Aerie

“I don’t know what he’s told you!” Aaron shouted, desperate to reach some trace of his brother, even as he drove Malak back. “But it isn’t true.”

“You are a master of deceit,” Malak said, drawing his own sword of dark metal to parry Aaron’s blows. The warrior moved with inhuman speed, his movements registering as little more than a scarlet blur. “Lies flow from your mouth like blood from a mortal wound.”

“Listen to me, Stevie!” Aaron yelled, on the defensive again, barely stopping the unremitting fall of the enchanted black blade.

“Malak,” his attacker bellowed, enraged. “I am Malak!” The savagery of his attack intensified. “I kill you now in his name,” Malak growled, preparing to deliver a final deadly strike.

And as Aaron primed himself to counter this killing blow, the question of futility echoed through his frenzied thoughts. Is it possible? He caught sight of the warrior’s eyes through the slits of the horned helmet-murderer’s eyes, void of any trace of humanity—and wondered if there was even a slight chance that Stevie was still somewhere inside the monster that was Malak.

Verchiel gri

The Powers’ leader breathed in the stench of violence, his memories taking him back to a time when his purpose was defined for him. He remembered the war in Heaven and how even when it appeared to be over, the followers of the Morningstar defeated, the true struggle had yet to begin. They took their audacity, their insolence, and fled to the Earth, hoping to escape the Creator’s wrath. To think that they actually believed they would be forgiven, the angel mused.

“Lost in thought, Verchiel?” A voice distracted him from his reflection.

Verchiel looked toward the entrance of the church and gazed upon the living dead. “Belphegor,” the Powers’ commander hissed. “Camael told us that he had taken your life in the Garden.”

“I think he may have exaggerated the truth a bit,” the Founder of Aerie commented.

His disappointment in Camael strengthened all the more, Verchiel started up the church steps two at a time. “What is it the humans say?” he muttered, murder on his mind. “If you want a job done right…”

Belphegor did not respond. Instead he opened the door of the church and slipped inside.

Verchiel suspected a trap, but the idea that one he believed destroyed so long ago was still among the living drove him forth. He summoned his weapon of choice, and the Bringer of Sorrow came to burning life in his hand as he took hold of the cold metal of the handle and yanked the door wide, plunging himself into the place of worship with the hunger of bloodlust beating in his chest. The church was enshrouded in darkness, the only light from candles burning before a makeshift altar in the front of the building. Belphegor waited for him there.

“Come in, come in,” the old angel said as he motioned Verchiel closer. “I was hoping to have a discussion with you before things got out of hand.” He shrugged. “I guess we’re a little late.”

Verchiel began moving cautiously down the center aisle; the flames of his sword illuminating the church’s interior with its wavering light. “I have nothing to discuss with the likes of you,” he snarled as he surveyed the offensive surroundings.

Belphegor smiled as if privy to some secret knowledge. “That is where you’re wrong, Verchiel,” he corrected. “There is much to talk about.” He turned to the mural painted upon the wall. “Have you seen this?” the fallen angel asked, gesturing to the depiction of an unholy trinity.

Verchiel sneered. “I have borne witness to myriad representations of this repugnant prediction in my pursuits. I ca

Belphegor nodded. “I figured that would be your answer.”

“It is heresy to even think that the Lord God would allow—”

“He has, Verchiel,” Belphegor interrupted. “He has allowed it. The prophecy has come true—you’ve seen it with your own eyes, but you’re too damn stubborn to accept it.”

The leader of the Powers seethed, the fallen angel’s barbed words stoking the fires of his wrath. “The Creator has entrusted me with a mission that I intend to fulfill; those who si

Belphegor moved toward him, defiance in his ancient eyes. “And what of our greatest si

Sounds of the violence outside drifted into the place of worship, but it was nothing compared to the deafening din inside the angel’s head. “The first of the fallen sired nothing,” Verchiel roared, startled by his own fury. “We saw to that. Any woman who lay with him was destroyed. There was no chance of his seed taking root—”

“Not only did the seed root, but it bore fruit,” Belphegor said, his voice firm with certainty.

Verchiel steeled himself, gripping his weapon all the tighter. “It ca

Belphegor shrugged again. “Mysterious ways and all that.” He smiled and turned his gaze back to the mural. “Don’t you see, Verchiel, it must be what He wanted—and if the Morningstar can be forgiven, there’s hope for us all.”

The church walls seemed to be closing in upon Verchiel, the revelation of the Nephilim’s sire testing his limits. Did he have the might to hold on to his sacred mission? He felt it begin to slip from his grasp. How could this have happened? The question reverberated in his skull.

“Is it so outrageous to believe that we can be forgiven?” Belphegor asked him, the question like a dagger strike to his chest.

“Lies!” Verchiel shrieked, his wings unfurling as he strode down the remainder of the aisle toward the altar.

He pointed his blade toward the mural and the fire from his weapon streamed forth to scorch the painted image black. And then Belphegor’s hands were suddenly upon his shoulders, and he was hurled backward into the rough benches, reducing them to kindling.

“You must face the truth!” Belphegor shouted, the altar burning behind him. “You are going against His wishes!”

Verchiel rose from the small pile of rubble, the power of his righteous fury building inside him. He remained silent, knowing what he must do.

“But it’s not too late…,” Belphegor continued.

Verchiel’s body began to glow, his clothing burning away to reveal flesh like cold, white marble. The floor beneath him began to smolder and the wood ignited.

“You, too, could be forgiven for your sins.”

The Powers’ commander spread open his wings and the fire of his heavenly being emanated from his body in waves.

“We could all go home, Verchiel,” Belphegor pleaded, as his own flesh began to blister.

Then Belphegor burned.

As would they all.

Malak wielded two daggers, slashing and darting forward with the murderous grace of a venomous serpent. He seemed tireless in his pursuit of Aaron’s demise, and the Nephilim found his defenses begi

He didn’t want to remember his little brother as the monster attacking him now, so he kept the memories of the child he loved at the forefront of his thoughts, drawing strength from emotion. With both hands he brandished a large broadsword of pulsing orange flame, swinging it around as opportunity presented itself. The flat of the blade co