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“I have so many questions…”
Idris rubbed the back of his neck, looking both perplexed and stunned. Aisling shared that feeling. She herself wouldn’t have known where to begin. Since the illusion had dissipated, her mind was still struggling to accept what she was seeing.
Nephilim.
Younger than the Horsemen, strange mixtures of angels and demons, some had a remarkably human appearance, apart from their size, while others had horns and even wings. They seemed less dangerous than the Four as well. Not just less experienced: they emanated something less supernatural.
Their leader, barely ten years older than her at most, had helped her up with unexpected gentleness after the confrontation. He had shown neither hostility nor fear, only a strange form of contained gravity. In a firm tone, he had then guided Aisling, Nimue, Death, and Fenja through the stands to bring them back to the others. He was now trying to ease tensions, speaking in low voices with certain angels and demons.
War and Strife, meanwhile, seemed nervous, struck by a stupor they couldn’t manage. Uriel wasn’t hiding her nervousness either. Even Astaroth seemed disoriented, too silent to be calm. As for Death… he had remained completely mute since the scene in the tribune. He hadn’t spoken a word. A presence, cold and distant, unreachable.
Fury, on the other hand, showed no surprise. Aisling understood that she knew and that there had never been any question of saving her.
Meanwhile, visibly prominent members of this strange assembly had gathered apart, plunged into a feverish debate. The tone was low, but the intensity palpable.
“What are they doing?” Fenja frowned, observing the group.
“They’re deliberating,” Fury replied. “They’re deciding whether they’ll let you enter deeper into the caves. It took them three days to decide my fate.”
War then turned his head.
“Why didn’t you come to meet us, my sister?” his voice resonated with restrained reproach, but heavy with meaning.
“They needed help,” Fury replied, crossing her arms, her gaze still turned toward the deliberation circle. “They attract here the majority of wandering monsters when they start getting a little too close to the village. It creates a diversion and protects the others.”
“The others?” repeated Uriel, frowning, intrigued.
“There are others?” Fury slowly nodded, without looking away.
“I think you’d better see for yourselves. If I explained it to you… you wouldn’t believe me.”
A silence settled for a moment, before Idris broke the tension:
“Are they really…”
“They look like it from afar, yes,” Strife replied with unusual gravity in his voice. “Up close too, actually. But… there’s something… different.”
Aisling turned her attention to the group of Nephilim in the distance, studying their features, their postures. They resembled Fury, Strife, and War, none really like Death — whose form already seemed apart even within the Four. These young nephilim seemed more balanced, more “finished.” As if where the Horsemen embodied raw concepts, forged by war, ending, and chaos, these Nephilim were the fruit of a more precise design, less raging. Less broken.
“I thought all knowledge allowing the creation of such beings had been sealed,” Uriel had straightened, her wings twitching with a nervous movement.
“It is,” Fury confirmed.
“Then how—”
“You’ll see,” she simply cut off. “Once again… if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
Aisling cast a discreet glance at Death. The Horseman’s silence, usually weighed and measured, was beginning to take on another tone. He hadn’t spoken a word since the revelation of the Nephilim. His features revealed nothing. Not an expression. Not a breath of emotion. Just this icy immobility, as if he had withdrawn behind a door locked from the inside. She didn’t have time to think about it further. The large demoness returned to them with heavy steps, eyes narrowed with mistrust.
“Follow us,” she growled, her voice hoarse and imperious. “And no tricks. I’m watching all of you.”
The group hesitated. Even Strife seemed reserved. Fury simply cast a look at her brothers and companions, then a brief nod. So they followed. The strange assembly guided them out of the arena. They plunged into the depths, and very quickly, the rough corridors of the cave became more winding, denser, like an ancient labyrinth.
The walls seemed to close in on them, the air charging with underground moisture. As they advanced, it became clear that the place had not been shaped by chance. Every turn, every fork, every spiral gallery seemed to exist to confuse tracks. Nothing here was made to be found.
They walked for a long time more, guided through the sinuous entrails of the mountain, until suddenly, the air changed. Then the rock finally opened.
They emerged into an immense cavern. Columns of natural light fell from shafts carved in the rock above, illuminating the place with an unreal softness. The space opened onto a true underground sanctuary — an entire village, sculpted in the walls, galleries, and floor of the cavern. Dwellings of rough stone, carved wood, rose between gardens and paths traced in the rock itself. Murmurs of life, voices, suspended activities, floated in the air like interrupted music.
