Henry brushed aside a cloud of dandelion tufts swaying gently in the late winter wind. The divine nephilim lord gazed levelly at the 13 year old prince, halfway to being 14, seated upon his magically imbued stone, cultivating beside the lord’s older, also divine brother.
‘He’s growing at a decent pace,’ Henry admitted to himself begrudgingly, ‘but he’s still nowhere near the level of his cousins, nor the other 6 imperial houses’ princes and princesses.’
Henry’s brow creased slightly, a millions thoughts raced through his head, hidden behind his perfect golden and blue eyes.
‘Not to mention the lesser royals,’ he groaned inwardly, ‘nor the scions of the noble houses, nor even the rising stars of the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy’s acolytes. It will be a massive pain… unless…’
The lord was momentarily ripped from his pondering as a sudden explosion of power rocked the gentle grotto that safely hid the Sympathetic Ground the two were cultivating in.
His brother’s form had barely changed, as the viscount remained meditating unbothered as if nothing had happened, but Prince Damien had changed massively. It had been a week since Damien’s anointing ceremony, but Henry had never forgotten its events. Not once. After all, it wasn’t often an Archbishop of the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy was brought to heel, especially not one as old or as influential as Archbishop Theodorus Maxwell.
And yet even that was a moot point.
The presence of an angel… especially a Power was not something that was ever taken lightly by any in the Mortal Realms, especially not by the Nephilim. Especially when the visitor was one of the holy exalted closest to the throne of The Almighty itself. A creature that had actually seen the great being with its own holy eyes appearing and personally anointing the crown prince, had caused a massive ripple effect to take place across the entire congregation of those at the manor. Though each and every last Nephilim chosen to staff the manor had been sworn, threatened, and hexed to secrecy many times over as to not reveal the existence of the imperial crown prince, it didn’t stop them from feverishly conversing amongst themselves about the miracle they had witnessed.
Even though none of the manor staff could answer any of the myriad calls pouring in nonstop from their friends and families about the strange glowing of the many great statues, while feigning ignorance, they still gossiped shamelessly about how the strange event had rocked the entire empire. Every faction with any sort of power was expecting something big to happen, yet none knew what.
Lazily, Henry’s eyes drifted from Prince Damien’s jet black reaper mask, hiding the imperial crown prince’s angelized face, down to his bladed wings. The soft reflections of light bouncing off each individual razor sharp, blade-like feather arrested Henry’s attention like a bear trap.
Those wings that had thoroughly expunged the silently growing discomfort and discontent Henry had been sensing coming through the intents of some of the many flavors of Nephilim staffing the D’amorn house manor, had also reignited the lord’s beliefs in the top secret plans that had once seemed nothing short of absolute madness. Even when Empress Hoaquin herself had personally briefed the noble on what she needed him to do, the divine lord’s mind screamed in fear behind the cool, collected exterior with which he returned the great being’s level gaze.
Even when he’d first met Damien, Henry couldn't help but feel in some deep recesses of his divine mind, that he was being played for a fool. Sure seeing the young boy wielding heavenly fire and alchemy of all things before his 13th birthday had shocked the lord to his core, part of him remained pragmatic and unbelieving that this ignorant little shrimp was actually the blood heir of the current strongest.
But now he had seen with his own eyes the same wings that hadn’t graced the world of the living in hundreds of thousands of years, everything was different. The same wings that had once held aloft Holy Jerrizah eons ago, a being that at his peak was the first to ever be formally titled the strongest mage in the Mortal Realms, were now resting gently folded on the back of the son of the 16th being to hold the title of the strongest mage in the Mortal Realms.
The light of hope began to burn in Henry’s eyes. Hope… and something else…
But, as Prince Damien and Viscont Jorie opened their eyes, having finished the prince’s morning cultivation, the look was immediately expunged from Henry’s eyes, just as quickly as it had appeared.
“My lord,” Henry called to his imperial crown prince, “how has acclimating to your true angelization been going?”
Damien stared at his fingers in disbelief, slowly turning them around as his angelized state slowly faded back to normal.
“It… it feels like I’ve been asleep my entire life, with my eyes wide open,” the boy prince whispered, “but now, now that I can actually feel 100% of my aura, of my internal energies, it feels like my eyes are finally able to see… everything…”
“Well said shrimp!” Lord Jorie laughed, thoroughly ruffling Damien’s hair, “you’re definitely on the right track to growth now, and even better, you’re no longer in danger of exploding from your own power!”
Damein laughed shakily, giving the viscount a sharp, beaming smile.
“Brother, lest not your merriment blind you,” Henry said formally, hands folded patiently before him, “there’s still two more things left to do before the prince’s teachers arrive.”
A whining groan elicited another roaring laugh from Lord Jorie.
“Henny’s right though boyo,” Viscount Astallon jeered at the prince, eliciting a stink face from Damien, “you still have yet to actually fly, and we still need to attune your angelization.”
