Rise Of The Nephilim

It was midnight, the hour for the exhibition. Hours had passed, while the Nephilim ate and drank. Excitement buzzed in the air.

Maxine felt more at ease after she’d befriended several of her sisters and brothers, for the opposite could have been achieved:she could have made more enemies.

Āmand stood up from his chair, extended his wings, and outstretched his arms.

Maxine’s hair moved at the slight brush of air on the back of her neck.

“Silence!”

An Epoch entered the empty space in the middle of the room. He held a bronze sword. Āmand had also moved to the middle of the room. He made eye contact with each of his Nephilim as he paced around in a circular fashion along the inside perimeter of the tables.

“Who will battle this Epoch?”

Tension grew thick and wrought with dread. They all looked around at each other, trying to decide who would be the next to die, for battling an Epoch was a fight to the death. Should a Nephilim succeed, they would be looked upon with honor and glory, especially in the eyes of their father.

Silla looked at Maxine with a sly look in her eyes.

“Why don’t you give it a try, sister?” she asked.

She knew full well that Maxine had no idea, no clue of the possible outcome.

Maxine believed it to be just a game—merely a part of the celebration.

She weighed the suggestion in her mind, deciding that, since this celebration was in her honor, it was her duty to be the first to volunteer.

She stood up, signaling that she would be willing to try. However, before she could pronounce her willingness to fight, Haman stood up and jumped at the chance to regain Āmand’s favor.

“I will, Father; I will battle the Epoch.”

Maxine gave him a devious look, not knowing the truth of it, and took this as another insult. She believed that he was continuing to challenge her.

Silla, sitting by his side, yanked on his hand.

“Haman, no. You are in no shape,” she said.

The Epoch grunted, an attempt at laughter, and took his ready stance, switching his sword from one hand to the next.

Āmand stepped aside, one hand outstretched.

“I bid you favor, son.”

Haman stepped inside the square to face the Epoch.

“Give him a weapon,” Āmand ordered.

Another Epoch had entered the square holding a long iron spear and placed it in Haman’s hands. As he left the square, he locked eyes with Maxine, forcing her to look away.

Haman strengthened his grip around the spear and took a fighting stance. Both trepidation and exuberance fought within him.

Āmand returned to sit next to Maxine. There he watched and listened as the others cheered Haman on, with the exception of Maxine, who maintained the same rigid, emotionless, and cold posture she had had earlier.

It could have been because she did not understand what was about to take place, or that her blood had continued to burn with anger for the way Haman had treated her earlier. Either way, she refused to appear vulnerable, hiding her crushed pride.

Haman, with watchful eyes, circled the Epoch as he waited for the right moment to strike.

Haman saw an opening and charged towards the Epoch. The Epoch had already anticipated his move and struck his spear away from its intended target, his abdomen.

The room erupted in an uproar, all chanting, “Strike him dead!” All but Maxine and Āmand.

The Epoch and Haman took numerous turns trying to undo each other, though unsuccessfully; both were becoming increasingly wary.

Āmand sat back in his chair holding a glass of red wine, swirling it around as he watched silently.

“Watch carefully, daughter, for tomorrow your training begins. Soon you will battle the Epoch to earn your right to live, as must all my Nephilim.”

Guilt entered Maxine’s mind as she looked on at Haman fighting for his honor, for it was at that moment that she realized that this was not just a challenge for the sake of entertainment. This was a fight to the death . . . a fight for life.

She donned a slight grin, for it seemed to be the right thing to do.

“I understand, Father. I’m eager to earn that right and your trust.”

The sudden and persistent beating of steel drums reverberated through the stone walls, silent to the world above, yet thunderous to those who lived in Babylonia. It brought an immediate stop to the celebration, including the battle between Haman and the Epoch.

Maxine looked around, wondering what was happening. Had it not been for the look of panic on all their faces, she would have thought that this was all a part of the celebration.

Āmand pushed himself away from the table and stood, his wings spanned out, his personal Epochs at his back. “Prepare to defend your city!” he commanded.

Before he took flight with his guards following closely behind, he ordered several Epochs to protect Maxine. However, as they neared the mouth of the room, a small battalion of Arcadian Epochs appeared, blocking the way.

The Arcadians were fully armed and wore the black armor of Arcadian chainmail, nearly impenetrable. The Arcadian crest—paired wings emblazoned with the mark of the scorpion at their center—stood out proudly on their breastplates.

Some raised their heavy swords and stampeded their way through the entrance, cutting down the Babylonian Epochs who rose to stop the ambush.

Others had taken flight to attack Āmand and the Epochs who surrounded him.

Babylonian Epochs circled Maxine, protecting her from the incoming assault.

Both panic and a strange exuberance rushed through her at once. She looked at her brothers and sisters and saw that they had taken a fighting stance with weapons firmly in their hands—swords and spears and heavy chains—ready to protect their city, ready to die if they had to.

She wanted to fight; her blood burned with the desire to hold a weapon, knowing that it would give her sustenance.

The Arcadians pushed further into the room; the sting of Babylonian swords and the points of iron spears greeted them as they pushed on.

Screams filled the room; metal pierced and sliced through flesh.

Maxine saw that Haman had been targeted. She saw the Arcadians rushing toward him, his stare hard and unmoving. She instinctively pulled a sword from the sheath of one of her protectors and pushed her way through, her heart pulsing wildly. She rushed towards Haman, her face flushed red, blood burning like fire, and within a flash, plunged the point of the sword into the side of the Arcadian.

Haman stared at her, his eyes wide, his brow quivering as his emotions raged against one another.

Maxine tore the blade from the Arcadian’s torso, watching as the blood pulsed from his body.

The battle came to a sudden halt. Silence filled the room, and all eyes turned to Maxine as she held the sword, the Arcadian’s blood dripping from it.

Arcadium emerged, hovering in the air, Epoch blood dripping from his sword, wings fluttering. He stared, his eyes red, mind numb, and his voice quieted at the sight of his felled son. The reality of what had just transpired pierced him like poisoned arrows.

His screams echoed through the room. “Balthazar!”

Maxine panicked and dropped the sword, her breath fleeting.

Arcadium’s eyes were piercing and wet. His approach was swift and vengeful as he flew toward Maxine, Āmand at his heels.

Haman, Malachi, David, and others, including several Epochs, swiftly surrounded her, protecting her from Arcadium’s murderous rage.

Arcadium threw his sword hard like a spear, swift and pointed, toward her. It was Malachi, first son of Āmand, who met its blade. It plunged through his heart, tearing a gaping hole as it almost completely cleared his back.

Malachi’s face swelled with pain as the blade shot through him. His eyes swelled, and it seemed as if they would burst before he hit the ground.

The room was silent once again. Āmand and Arcadium fluttered out of each other’s reach, their guards nearby. They looked at each other, anger coursing through them. The moment was ripe for an all-out war. However, better minds prevailed.

“Brother, you’ve lost your way! Your war should not be with me; it should be with the Humans!” Āmand called.

Arcadium stared intensely at Āmand and then at Maxine, locking his eyes with hers, sending shivers spiraling up her spine.

“I promise you, brother, this is not over! Soon, I will destroy you and your Nephilim pigs! Heed my words; your end is near! Your end is near!” he repeated, Maxine trapped in his line of sight.

He stared once more at the lifeless body of Balthazar. Then he swiftly turned and exited the room, his Arcadians following closely behind to secure his exit from the city.