And at the heart of it all, stood a colossal tree, whose trunk seemed to surge directly from the mineral ground. Its thick branches climbed to the light shafts, where its leaves met the sun’s rays. It resembled the one from Nimrach.
But as soon as they set foot in the village, silence fell like a lead blanket. All eyes turned toward them. The inhabitants had frozen. Angels. Demons. And Nephilim. Everywhere.
“Those are children?!” Strife murmured in a low voice, with astonishment that bordered on incredulity.
Aisling had seen them too. Nephilim children. Some were only teenagers, eyes hard, jaws clenched, observing the arrivals like one looks at a threat. Others were younger, interrupting their games to take refuge behind an adult or fix the newcomers with hostile curiosity. And even more — infants, in the arms of angel or demon women, nestled against their shoulders.
“What’s happening here?” War breathed, eyebrows raised, casting a perplexed look toward Fury.
She didn’t have time to respond. The young Nephilim leader approached with a calm step, his gaze fixed on the Horsemen.
“Come,” he said simply. “We need to talk.”
He gestured for them to follow him, pointing to the gigantic tree whose roots formed an interlacing of paths and shelters. An opening in the trunk, natural or sculpted, opened like a door to the interior.
Around them, the inhabitants gradually resumed life. Murmurs could be heard. The reassuring figures of the village dispersed the crowds and calmed the children. The agitation faded behind the feigned smiles of a community accustomed to hiding.
Only the large demoness, the one with the military aura, and a handful of guardians followed them, staying at a distance but keeping their eyes sharp. Not one of their gestures escaped their attention. The Horsemen, Astaroth, and Uriel were visibly under high surveillance.
They were made to enter a vast circular room, carved in the very heart of the trunk. A soft light, filtered by luminescent veins running through the bark. Several polished stone seats, arranged in a circle, formed a sort of deliberation arena.
They were gestured to sit. No one moved. The young Nephilim exchanged a brief look loaded with implications with the massive demoness who remained stationed behind him. He inhaled slowly.
“I imagine you have questions…” he finally said, his voice calm but tense.
“Just one,” Strife immediately raised a finger. “What the fuck?”
War ignored the remark and spoke in turn, more gravely, frowning.
“What are these enchantments? What we see cannot be real. Is this an illusion? A trick?”
The young Nephilim slowly turned his head toward Death. All eyes followed.
“No,” his voice resonated in the silence like the rustling of wind over an open grave. “They are what they appear to be… Simply… they are not like us.”
“That’s impossible!” Uriel stepped back, her wings trembling with nervous tension. “All Nephilim were annihilated during the battle of Eden!”
“All those born of Absalom, yes…” the young nephilim murmured softly. “Please… sit down.”
It took a moment, but the Horsemen and their companions finally gave in, settling with mistrust. The young Nephilim cleared his throat.
“My name is Ogias. And this is my aunt, Ama.” The demoness remained motionless at her post, stationed in her nephew’s shadow, her eyes flashing at each of them. “Excuse her. She’s not really thrilled to have brought the famous Horsemen of the Apocalypse to our doors.”
The demoness merely growled, a deep and irritated sound. Fenja straightened slightly, squinting.
“Wait a minute… your aunt?” she asked, incredulous. “Ama is from the same litter as my mother,” Ogias nodded, calm despite the contained agitation in the room.
The information took a moment to make its way to Aisling’s consciousness. Then, suddenly, the revelation struck like a sword blade appearing from nowhere.
“You… you’re born.” Her voice trembled with shock. “You’re not the fruit of manipulation… You were born, not conceived!”
“That’s impossible,” War shook his head.
“Difficult,” Ogias replied in a calm, patient tone. “With a low success rate, but… but not impossible.”
The rest of the assembly watched with apprehension. But the Horsemen seemed more frozen in a state of shock or mistrust than in the immediate desire to kill.
“How?” Death broke the silence.
“If that were the case, why didn’t Lilith simply have her Nephilim from her own womb?” Aisling sought to understand.
“That bitch was never known for her patience,” Ama replied dryly, her face twisted with old contempt. “And above all, she didn’t want children. She wanted a race entirely submissive to her will. Docile, powerful, fanatical. Not offspring to raise with love.”
