← Previous |
Next →
Back to Fanfiction Page
“This amulet belonged to Fury. I’m certain of it, absolutely certain.”
Fenja’s voice carried unwavering conviction. Her fingers kept turning the object between them, a talisman of dark stone veined with pale blue crystal, glowing faintly in the firelight.
“She talked about it all the time. She said it was the most precious thing in the universe. She… she would never have parted with it like that.”
Her gaze drifted for a moment into the dancing shadows of the flames. The worry in her features was palpable, though she tried to contain it, Idris pressing closer to her side to comfort her.
“Do you think… she could have drowned?”
“Unlikely,” Astaroth, crouched near the makeshift fire they had lit to warm Aisling, threw a handful of dried bark into the embers. “Fury is tougher than most hells combined. If she left this amulet behind, it’s because she was forced to… or because she thought it was safer that way. Maybe she wanted to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.”
A thoughtful silence settled, immediately disturbed by the rustling of Uriel’s wings as she folded her winged silhouette to come closer. She glanced at the second object, which Aisling still held on her knees: a pale mask in the likeness of a skull.
“And that was Death’s mask.”
Aisling looked up, surprised.
“He wore it for millennia,” Uriel continued. “Since the fall of the Garden of Eden and the massacre of the Nephilim. The entire universe knew him only by that face since then. But how could such an artifact end up here, at the bottom of a branch of the Styx, on Earth? It makes no sense…”
Even Astaroth seemed thoughtful. He tapped a stone with his claws, eyes fixed on the flames.
“Unless something—or someone—wanted us to find it.”
“I’m starting to wonder if someone else doesn’t want us to find what he wants to show us…”
Aisling’s voice, though low, resonated in the group’s temporary silence. She looked up at Dust, perched high on a rocky ledge, his dark feathers ruffled, head slightly tilted, as if listening attentively. It had been a while now since the tension around the fire had somewhat relaxed, and she hoped their anger toward her had subsided enough for them to speak to her again without sarcasm or reproach.
“Following a spectral bird with glowing eyes…” Astaroth was the first to respond, his tone as rough as ever. “That’s not exactly what I’d call a genius plan. He’s already let you stupidly risk your neck. I don’t approve of replaying that scene.”
The others said nothing, but their looks and the few nods spoke for themselves. Clearly, their concern hadn’t yet dissipated. Aisling sighed, straightening up and adjusting the folds of her damp cloak.
“Fine… So what do we do, then?”
Fenja, arms crossed, stared at her for a moment without blinking.
“We could tie you up and carry you like a sack of potatoes. Frankly, I’m thinking about it.”
She didn’t seem to be joking. Idris couldn’t suppress a slight smile, which he immediately stifled behind a feigned cough before standing up as well.
“Let’s continue to the temple that Fenja and Fury had discovered,” he proposed calmly. “It’s our only landmark for now. We’ll see what we find there.”
The group resumed their journey, advancing through the winding galleries with damp walls. The rock, sometimes smooth, sometimes streaked with mineral veins, gleamed in places under the torchlight. After a long walk, they finally reached the famous temple.
It was actually a vast cavity with a surprisingly ordered structure: stone walls had been hand-carved, still bearing the marks of chisel and time. Ancient engravings, perhaps symbolic or religious, serpentined along the walls, while a rudimentary altar occupied the center, surrounded by stones arranged in a circle. Everything here spoke of human presence… or local intelligence. Someone lived, or had lived, in these depths.
While the others began inspecting the engravings and recesses, Dust started circling above them, cawing insistently. He sometimes dove toward one side of the cavity, almost disappearing into the darkness, before returning and starting again. Only Aisling seemed to pay attention to this behavior. She squinted, trying to guess what the raven was trying to tell them. Finally, she moved away a few steps, skirting a rocky column until she spotted a crack in the stone, almost hidden by dry roots and debris.
