s eyes. He gestured with his knife, elegantly. "Very well. Your... friend. The Rat. He’s meddled where he shouldn’t. Our people run a tavern. Legitimate business. Betting, drinks, games. All very legal—"

"—And rigged," Ian added.

The man smirked. "Naturally. But recently, the outcomes... weren’t aligning. Coin was bleeding. A lot of it. We looked into it. And it led back to him."

"And so you think he robbed you?"

"Not directly," the man said, chewing slowly. "But he found a way. Changed outcomes. Knew things he shouldn’t. We lost over a hundred thousand gold in a single match. Our investors were... upset."

"And now you’re here. Playing with his wife like bait."

The man’s eyes didn’t flicker. "We don’t want the gold back. We want the method. How did he do it? That’s the question. We get that, and we walk away."

Ian leaned back and picked up his utensils again.

"Well," he said, cutting another piece of steak, "that’s not going to be possible."

"Why not?"

"Because he didn’t work alone."

The man’s hand paused.

Ian gave him a deadpan stare. "He worked with me."

The words were a blade across the table.

Tension snapped taut in the room, like the final click of a drawn crossbow. Several men shifted. One took a step forward. Another put a hand to his hip where a weapon surely waited.

The broad man tilted his head.

"That’s unfortunate."

Ian sighed. "It always is."

He took another bite.

But then—he paused.

There it was. A subtle smear.

A dark crimson streak against the far wall, faint and splattered near the corner. Barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it. He glanced down. A droplet on the floor. Just one. Near the chair leg.

Blood.

And not old blood either.

Ian’s eyes shifted, slowly, to the woman beside him. Her hands still trembled beneath the table. But now that he looked—her thumb tapped her other palm in a nervous rhythm.

Once. Twice. Once again.

A signal.

It wasn’t fear of him. It was desperation. She had been trying to tell him something.

Ian placed the utensils down with purpose. "So that’s what you were trying to tell me," he muttered softly.

He looked up at the broad man across from him.

"You’re not the Redwater gang, are you?"

The smirk vanished.

Two men stepped forward behind Ian. Heavy hands landed on his shoulders with force.

Not aggression.

Not yet.

But finality. Like iron clamps locking into place.

One of them leaned in close, his breath warm and sharp against Ian’s ear.

"Ian Knight," he said, "by order of the Sanctum—you are under arrest."

Silence.

Ian blinked.

Then chuckled softly to himself.

"Well," he said. "I’ll be damned."

The broad man finally smiled again, pushing his cleaned plate slightly away. "The Rat was clever," he said. "And dangerous. But not important. You, however..."

He stood, his movements regal, his presence immense now that he no longer hid it.

"You’re a heretic. Touched by death. A servant of the old sins. And we’ve been looking to hold you for a long, long time."

Ian didn’t move.

He looked at the woman beside him, finally understanding the full scope of her terror.

She wasn’t afraid of thugs.

The thugs had been killed before he got here.

She was afraid of zealots.

"Last chance," the man said. "Come quietly, and we’ll offer you a trial. Resist, and you’ll die like the beast you are."

Ian looked down at the bloodstained floor again, then back up.

And grinned.

"I think I’ll finish dessert first."