“A natural union between an angel and a demon has always been possible,” Ogias slowly nodded. “But the circumstances for this to happen have simply never been met… until now.”
“The End War…” Idris murmured.
“Yes. The war forced angels and demons to cohabit, sometimes for decades, stuck in conflict zones. Cloistered in advanced posts, deprived of reinforcements or orders, with only their former enemies for company… they ended up discovering common ground… Sometimes more.”
Aisling thought this shouldn’t turn out to be a surprise. Varakh and Seraphel’s coalition had been born from an identical situation. Were they too… No. Later.
“Just as all trees of life and death are really only one and the same tree crossing the Realms, it seems that the creatures of Creation share enough substance… to engender life. But not without paying the price…”
“The price?” War asked, his voice hard.
At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed outside. A demon with a pale face and short breath burst into the room, anguish etched on his features.
“Ama… we need you. My wife… the baby is coming!”
But no smile came to welcome the news. No cry of joy, no congratulations. On the contrary: a heavy silence immediately fell on the room, and faces darkened as if struck by an announced mourning. Ogias slowly stood, his shoulders stiff.
“Come. We’re going to show you.”
Aisling observed the scene before her with a mixture of disconcerting familiarity and profound strangeness. The panicked demon had led them to a small house embedded in the cavern, whose entrance was surrounded by a handful of silent figures. A muted tension weighed in the air. Some wept quietly, others stared at the ground, faces frozen. When the Horsemen approached, the crowd parted without a word, from instinctive fear, but without anyone fleeing. It was clear that all feared even more what was happening inside the house than those they feared outside.
Inside, the broken moans of a woman could be heard, piercing the silence like blades. Aisling was immediately caught by the tense atmosphere and the coppery smell of blood.
On a simple bed, an angel lay, streaming with sweat. Her tanned skin seemed to have paled, her silver hair, soaked, stuck to her temples, and her wings convulsed with painful spasms at each contraction. She screamed, panted, her hoarse throat letting escape broken sobs. Aisling had trouble believing what she saw: a pregnant angel. She would never have believed it was possible, and seeing the woman’s state, it was perhaps for good reason.
The demon returned to her bedside to hold her hand, squeezing her pale fingers between his, clawed and trembling. He murmured sweet words to her through the growls of pain. Around them, women, both angels and demonesses, bustled to support the mother. Ama, impassive, had already settled between her legs, her gaze hard and concentrated.
“My baby… tell me my baby is okay!” the angel begged, eyes wide with panic, unable to see through the curtain of pain.
Ama took on a softer tone, but Aisling immediately felt the change in atmosphere. Something was wrong.
“You need to push now. Otherwise… your child risks suffering.”
The mother let herself fall backward, breath cut by fear.
“No… no, I can’t anymore… I’m not going to make it…”
“Courage, my love…” the demon murmured, his forehead pressed to hers.
Ama suddenly straightened and gestured to her assistants.
“We’re going to accompany the contractions. Get ready to press.”
“What? No!” Aisling interposed, alarmed. “You risk breaking something, or causing internal bleeding!”
But Ogias gently caught her by the arm, his gaze sad and calm.
“Young human… it won’t matter soon…”
“If you want to help, make sure the baby passes correctly,” Ama added dryly without looking at her.
Aisling nodded, her heart pounding, and took position.
She had already assisted violent births. She had seen women die in childbirth, sometimes the child, sometimes both. But nothing had prepared her for what followed.
The mother’s piercing cries became almost monstrous, filling every corner of the house. One by one, Idris and several others had to leave, unable to bear the brutality of the scene. Even Aisling almost gave in when the sickening sound of broken bones resonated under her fingers, followed by the wet clap of tearing flesh, and the burning flow of blood.
And then, finally… she saw the child’s head appear. She carefully guided the passage, freed the shoulders, an arm, then the rest of the body, sliding into her bloody hands.
The infant began screaming immediately. A clear, powerful cry, vibrating with indomitable energy. Aisling let out a gasp of relief. That sound — that cry full of life — went through her like a miracle. How long had it been since she had heard such a strong, lively, new cry? She swaddled him in clean cloth, hands still trembling.
“Shh, little one… welcome. You’re fine. You’re here. It’s a boy… It’s a little bo—”
She looked up… and her voice died in her throat.