Dust perched there lightly, as if indicating the direction. Aisling approached, placing a hand on the wall to lean in. A breath of air, cold and light, brushed her cheek. And there, through the crack, she perceived something: sounds. Faint, indistinct. Clamors. Voices. Cries… like those of a crowd.
She straightened abruptly. Then she turned quickly toward the others and signaled them, finger pressed to her lips, then invited them with a gesture to approach and listen. One by one, they complied. Silence fell. Then, slowly, their expressions changed.
Instinctively, they all drew their weapons, holding them within reach. Aisling found herself immediately surrounded, protected by their silhouettes ready to ward off any threat. Together, they advanced into the narrow passage, descending carefully through the rocky meanders until they reached a natural opening, a vertiginous overlook.
The cavern they emerged into was even more immense, titanic. The ceiling, bristling with stalactites, was lost in invisible heights, while below, bathed in daylight filtering through large openings, stretched a spectacle as unexpected as it was disturbing: an arena.
Circular, roughly carved from raw rock, it was delimited by irregular walls, forming an enclosure around a smooth floor, blackened in places. Around it, arranged on rudimentary tiers, silhouettes pressed together. Dozens. Perhaps hundreds. Some shouted, others stamped their feet or fists on the stone. A dull rumble filled the air, mixed with the smell of dried blood and sweat.
They all crouched behind a rocky promontory, hiding in the shadow of the cavern’s irregularities to better observe what was playing out below. The arena, carved from the rock itself, opened in a semicircle onto a wide natural breach, a sort of gorge leading toward the outside of the mountain.
“What is… that?” murmured Nimue, leaning forward to see better.
“It looks like demonic arenas,” Astaroth, crouched beside her, frowned. “We love this kind of spectacle: blood, screams, fighting to the death. But this configuration is strange… It looks like a provocation.”
“A provocation? Why?” asked Idris.
“Look at the entrance.” He pointed with his chin at the gaping opening that led to the interior of the caverns. “To cross this underground network, you necessarily have to pass through the arena. There’s no path around. In other words… if you want to advance, you have to fight.”
“And this crowd…” murmured Fenja, her gaze fixed, perplexed.
Aisling tried to better distinguish what was moving in the tiers. A multitude of silhouettes pressed all around the arena, shouting, screaming, stamping their feet. Some gleamed with a golden light, fluid, almost sacred—angels. Others, more massive, dark, bristling with spikes or bone armor—demons. And then there were…
“Are those… humans?” Idris half-stood, stupefied.
There was no longer any doubt: men and women were screaming alongside the others, as if shared barbarity had erased all difference. Waving torches, raised fists, cries of encouragement…
“Ulthane had said he thought he’d perceived human presences throughout the kingdom…”
“We lived for decades in these ruins,” Uriel slowly shook her head, looking more grave than ever. “If they had been there… we would have found them.”
“Or maybe they hid too deep underground,” Fenja suggested.
Astaroth growled, looking skeptical.
“Impossible. The demons prowling here would never have tolerated humans on their territory without tearing them to shreds.”
“Are they the ones who attacked you?” Idris leaned toward Fenja.
“No idea… yes, maybe…”
“And what exactly are they cheering for?” asked Nimue, leaning forward again.
A sudden vibration ran through the cavern. A masculine voice, strong, thunderous, rose in an echo multiplied by the resonance of the walls. Impossible to understand the words, but the effect on the crowd was immediate. It exploded in a bestial roar, like a starving pack being announced the beginning of the feast.
A familiar silhouette suddenly found herself in the middle of the arena, seeming to have rushed there or been pushed.
“I think we just found Fury…” murmured Idris in a low voice.
He was right. Even in the dust and blood of the arena, her bearing remained recognizable among thousands. A second announcement was shouted, the voice losing itself in distorted echoes. Then the heavy gates at the back of the arena opened slowly, groaning like a monster’s jaws.
A tide of creatures rushed into the arena toward Fury: crawling demons, deformed monsters, howling beasts that no bestiary could name. The arena immediately transformed into a maelstrom of rage, violence, and chaos.