“Attune?” Damien asked blankly.
Flying he had anticipated, hell even broken out into cold sweats at night dreaming of. But he had no idea what the hell attuning his angelization meant, much less what it would even entail.
“Is it gonna be painful?” he asked in a small voice, wincing slightly.
Henry and Lord Jorie both paused for a moment. Each Astallon shared the same look of deep pondering, looking upwards slightly while each stroked their scarlet red beards.
“Kinda?” Lord Jorie replied.
“Maybe a little?” Henry offered with a simple shrug.
“Awwwwwwwww,” Damien groaned.
This time both Astallon brothers chuckled slightly.
“Fear not, sire,” Henry said soothingly, sending waves of calming emotion to the disturbed young prince, “this is the last of the ceremonies for quite a while, and the best part is we don’t even need any of the Ecclesiarchy here to do it.”
Lord Jorie nodded silently. Damien looked between both lords and slowly uncurled his folded arms, lifting his sour expression slightly. It wasn’t often that the two brothers were in agreement about much of anything, so seeing them so in tune, disarmed Damien’s fear, even when he wasn’t looking forward to what was coming next.
Well that wasn’t completely true.
The idea that there was another, deeper aspect to the awesome new world his proper angelization had given him, filled a part of him with crazed glee.
‘There really is something wrong with me,’ he groaned internally.
“When do we do it then?” Damien asked tentatively.
“Tonight my lord, beneath the full moon, one week from your anointing ceremony, as it is typically done in the old way,” Henry answered sagely.
“Full moon…” Damien muttered softly, robotically.
Instantly a memory of Jessica blasted forth into his mind, destroying his fears. Her last words she’d told him nearly a year ago now, resounded again overpoweringly in his head. She would become a goddess, a warrior princess of the Ruby Force, and she would be waiting for Damien at the top of the ladder of mages of the Mortal Realms. Waiting expectantly for her boyfriend. Waiting to challenge the universe together, Mortal Realms and the Divine Realms, hand in hand, without any fear.
Intense shame tore through Damien, both at forgetting the words of his diligent girlfriend, and at allowing himself to ever be pussy enough to groan at a chance to get stronger. Especially, after everything he’d promised Jessica, his mother, and Ma LaCroix.
The divine Astallon brothers said nothing.
Both could easily perceive the turbulent mess of emotions subconsciously radiating forth from Prince Damien’s turbulent intent, and though neither knew the true depth of his emotions, neither noble was fool enough to ruin the moment for him. The look of absolute determination that slowly engraved itself into every part of Damien’s face, told them their insight had been correct.
With a deft nod Damien replied in a steady, clear voice, “thank you my lords, I’m in your care.”
Henry bowed, formally saluting his imperial crown prince as Lord Jorie broke out in a warm, genuine smile, also bowing to the prince.
Reaching out, the viscount again softly ruffled the prince’s hair again, breaking Damein’s stoic face.
“All in due time, sire,” Lord Jorie said softly, “first, you have some homework to do.”
Damien’s face turned from annoyance, from getting his hair continuously messed up, quickly back to deep intrigue.
“I want you to go around the manor grounds and talk to the staff,” Viscount Astallon continued, “it’s high time you formally educated yourself on the 7 remaining races of the Nephilim and their distinct angelizations. How best to do that, then to talk to them yourself?”
Damien gasped, horrified.
He could obviously see the sense in the viscount’s words, but Damien knew he wasn’t the best at interacting with others. His childhood of intense loneliness was a severe understatement and testament to that fact. Though Damien had to constantly fight feelings of intense anxiety from always being the center of attention over the past year no matter where he went, he knew he needed to break that habit once and for all. If he were to really grow, to fully step into his birthright as the first and only son of Hoaquin, to be the Empire of Gera’s next ruling monarch, its emperor, then talking to a bunch of staff was going to be the very least of his social challenges for the literal rest of his life.
However short or long it happened to be.
Giving a shaky, long sigh, Damien nodded, with a slightly trembling bottom lip. With the energy of rose golden heavenly fire burning in his golden and blue eyes, Damien nodded.
He would succeed. He had to succeed.
“Good lad,” Lord Jorie laughed, thumping Damien heavily on his shoulder, “you have until 1, have fun!”
***
Damien shuffled awkwardly around the large campus of the manor. His feet felt like lead, and his heart beat in his ears, but still he trudged onward. Eventually, Damien’s aimless wandering through the large gardens led him to a secluded section sporting a large, opulent gazebo. He hadn’t been able to sense many auras but he’d largely expected that since he was still so much weaker than many of the weakest staff members. While Damien had verified only about 20 of the 300 staff members to actually be gods, the rest were still sages, demi-divine mages boasting auras far beyond Damien’s current comprehension, or very powerful mortal mages. Not being able to sense their auras didn’t stop him from hearing the raving voices and wild laughter coming from the lone structure however.
Working up his nerve Damien crept forward towards the voices.