The mother wasn’t moving anymore. Her eyes, wide open, stared at an empty point, frozen in eternity. Her body, already sagged like a puppet without strings, seemed to begin withering. The demon, still at her side, held her hand against his forehead, without a word, refusing to let her go. Aisling saw the light in the angel’s eyes gradually fade, and before she could react, her body disintegrated. In the space of a few seconds, nothing remained of her but a cloud of ashes that scattered on the soiled sheets. Only the infant’s cries continued to resonate in the room. Still kneeling, the baby pressed against her, Aisling slowly turned toward the others, heart crushed, throat tight, not understanding.
Ogias shook his head, gravely.
“This… is the price to pay.”
Ogias left the room without a word, leaving behind the intimacy necessary for mourning. The other Horsemen remained frozen for another moment, silent, eyes riveted on the still-floating dust where, a few moments earlier, a life had disappeared. Then, one by one, they too went out.
Aisling had stayed. The baby in her arms was just discovering how to wave his little feet and fists, eyelids still heavy from the effort of being born, revealing in flashes pupils of incandescent orange. The young woman slid her gaze toward the father, collapsed on a chair, devastated, shoulders hunched, unable to cry. Ama was kneeling beside him, placing a firm and silent hand on his back, as if her touch could contain his pain. No words would have sufficed, anyway.
Then two angel and demon women gently approached Aisling, their gestures imbued with maternal delicacy.
“We’ll take him,” one of them said with a sweet smile, almost soothed. “He’ll see him later…”
Aisling frowned. “Later?”
“He knew what was going to happen,” the other woman nodded. “But he needs time now.”
“They… both knew what was going to happen?”
A silence followed, then a slight sad smile as a response.
“We all know.”
Aisling didn’t have the strength to ask other questions. She gently handed over the newborn, who whimpered in their arms. He was carried with gentleness toward another room. She straightened mechanically, cast a last look at the collapsed father, then crossed the threshold. Outside, Idris and Fenja were waiting a few steps away, visibly shaken. Both were as pale as linens left too long in the wind.
“I’d rather go naked on a battlefield than let my wife experience something like that,” Idris breathed, looking on the verge of fainting.
“Idris… you don’t have a wife,” Fenja replied, her voice weak, arms crossed as if to protect herself from invisible cold.
“We’ll adopt goats. Or dogs. Dogs are good…”
Aisling didn’t respond immediately. She was still looking at the house, gaze lost in the half-open door.
“They know they’re going to die,” she murmured, more to herself than to them. “The mothers of these Nephilim… angels or demonesses… they know. And they do it anyway.”
A long silence settled. The three young humans, and Nimue nestled against Aisling’s arm, remained there, observing the house in mourning, the murmur of tears in echo.
A little further away, the Horsemen were discussing with Ogias. There seemed to be some form of agreement between them. War, however, seemed tense. He approached Fury and, very quickly, voices rose. Uriel and Astaroth had to intervene, their firm tone imposing calm by necessity. Death, meanwhile, had already moved away, without a word or attention for the quarrel.
Strife, alone, came to sit near the small group. He let out a long, worn sigh, and collapsed, eyes vacant.
“Well… let’s say we’re pretty much safe for now.”
“What do you mean?” Idris asked.
“Well, these new generation Nephilim, and the angels and demons surrounding them… they were mainly afraid we’d do what we do best: massacre everything. But there… it’s clear they’re not really Nephilim. I mean, yes, they are, but not like us. More like… And… shit, the universe just got complicated to a level I didn’t sign up for.”
He removed his helmet, shook his head and buried his face in his hands.
“Strife… are you going to be okay?” Nimue asked in a gentle voice.
“No fucking idea, little flame,” he laughed, without joy. “I feel like I just took War’s fist right in the face. Again. And you know what? It would almost be good news to discover we’re not complete errors of creation… if only we hadn’t already massacred our entire race. Twice, in Death’s case…” He remained motionless for a moment. “We’re going to stay here a while. Ogias thinks he can help us with the Earth element. But for now… yeah… Hell of a day.”
They remained silent, not knowing what to say. Then after a long moment, Aisling finally dared to ask this question she had already asked him.
“Strife… Don’t you ever regret your decision?”
He removed his face from his hands, looking completely lost.
“Hell, dove… I think I do…”