“Why lock her in there?” breathed Aisling, eyes riveted on the arena.
“You can’t imagine the number of entities that have a score to settle with the Horsemen,” The answer came from Uriel, grave, measured, almost bitter. “They’ve crossed worlds, executed sentences, destroyed kingdoms… Even among angels, some hate them. And among demons… don’t even mention it. And above all, many still don’t know that the Charred Council now considers them traitors. To them, they’re still figures of Judgment. Untouchable, hated, or worshipped, but always feared.”
Aisling straightened suddenly, adrenaline rising in her like a tide.
“Then we have to get her out of there! We can’t just sit here watching her get massacred!”
But as soon as she moved, Astaroth grabbed her by the shoulder and roughly pulled her back to the ground.
“What exactly do you plan to do? Jump into the arena and face an army?” He stared at her, his tone dry, but not mocking this time. Just worried.
He gestured briefly at the tiers.
“Look at them. This isn’t just a bunch of enraged spectators. I’ve never heard of a coalition between angels and demons, except the one orchestrated by Varak and Seraphel.”
“We should try to find the trail of the other Horsemen,” Uriel agreed, her voice calm but resolute. “We’d be much more effective by uniting our forces.”
“We still have to find them…” Fenja frowned. “And it’s not like we have a way to contact them.”
Aisling blinked, a bright click exploding in her memory.
“Yes, we do have one.”
Everyone turned toward her as she slowly raised her hand, looking at its back.
“Death’s mark. He said that if I or the seed were in danger, it would be enough to touch it.”
“Maybe that alerts him…” Nimue approached her, taking her hand between her fingers to better observe the mark.
Aisling let her, then carefully placed her free palm on the mark, short of breath, not knowing what to expect. For a second, nothing happened. No heat, no pulsation, no shiver of energy.
“Oh no…” murmured Nimue, suddenly releasing her hand.
Aisling looked up and realized they were no longer in the same place.
The arena, her companions’ faces, the familiar walls of the cavern… everything had disappeared. Only Nimue and she remained there, still in what seemed to be the immense underground network, but in a darker, more oppressive passage, and above all, much closer to the deafening clamors of the arena. The howls of monsters, the crowd’s cries, the resounding blows… the noise hammered Aisling’s eardrums through the stone. She stepped back, her heart pounding wildly.
“No… no, no, no…” she murmured.
Her stomach contracted with panic. They had just been teleported. She cast a circular glance around her, but the winding and humid walls of the cavern offered her no landmarks.
“What did I do…” she growled between her teeth, cursing herself internally.
“Maybe the mark was supposed to teleport you to Death?” Nimue’s voice resonated, obviously trying to avoid panicking herself.
But in that case… where was he?
Aisling and Nimue progressed carefully through the dark galleries. The arena’s rumble vibrated in the air like a dull echo from another world. Nimue suddenly stopped, scrutinizing the vault above them.
“I’m going to try to gain some height, see if I can spot the others,” she turned toward Aisling, looking serious. “Don’t go far. Especially not. I won’t be long.”
The young woman nodded, her throat tight. While Nimue rose, she resumed exploring the surroundings, her senses alert. A lateral gallery caught her eye. She slipped into it gently, and her eyes soon caught something in the dust.
Footprints. Several, intermingled, some half-erased. And right next to them… Someone had traced, with their fingertip, a rudimentary diagram on the dusty ground: a rough circle, with rectangular shapes inside and small crosses arranged at the four corners. A representation of the arena, seen from above.
The Horsemen… They had passed through here. Had they tried to attack? Had they failed?…
She didn’t have time to go further in her thoughts. The air vibrated around her, as if the atmosphere itself was contracting. She felt pressure mounting, a sudden, instinctive tension. She stepped back just in time.
A massive form burst from the rock like a specter emerging from its tomb. A horse. Aisling remained frozen, panting. But she recognized the animal. Death’s mount.
