Rise Of The Nephilim

The battle drums sounded firmly, cutting through the silence, thick and wrought with the promise of what was to come.

Two Epochs gestured for Maxine and the others to enter the arena. Āmand stood in the middle of it, his hands folded over his chest, his wings retracted. Maxine stood at the center of her siblings, Zeda beside her. They were almost paralyzed; everything in them felt weak and fragile as if they could break into fragments at any moment.

“This is the price for disobedience,” Āmand said, encircling his frightened Nephilim.

What did we really do? For the first time, Maxine tried to figure out what it was they had done, exactly. All they had tried to do was save Zeda. Why was that so wrong? She thought.

“You will battle the Imps to the death. Don’t think me cruel, for my hope is that you will be the victors.”

He’s sending us to die. How is that not cruel? Maxine thought.

Āmand’s heart did hurt for the decision he’d made. But he felt it necessary to make the point, warding off any future occurrences of mindless disobedience. Still, something in him stirred, questioning his decision, especially regarding Maxine. Since her arrival, she’d managed to kill Balthazar, Arcadium’s first son; she’s been insolent; and now, she somehow convinced Gaden, Haman, Silla, and Shian to go after Zeda―with Shian paying the ultimate price. He wondered if perhaps his thinking was blurred by his love for her. Had it been anyone else, he would have disposed of her on the day she’d arrived. Maybe he would have taken her to the Imps’ Dungeon as an offering.

“Give them weapons,” he ordered. Three Epochs entered the arena with various weapons. Maxine took the sword; Silla, the spiked chain; Haman, an ax; Gaden, a sword; and Zeda, a dagger.

The quiet in the room drove fear deeper into their minds.

Āmand looked sternly at his Nephilim. They all avoided his gaze. “Bring out the Imps,” he ordered.

The stench grew even stronger as the Epochs hauled the Imps into the arena. Saliva, slimy and white, foamed and dripped away from their mouths. Their hands grasped at the chains around their necks, chains just long enough to encircle the width and length of the arena.

Silla turned her head away.

“Revolting,” she said as the Epochs pulled the Imps in closer.

“This will be a challenge to the death. If you step outside the arena, you will be killed immediately,” Āmand announced, his voice, unsteady, almost immediately regretting his words. For he realized that if any did, he would be forced into carrying out this sentence himself.