“And then Roma’s dumbass actually threw a fireball, wait for it, at the fucking cinder-mauler!”
The group of soldiers erupted again into heavy laughter.
The large soldier clapped a younger, much smaller, female soldier who was blushing fiercely on the back heavily while laughing so hard tears were coming from his eyes.
“I swear to The Almighty, I still have absolutely no idea how we survived, at least without getting grilled well done!” the large soldier guffawed, “with a co-captain like this one, ain’t got no need for enemies!”
“Oy!” Roma shot back, swaggering up to the large soldier with a sassy look and a coy smile in her eyes, “with a meat head like you as head captain, Marcos, the Einstien who actually almost ate a fucking fae fig, especially on a full moon might I add, I belive you owe me a few fuck ups.”
The large nephilim soldier, Captain Marcos, held his hand up with a sheepish smile on his face as the group burst into another round of drunken roaring laughter.
“Um…” Damien’s small voice cut in through the soldiers’ merriment.
“What?!” Marcos yelled, annoyed and pissed off, turning around, “can’t you see we don’t wanna be fucking fou-ou-ou, uhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
His face drained of all color, horror replacing his earlier boozed ease and merriment, his words dying on his lips.
Instantly he and the rest of the soldiers dropped to one knee, right hands folded in a fist over their hearts, left fists pressed to the floor, heads bowed, in unison. Though none of them had even sensed him approaching, before them stood their imperial crown prince. None wanted to be on the chopping block for disrespecting His Heavenly Highness, along with sneaking away from their posts to drink and laugh unabated.
Marcos nervously shifted to block the table full of shot glasses and drinks with his slightly extended large, barn owl-like wings. With a slightly damp forehead the captain asked nervously, “um, what brings you here… Your Highness?”
“Um…” Damien repeated again, shifting nervously, looking down in shame at having ruined the soldier’s fun. “I… I just had some homework I needed help with…” he muttered, feeling like a complete asshole for ruining their fun.
Captain Marcos had a deeply confused look on his face for a moment.
“Soooo,” he started slowly, “you’re not here intentionally looking for us or to punish us?”
“No no!” Damien answered hastily, shaking his hands and head vigorously, “Lord Jorie just gave me some homework and said I had to ask around to get answers! I was just wandering around! And you guys… were the first people I found that I wasn’t afraid of approaching…”
The raw, unfettered anxiety pouring forth from the crown prince’s intent, told Marcos that the boy likely wasn’t lying. He clearly was struggling just approaching them. Instantly the large nephilim laughed heartily and rose from his prostrating stance. The rest of the group of inebriated soldiers stared on in various states of horror, maintaining their bows, as the captain nuggied their imperial crown prince, throwing a thick arm the size of a barn door around the boy’s shoulders and led him into the gazebo.
As he passed Roma, Marcos motioned for her to stand. Sending her a psychic message through one of their many protected networks he commanded his co-captain, ‘toss up a glamour, at least 20 layers deep, 3 keystones and a shifting foci.’
‘Aye sir,’ she replied back over the network, accompanied with a quick nod.
Turning back to face Damien, Marcus clapped him again on the shoulder, “my Liege, I am Captain Marcos Du’Reish, captain first class of the 18th legion’s 3rd company. 8 time veteran of the Draconian Occupation.” He waved his other, massive, heavily muscled arm gesturing to the group of 6 other heavily inebriated soldiers clad in their black battle coats that were slowly, and shakily also getting to their feet. “Crown Prince Damien D’Amorn, meet the executive members of the 18th legion's 3rd company.”
Captain Marcos gestured to the soldier with glowing white hands, softly muttering chants, “that’s my Sub-Captain Roma Uresh, there’s Jeremy Connors and his twin sister Erica Connors, they’re my Lieutenant First Class operatives. That’s Zachariah Barley but we call him Zach for short, he’s my Lieutenant Second Class. That one’s Paul Anothony S’Aoan but we just call him Dumbass for short. He’s my Master Sergeant and our Head Tactician so you know we’re cooked.”
The group nervously laughed, still incredibly fearful of having an imperial within their midst.
“And that shrimp is Damian Flaggan, he’s my Sergeant First Class ” Captain Marcos gave a wide goofy smile, “hey look sire, you two even have the same name!”
The captain roared with laughter as Damien slowly waved at each soldier with a nervous smile, disarming their reservations. Slowly each soldier resumed their places at the circular table, retaking their places on the gazebo benches. Paul Anthony slowly reached for his shot glass, looking slowly between Captain Marcos and Damien for approval, when no rebuke came, he downed the rest of his drink and the others followed suit.
“My lord,” Roma called out to Damien, “what homework did Lord High General, Lord Jorie give to you that requires our help anyway?”
“Indeed,” Captain Marcos asked, secretly downing another shot.
Damien sat nervously between the massive Nephilim captain and Erica, twiddling his fingers.