He stared at her for a moment, ears flattened back in annoyance, as if he was expecting someone else. Then, suddenly, he advanced and buried his muzzle in her bag, sniffing insistently.
Aisling understood immediately. Trembling, she opened the flap and slowly pulled out the whitened bone mask. The animal froze, staring at the object.
“You’re looking for him too…” she breathed.
This wasn’t a good sign. Not good at all. Nimue returned from a quick flight, visibly shaken, her features tense.
“We’re at the other end of the cavern,” she said, out of breath. “Just below the arena, I think. I can’t locate the others… But I saw Fury. And the situation… It doesn’t look like it’s going well for her.”
“We won’t be able to wait,” Aisling was muttering, almost to herself. “I know Fury doesn’t need anyone, but alone against the entire universe might be a bit much to bear. And we’re running out of time… We won’t be able to rejoin the others in time. And we don’t even know where Death, War, and Strife are.”
Nimue inhaled deeply, as if preparing to take something unpleasant.
“You’re about to propose something completely crazy to me, aren’t you? One of those things I’m going to hate… but that I won’t be able to prevent because, unfortunately, you’re probably right.”
Aisling didn’t respond. She stared alternately at the whitened bone mask in her hand, and the spectral horse in front of her that was pawing nervously.
“Uriel said that Death wore this mask for millennia… That the majority of the universe knew him only by this face. So no one could guess who’s hiding behind it, right?” Aisling slowly raised her head, her eyes bright with a dangerous idea.
Nimue’s eyes widened.
“Oh no… no, no, no… I confirm… I hate this idea.”
Fenja progressed carefully in the narrow stone passage, senses alert, Astaroth at her side. Behind her, Idris advanced in silence, one hand placed on the wall to orient himself in the irregular darkness. Uriel brought up the rear, silent but visibly annoyed.
The huntress couldn’t stop thinking about Aisling and Nimue. Where had they been teleported? She hoped—no, she forced herself to believe—that they had been sent to Death. But deep down, a cold anguish knotted her stomach.
“I know we don’t have a better lead, but what will we do once we reach the arena?”
“So let’s mingle with the populace,” Astaroth launched with a rictus, his voice low.
“After all, what would they see? An angel, a demon, and two little humans. Nothing unusual around here, apparently.”
“It’s both stupid… and brilliantly suicidal,” Uriel stopped for a moment to glare at him.
“Do you have a better idea?”
Uriel didn’t answer immediately, her lips pursed in thought.
“Maybe we should just let Fury do what she knows how to do. She’s survived much worse than this. If we attract attention, we ruin everything. It might be better to pursue the Earth Elemental’s trail.”
“Our trail stopped at the temple,” Fenja slowly shook her head. “This strange cult, this veneration of the egg… That’s where everything converges. And this arena… this motley crowd of angels, demons, and humans… they know something. I’m sure we can glean information if we manage to infiltrate.”
Uriel fell silent. But her gaze betrayed worry. She was clearly not convinced, and even less reassured.
They finally emerged onto a low opening below a tribune carved from the stone itself, one leap from the arena’s center. The noise was deafening. Hundreds of voices screamed, laughed, applauded, growled, all in a sonic chaos that seemed to make the cavern walls themselves vibrate.
They stopped, hidden as much as possible by the rock. Fenja scrutinized the faces of humans within her sight above her. She recognized none of them. They were definitely not survivors from Nimrach. Idris, very close to her, whispered:
“Did you notice the humans? There are no old ones among them. Not one. The oldest must be… what, thirty? Thirty-five at most.”
She nodded silently. It was true. A young people, with strange energy. While the angels and demons displayed features marked by centuries. She tried to count the crowd: two hundred people, maybe a little more if not all were gathered here.
And in the center, in the arena, the carnage. Fury. She whirled among grotesque, deformed creatures with maws bristling with fangs and oversized limbs. The ground was littered with severed limbs, acidic fluids, and charred flesh. Her chain traced arcs of fire in the air, her blows were lightning-fast. But it was obvious she was seriously beginning to tire.
“Well, and now, what do we—” Uriel began, but she was suddenly interrupted by a powerful voice that rose, naturally amplified by the cavern’s structure.
“Let the Alpha in!” thundered a man in his thirties from an overlooking tribune, his voice cutting like a cleaver through the tumult.
He stood straight, imposing despite his youth, visibly in a position of authority. Beside him, a sharp-looking demoness observed the arena with glacial intensity.
Cries of euphoria immediately swept through the crowd, a wave of primitive excitement and violent fervor. But beneath their feet, the rock vibrated. Fenja suddenly turned her head toward the arena’s extremity. Behind the heavy metal gates, angels and demons were deliberately attracting a creature of staggering size, with multiple eyes and a maw bristling with fangs. They were baiting it, forcing it to enter, and lowered the gate behind it to lock it in with Fury.
The Horsewoman inhaled slowly, visibly annoyed, then tightened her grip on her flaming chain.
Beside Fenja, Idris had his mouth half-open, frozen with horror. Astaroth was smiling grimly, nervous laughter stuck in his throat. Uriel said nothing. She simply drew her sword in a metallic hiss.
“Is this the moment when we’re going to help her?” she asked, already reaching for her bow.
“Yes,” Uriel answered without hesitation. “There… yes.”
They all leaped into the arena without further delay. A shiver of stupor ran through the tiers. Exclamations burst out, faces turned, and confusion spread through the crowd’s ranks. The four intruders now stood upright, weapons drawn, standing alongside the flaming Horsewoman.
“What are you doing?!” bellowed the man from the tribune, leaning over the balustrade. “We don’t participate!”
It took a few more seconds for the audience to understand that the newcomers weren’t theirs. Fury turned toward them, furious.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
“We came to help you, obviously!” Fenja replied, drawing her bow, arrow nocked, gaze riveted on the creature.
“Help me?! But I don’t need help!”
Astaroth rolled his eyes while making sure the egg was well attached. He positioned himself, ready to pounce on one of the titan’s monstrous legs.
“It’s so typical of Horsemen,” he growled. “Always convinced they have to carry the universe alone.”
“No!” Fury hissed, glaring at Astaroth. “I’m here voluntarily.”
“You… you’re not a prisoner?” Uriel wondered, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course not! I’m cleaning out this damn nest of vermin. So get back to safety quickly before—”
She didn’t have time to finish.
The monster charged, in a heavy and menacing vibration. At the same instant, several events exploded in cascade.
Cries erupted from the crowd. Three familiar silhouettes had just appeared in the middle of the tribunes. They had hidden among the spectators in human attire until now, but now their true forms imposed themselves brutally: Death, War, and Strife.
As soon as they revealed their nature, angels and demons threw themselves at them, surrounding them with an almost panicked protective violence. The chief in the tribune was shouting indistinct orders, his voice drowned by the chaos.
And then, a whinny resounded.
A long spectral cry, piercing, coming from a lateral tunnel. Everyone turned. A cadaverous horse emerged from the shadows and on its back, a rider dressed in night-blue veils, floating around him like a supernatural mist. A white skull-shaped mask covered his face.
Fury froze.
“Death? But…” She cast a confused look between the silhouette fighting at the top of the tribunes… and the one, mounted on the steed, in the arena’s center.
Fenja cursed internally and exchanged a meaningful look with Idris.
“I’m going to kill her,” she muttered between her teeth.
But the diversion was salutary.
The angels and demons, seeing the masked “Death” galloping out of the arena, rushed in pursuit through the corridors, convinced they had to intercept one of the Horsemen.
Meanwhile, the real Death, accompanied by War and Strife, managed to break the encirclement and joined Fury, Fenja, and the others in the arena’s center where angels and demons followed them.
“So? Having a party without inviting the friends?” Strife launched, already pointing his weapons toward the monstrosity in the arena’s center.