“Well,” he began tentatively, “I need to learn about the 7 Nephilim races and their angelizations.”
“Sire, forgive me,” Paul Anthony began slowly, “but aren’t you a little too old to be asking about this?”
Damien looked down shamefully, regretting his choices instantly.
The captain glimpsed the boy’s reaction from the corner of the large man’s eye.
“Sergeant Dumbass!” Captain Marcos roared, snapping Paul Anthony to attention, “unless you want to do pushups till your arms quite literally fall off, grow back and fall off again, don’t you dare question His Highness again! Sheesh at this rate you’ll really never beat the allegations.”
The group chuckled again as Zach slapped the Head Tactician on the back of his head, sending Paul Anthony’s blond curls flying about.
“Sorry, m’lord,” the soldier mumbled.
“No no!” Damien said hurriedly, “don’t apologize please. I know my knowledge is lacking, but I am in your care.” He looked around at the shocked faces of the soldiers, getting up he bowed to them and continued, “In fact, I should apologize. To all of you. Thank you all so much for humoring my dumb request. I know I’m not the best at being a prince, even less a crown prince, and even less so an imperial crown prince.” He raised his head, “but I will do my best to learn, in hopes of becoming an emperor half as well liked and renowned as my mother seems to be, so I humbly ask for your help.”
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None of the soldiers knew what to do. Even Rosa had paused where she stood, her task of erecting the complex glamour long forgotten.
None of them had ever heard of a noble apologizing to a regular citizen. Even less had any of them ever even considered dreaming of a royal apologizing, for anything, to anyone but another royal. An imperial Nephilim would likely cut off and sell their own toes, before the thought of apologizing to a lesser royal would even occur to them. To see their next emperor bowing before them, apologizing for ruining their fun and earnestly begging for their aid, was a sight so far beyond reality that it immediately sobered up the entire group.
“My lord,” Roma called, directing the attention of those seated in the gazebo to where she stood on the grass, “I think I could help and maybe ease the rest of my fellows to aid you.”
She began to extend her beautiful 4, ashen gray, osprey wings.
“I am an Illia, we are children of the great Cherubim Jophiel,” she began with a curtsey, “the sacred Cherubim are some of the most powerful angels in the great heavenly hierarchy,though their ranks have sadly included the many of likes of the Wretched Fallen who, ironically, became some of the most powerful devils after their heresy: Bune, Berith, Belial, Paimon, Moloch, Asmodeus, and even the first Satan, the first angel, oldest of the Archangels, the primordial Lucifer himself.”
An eerie silence befell the group for a moment. Even Captain Marcos swallowed his next shot uneasily.
Roma gave a slight sigh before continuing. “If you know the legends, sire, my species' heavenly Cherubim ancestors have heavily muscled, humanlike bodies, 4 wings, and 4 heads: one of a human; one of a lion, one of an ox, and one of an eagle. And so,” she said before an explosion of power came bursting forth from her body, turning her hair and eyes shimmering platinum, increasing the size and density of her muscles and changing her face to one of a divine lion, “when an Illia angelizes, we take on one of the 3 animalistic faces of Blessed Jophiel, but only when an Illia truly masters their abilities, do they gain access to the angelic, human face of Jophiel, massively boosting our abilities. Regardless, our bloodline allows us to inherit a portion of his incredible affinities for fire and water..”
Damien’s eyes were wide as saucers.
“And that would make your heavenly fire stronger right?!” he asked with barely contained awe.
Roma chuckled warmly, “indeed Your Highness, astute observation.” She waved a hand in an arch motion and a spiraling, majestic arc of water and magenta heavenly fire manifested as her hand moved through the air. “Our gifts allow us the strongest natural manifestation of heavenly fire amongst all Nephilim, at least when compared without any training,” she shrugged with another smile, “and it allows us to be some of the best painters and cooks in the entire empire.”
“Ooh,” the boy gasped, “that’s why Lady Michelle is the Head Meal Proctor!”
“Well, not to disregard Lady Michelle’s many years of service within the Legions of The Earthly Host or her immense magical control she has elevated to becoming a goddess of Gera,” Roma began slowly, before giving Damien a coy smile, “but it doesn’t hurt either when she knows she’ll never burn a meal.”
“Ok, ok,” Captain Marcos interjected, “let’s break up this yap session before we waste all of His Highness’ incredibly valuable time.”
With a curt nod he dismissed Rosa to return to constructing her glamour. Waving a bottle around he called out, “twins! You’re up!”
“Aye Sir!” the two called out, snapping a salute before they both vanished in flashes of light, reappearing before the group at the entrance to the gazebo where Rosa previously stood.
“Greetings, Your Highness!” they chanted, again in perfect unison, bowing at the same time at the waist, “we will now perform for you our angelizations!”
A great flash of power exploded forth as two pillars of exalted heavenly power burst forth, enveloping both Nephilim.
However, after his initial excitement, Damien’s confusion began to grow exponentially.
Though the two were introduced as twins, and sure enough though they were fraternal, they shared many physical similarities, their angelized states however looked nothing alike.
Jeremy’s skin had turned into a sort of greenish golden metallic, shimmering alloy from head to toe. His face had become impossibly perfect, along with the shimmering platinum hair and platinum with crystal clear diamond blue eyes of the angels. But his wings, that had previously been a shade of moss green, were now literally made of intense, golden Heavenly fire. A Vreka.
Erica on the other hand, while she maintained the usual angelized hair and eyes, now had a myriad of platinum and blue eyes all over her body. Around her arms and wrists were bracelets of interlocking wheels, burning with a similar golden heavenly fire that Jeremy had, and constantly spinning and morphing in a way Damien was sure 3rd dimensional shapes couldn’t possibly move. An Elerie.
Seeing his clearly befuddled face, the two exalted Nephilim shared a knowing look while the rest of the group broke out into laughter.
“My lord,” Erica said in her exalted voice, resonating with hundreds of other heavenly voices, “is there something that confuses you?”
“Um.. yeah…” Damien began uncertainty, trying to figure out his words, attempting not to offend the soldiers, “I thought you two were siblings, twins if I remember correctly… So… why do you guys have different angelized states?”
Jeremy tried to block the spurt of spit preceding a sudden laugh from escaping his lips. Failing miserably and partially choaking on his own spit, the Nephilim doubled over wheezing, coughing and laughing uncontrollably while his twin sister hid a tiny smile behind a hand.
The rest of the company couldn’t resist the humorous scene, also joining the Jemery’s persisting laughter.
Damien felt his cheeks warm with shame. For the millionth time in his life, he was grateful that his milk brown skin hid a decent amount of his blushing.
It did absolutely nothing for the feelings of shame leaking from his intent, however.
“Sire,” Erica coughed, beating back a small chuckle, “there is nothing at all to be ashamed of, your question was very insightful.”
“Indeed, Your Highness,” Jeremy confirmed, having regained his composure, “in fact, I can offer you an answer I think you would appreciate.”
The twins simultaneously powered down back into their base forms, causing their parallel pillars of heavenly power to dissipate and vanish in a soft explosion of power.
“You see Sire,” the Lieutenant First Class began, “a long, long time ago”
“Approximately 350,000 years ago,” Erica cut in.
“Thanks sis, 350,000 years ago, towards the tail end of millions of years of The Age of Blood, the Empire of Gera was established,” Jeremy resumed, “for the first time, ever, instead of trying to scrub each other from existence, with extreme prejudice, the Nephilim began to intermingle and intermarry.”
“That started The Age of Blessed Harmony right?” Damien wondered aloud “when all of the Nephilim became capable of Angelizing?”
“I see someone’s done their summer reading,” Captain Marcos drunkenly laughed.
“Maybe you should follow the Crown Prince’s lead then, captain,” Rosa said curtly, giving Marcos a light whack on the back of his head with a golden energy hand she manifested from across the field.
Marcos silently mimed her, rolling his golden and blue eyes while giving Damien a sly grin accompanied by a side-eyed wink.
“Yes, my lord,” Erica replied, taking up where her brother had left off, “after many millennia of this, the 7 remaining Nephilim races stopped being actual distinct races, and eventually became more like what the humans know of as ethnicities or species. This allowed us to increase the ratio of our mortal beings to our heavenly beings to at least 55%, though the actual amount is still arbitrary for every single Nephilim. Not only did finally being over 50% angelic give all Nephilim access to angelization, it caused us to all grow wings and through them, harness the fundamental energy of The Almighty, our heavenly fire. And so, any Nephilim picked at random has such a myriad of different Nephilim ethnicities in their blood that they can literally give birth to any kind of Nephilim if they decided to mate with another member of the Earthly Host. Of course the direct species of the parents are still more likely to occur in the children, but in truth any pairing of Nephilim can produce a child that expresses any of the 7 Nephilim ethnicities. Or, in very rare circumstances, when one of us mates with the Heavenly Host it can lead to anything really.”
“But,” Jeremy interjected, “if a Nephilim has a child with a creature outside of the members of the Earthly or Heavenly Host, the resulting baby will always present as the ethnicity of the holy parent, even if they were to retain any racial powers, physical features or even inherited magics from the other parent.”
Shocked couldn’t begin to explain how Damien felt.
This information, he knew, was paramount to his own existence. Suddenly, Damien was very aware that every last member of staff working at the D’Amorn Manor, both mortal and divine, were probably constantly thinking about his parentage when they looked at him. The side glances he caught some of the company members passing each other back and forth, gave a solemn confirmation to his suspicions. Empress Hoaquin was famous for being the Almighty Bachelorette. The mage with no man, and now suddenly she had a son.
No matter what way it was sliced, two plus two was equalling fish, and people had questions.
Lots of questions.