“My brothers…” Fury looked at them arriving, discrete relief crossing her face.
Not because she felt overwhelmed, but there was something she had to tell them. Urgent.
Death understood with a glance.
“Later. First, we get out of this mess.”
“Don’t hurt the humans at all,” Fury insisted, her tone suddenly grave. “None of them. I’m serious.”
“The big disgusting monster, can we?” Strife asked, almost fidgeting with impatience.
“Where are Aisling and Nimue?” War asked, joining the circle that had formed around Fury.
“Still alive… but not for long,” Fenja growled, shooting an arrow that embedded itself in the monster’s flank, which, indifferent to the chaos, charged again, ready to crush everything in its path.
“She’s horseback riding,” Idris commented, preparing his sword with a blasé sigh.
“Despair will protect her for now,” Death replied, his dark eyes focused on the beast. “Get rid of this thing. You, Huntress, with me. We need to take care of the snake’s head.”
Without waiting for an answer, he rushed toward the tribunes where increasing agitation reigned. Fenja hesitated only a second before following him, jostling panicked spectators, avoiding assaults from some too-zealous angels or demons, all more concerned with protecting the humans in their ranks than confronting the Horsemen.
Reaching the main tribune, Fenja spotted the man at the head of the assembly: the thirty-something with the authoritative voice, still standing, his gaze as cold as it was determined. Beside him, the martial-looking demoness immediately leaped to bar Death’s path, but he intercepted her effortlessly, blades clashing in a flash.
Meanwhile, the man seized an axe and stepped forward toward Fenja.
“I advise you not to raise that against me,” she breathed, aiming an arrow at his chest.
“I advise you not to shoot, little girl,” he replied, his voice low, threatening.
“And I advise you not to threaten my friend…”
A muffled voice rose behind the man. A blade emerged from the shadows and came to rest against his throat. A firm hand gripped him by the shoulder, immobilizing him without mercy. The silhouette slowly emerged from the darkness, masked with Death’s pale skull, but short of breath, voice vibrating with poorly contained tension.
The demoness immediately ceased her fight against Death, gaze fixed on the human with sincere concern. Taking advantage of the diversion, Death disarmed her without difficulty.
In the arena, the other Horsemen were finishing off the beast, bringing it down in formidable coordination. But their victory was short-lived. Very quickly, they found themselves surrounded by a new wave of angels and demons, threatening.
From the tribune, Death growled, his voice glacial and authoritative.
“Tell your men to back down, kid.”
Aisling pressed the blade’s edge harder against the human chief’s throat, reinforcing Death’s threat. The man made a simple gesture toward the arena’s center. Immediately, the blades lowered. Tensions dropped, contained.
“We don’t want conflict with you, Horsemen,” the man declared calmly, eyes focused on Death. “If what Fury said is true… you must help us.”
“Unlikely,” Death growled, not lowering his guard.
“I understand. You need a good reason.”
And without warning, he grabbed Aisling’s wrist, leaned forward, and in a sharp movement, threw her over his shoulder. She fell heavily on her back, breathless. Barely on the ground, Nimue detached from her, rolling, freeing the ethereal veils that still concealed their silhouette. Aisling’s mask slipped to the side, half-revealing her face.
The man knelt on her, firmly holding her wrist. Fenja, bow raised, and Death, scythe in hand, nearly intervened, but he raised his hand.
“Stop. Wait. Take a moment. Look at me… and blink.”
Fenja frowned, not understanding immediately. But she obeyed. Once. Then a second time. And there… the illusion faded. The human appearance melted like a mirage. In its place, a being of another nature: powerful, hybrid… terribly familiar. A Nephilim.
Death stepped back, releasing the demoness, frozen with stupor.
“Impossible…”
Fenja looked around her, widened her eyes, then made a complete turn observing the humans in the tiers.
She blinked. Again. The veil tore for each of them. Not a single one was human.
All… were Nephilim.