Though the staff had been sworn to secrecy and secretly trained for roughly 2 years prior to the start of the mission meeting and escorting the imperial crown prince, it was beyond an understatement to say that many were fearful if not downright apprehensive of the young imperial. The fact that there even was an imperial crown prince, not an adopted son that drank of the reaper blood chalice to become an imperial reaper somehow, but the actual flesh and blood of Empress Hoaquin, was not an easily digestible pill by any standard.
Damien didn’t have the faintest idea who his father could be, even after all his training and cultivation. Not even his anointing and finally properly transforming into his angelized state offered the slightest hint to what could be hiding in the other half of the boy’s genealogy.
And yet, his anointing ceremony did nothing to dissuade the rumors. In fact, recent events seemed to only emblazon the gossipers. Many rumors that were carefully monitored as to never to travel beyond the protective walls of D’Amorn Manor’s powerful wards were running amok.
Always stirring just beneath the surface.
Coming and going, briefly, like a whispering breeze.
After all, who would want to invoke the wrath of the rank 1 Nightmare, or worse, the crown prince himself if either had to directly confront the rumors?
And since none of the staff envisioned being tortured by Her Heavenly Imperial Majesty to be better than not offending her supposed son, they were always careful to never let any of their ideas reach the ears of the crown prince himself.
Understanding this, Damien had never let it slip that his Grand Courtier had secretly been filing him in on the more audacious rumors the staff cooked up of his mother’s seemingly salacious affairs.
Fae?
Vampire?
Human?
Angel?
Something... else?...
One thing was for sure though, no matter what race his absent, mystery father, ended up being, the fact that Damien had clearly brown skin and a fluffy afro, in stark contrast to the long straight hair, and milky skin he’d been told his mother had, definitely gave some of the more… creative gossipers a few ideas that were less than “appropriate”. In fact, if it weren't for the slanted shape of the prince’s slanted eyes, which many had to begrudgingly accept matched the empress’ own, his imperial Nephilim features, and now the bladed wings of Jerrizah that Damien could now manifest upon angelization, very few would’ve even believed he was even Hoaquin’s son.
Damien solemnly remembered how before his 13th birthday, when the only signs that he was even remotely a Nephilim to begin with, were his golden and blue eyes and the rumors of him somehow manifesting heavenly fire. At the time, many didn’t even fully believe he was a Nephilim. The dismissive looks and snide sneers that Damien could catch in his peripheral vision, that he had to pretend he didn’t see, sent daggers of sorrow and depression through the young boy’s heart.
Though he knew he should’ve probably been more offended, Damien humbly kept quiet. Choosing instead to intensely ponder all of the options the gossipers, both benign and malicious, had offered him with Lords Jorie and Henry. For days the trio had run a vast myriad of paternity tests. Lord Jorie and Lord Henry both called upon every favor, and employed every bloodline spell and technology their combined deific and noble influences could offer, but ultimately, nothing rendered anything close to an answer. There was no definitive way for sure to know who Damien’s paternal sire was, at least not until the prince continued to grow more years, and temper his aura to its peak. Allowing his more latent, innate abilities to become manifest.
The veritable mountain of doubt and depression, had threatened to crush Damien like a merciless tsunami. Silently, he remembered the tear drops that filled his lifeless eyes, though he’d fought futilely and miserably to keep them at bay.
The same tears now threatened to betray the crown prince again, until one memory broke through the dense cloud of sorrow in Damien’s mind and heart. A beacon of hope. His last beacon of hope.
A memory of what Lord Jorie had told Damien immediately after seeing the prince’s depressed, frustrated tears, began to overtake him.
“No,” the lord had commanded Damien softly, in a manner of complete seriousness that Damien rarely ever saw the viscount employ, “you will not cry. You will not betray your lineage like that. You will not betray yourself like that.”
Damien remembered Lord Jorie then knelt down to face him eye level.
“I know something, something that the Empress has never told anyone else before,” Lord Jorie spoke with a charming, coy smile, lifting Damien’s tear stained eyes softly to meet his own, “your mother told me, that she would never, ever mate with a mage weaker than her. She’s never openly taken a husband or a partner of any kind, simply because no one has ever matched her since she became the strongest… And yet, you exist… Peculiar don't you think? Even if you don’t know who your father is, for now, know that at least he is a being that can rival the universe ending might of your mother. I think that’s something to take great pride in, no?”
Damien remembered how his wide, astonished eyes had immediately ceased their tears. The viscount’s words touched an aching spot deep in the 13 year old’s soul that he didn’t know existed. It healed a part of him that Damien hadn’t known even needed healing. He remembered how, with a sudden leap he wrapped the kneeling viscount in a tight bear hug, this time crying tears of gratitude and relief.
And Damien hadn’t forgotten the strange look Henry had gotten in his eye, accompanied by a face of utter bewilderment and surprise, at his brother’s words.
“Thank you…” Damien murmured, bowing slightly at the waist as his memories faded, returning him to the present.
“The pleasure is all ours, Sire,” the two responded in unison, returning the bow simultaneously.
As the twin Lieutenants started to return to their seats, giving the floor to the next of their presenting comrades, Damien held up a hand, pausing the two to abruptly stop in their tracks. A deeply confused look was on the crown prince’s face.
“Wait,” he said slowly, “if the ethnicity, or species, of the child is completely random between the two Nephilim parents, how do the imperial families all have members with the same respective ethnicities?”
An uncomfortable look crossed Jeremy’s face. After a while of silent deliberation, Erica ultimately spoke up first.
“That, Your Highness,” she began sadly, “is a result of both the greatest triumph of the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy, and subsequently the greatest failure of the entire Nephilim race. There are many that believe in the Ecclesiarchy’s vapid desire for what it refers to as “blood purity”. They want every Nephilim to return to how they were before, homogenous groups, separated, but equal they claim.”
Her and Jeremy’s similar exaggerated eye rolls clued Damien in that they probably weren’t the biggest supporters of that particular campaign.
“Even though to even utter such nonsense should obviously be the height of utterly depraved and insane hypocrisy!” Captain Marcos spat furiously, causing Damien to cautiously turn over to the massive Nephilim seated next to him recoiling slightly from the large, powerful man's sudden outburst. Captain Marcos, however, was too busy angrily nursing an empty bottle with an enraged, thousand mile stare baked into his face to care,“to say every last Nephilim has benefited extremely from The Age of Blessed Harmony, is the understatement of all time. From finally allowing all of us, not just the Principium, to finally share even a minute part of the heavenly glory of our angelic ancestors.”
His face contorted in even deeper rage. His words became little more than a barely restrained, screaming, manic growl, rising quickly in both intensity and volume.
“AND YET THOSE SELF RIGHTEOUS BASTARDS HAVE THE GALL, TO ENFORCE BLOOD PURITY UPON EVEN OUR RULING CLASS! THEY FORCE OUR IMPERIALS TO DRINK FROM THE BLOOD CHALICES, PURGING THEM OF THE SPECIES THEY WERE BORN WITH AND REPLACING THEM WITH ONE OF THE CHALICE! WHAT THESE INSANE MURDERERS SEE AS CLEAN! AS FIT! AS IF THEY DO NOT HAVE HUNDREDS OF OUR LONG EXTINCT BRETHREN’S BLOOD CHALICES HIDDEN IN THEIR DECREPIT, SATANIC PITS! WHY NOT BRING THEM BACK IF THEY CARE SO MUCH ABOUT PURITY?!” Captain Marcos roared, chucking the bottle far into the stratosphere, with pure physical might. A testament to the intense rage coursing through the sage Nephilim captain. “IT HAS LONG BEEN CLEAR THAT THE ILLUMINATED ECCLESIARCHS HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING SHAME! BUT THIS? HAVE THEY NO HONOR AS WELL? NO FEAR OF THE ALMIGHTY?! DO THEY EVEN TRULY SERVE THE ALMIGHTY?!!!”
“CAPTAIN!” Roma reprimanded sharply, looking around in fear to see if any had heard his deeply sacrilegious and dangerously polarizing outburst. “While you know all of us present here share in your sentiments, might I remind you that not only are there many working on these grounds, including several sages and deities, that would gladly, violently disagree with you. This glamour will hide us from much, but it won’t hide the voice of one as powerful as yourself, especially if you start YELLING LIKE A DAMN OGRE!” she yelled at the large Nephilim.
Briefly, she looked down at Damien, her fierce expression softening slightly if only for the barest of moments, “and we should allow his future Imperial Majesty to forge his own opinions, ones that will one day be the deciding factor between another Age of Peace… or another Age of Blood.”
Marcos glared down his sub-captain as she stared back, unrelenting.
The auras of the two powerful mages then roared to life, slamming and bucking against each other like viscous broncos, until, with a bitter spitting motion into the grass, Marcos relented, turning his head aside in an angry pout with a loud “harumph!”.
Roma heaved a heavy sigh that Damien couldn’t tell she’d been holding back. Wiping some sweat from her brow, she smiled down weakly at Damien, holding up a shaky thumbs up.
“Twins, you’re dismissed,” she called out, attempting to keep her exhausted voice level and commanding.
“Aye ma’am!” they saluted, snapping to attention before vanishing in flashes of light to reappear at their seats at the gazebo table.
“Well, we don’t want to take up anymore of His Highness’ most valuable time do we?” Roma sighed, clapping her hands together sharply, “Lieutenant Second Class Zach! Master Sergeant Paul Anthony! Sergeant First Class Damian! ATTEN-HUT!”
“AYE MA’AM!”
Three flashes of power and light preceded three Nephilim suddenly appearing behind their sub-captain instantly, all standing perfectly at attention.
“You know the drill,” Roma commanded, “Angelize for His Highness, and explain your angelizations.”
Her words were succinct, snappy, well enunciated and incredibly precise. For a moment, only a moment, Damien’s mind was dragged back to a scene he could never forget, Sister Hua’s face the first time he’d ever heard her take on that voice.
‘No, not Hua,’ he reprimanded himself silently, ‘Hoaquin. Mother. My Mother.’
The three Nephilim soldiers, still locked at attention, screamed as one, “AYE MA’AM!” before three simultaneous epic explosions of holy power rocked the grotto holding the gazebo.
As the searing, holy light began to subside, Damien beheld, three exalted figures standing where the three soldiers had once been.
Where Zach had been, was an angelized Nephilim with raven-like facial features with what looked like thick black ink covering both of his well muscled arms. The ink seemed to travel up well past his upper arms, leading Damien to wonder what it even was.
In Paul Anthony’s place, stood an angelized warrior that looked very similar to how the soldier normally looked, aside from the standard, shared exalted features that came with every angelization. However, Damien had to note that almost every square inch of the mage’s body was now covered in heavenly runes, burning and pulsing with angry, pink heavenly energy.
Finally, Damian, who apparently shared not only a namesake with the crown prince, but apparently also angelic ethnicities, had a large tiki mask covering the entirety of his face. His fingers and hands were completely skeletal, and in them was a 6 foot tall, beautiful scythe of bronze twisting metal, ending in a single massive, cerulean front blade that shone with golden-green heavenly power.
“I, Your Highness,” Zach began in his exalted voice, “am a Raven.”
“I, Your Highness,” Paul Anthony took up, “am a Hunter.”
“And I, Your Highness,” Damian finished, “am like you, a Reaper.”
Damien silently mouthed a “wow,” staring with deep fascination at the 3 soldiers.
“Sergeant Damian,” the prince began hesitantly, “I don’t mean to offend you, but why does your mask look like a tiki face? And why are there so many cracks in it on the left side?”
Paul Anthony held a hand over his mouth to refrain from bursting out laughing.
“Hey,” Damian admonished his Master Sergeant, “don’t laugh at the kid, he literally doesn’t know any better.”
Damien couldn’t see the angelized Reaper’s face, but the soldier’s shimmering platinum and cold diamond blue eyes shining through his Reaper’s mask, were filled with warmth and mirth.
“As you’ve seen Your Highness,” Damien began with a chuckle, “every Nephilim species manifests their angelized power differently, even though we all undergo largely the same training. Since reapers carry the largest remnants of the Archangel Metatron’s blood, unlike many of our Nephilim brethren, our angelized faces are sealed beneath our bone masks since we radiate so much more power naturally. These masks cannot be removed by any means, but they will break off more and more as a Reaper masters their angelization, until it falls off completely when true mastery is reached. Again, every Nephilim species manifests a mastered angelization differently, but a reaper will not only lose their masks on their journey to mastery, but also their angelized bodies will progressively burn away, becoming more skeletal in relation to our blood sire, Metatron, the Grim Reaper.”
He held up a boney right hand, wiggling his skeletal fingers to emphasise his point.
“Our masks,” he went on, “are also a manifestation of our souls and auras. We don’t choose what shape, color, or form our masks will manifest as, just like our scythes. They awaken for the first time during the anointing ceremony that every Nephilim undergoes, when we find out what ethnicity we actually are. A reaper’s mask will follow the reaper until death or until they destroy it by fully controlling their angelized states.”
Damien was quiet for a minute, pondering the reaper’s words.
The prince slowly nodded.
“One thing still doesn’t make sense to me though,” he began, “if all the modern Nephilim are mixed and the individual races no longer exist, and you can’t tell the species of the child until they’re anointed, then what exactly determines the species of the child?”
“That would be the ratio of angelic ichor to mortal blood within the Nephilim, my lord,” Paul Anthony answered.
“It typically follows the hierarchy of Angels. Reapers have the highest ratios being between at least 85% and at most 90% angelic, and therefore hold far more of the Archangel’s blood than any other kind of Nephilim,” he continued, “next would be the Hunters. They’re at least 80% angelic, allowing them to manifest the blood of the Seraphim. At around at least 75%, the Nephilim will manifest the blood of the Cherubim, making them Illia. Being at least 70% will manifest the blood of the Ophanim within the Nephilim, resulting in an Elerie. Next would be the Ravens, they’re at least 65% angelic and so, will manifest the blood of the Powers. Nephilim that are at least 60% angelic will manifest as Guardians, reflecting the blood of the Guardian Angels that awoke in them. And finally, the lowest concentration a modern Nephilim can be is at least 55% angelic, resulting in a Vreka, ones who manifest the blood of Herald Angels.”
“This isn’t to say that any one specie is definitively better than any other,” Zachariah chimed in, as the three simultaneously powered down back to their regular states, “but every Nephilim knows that the greatest joy of any ass backwards family within the Empire, is to give birth to a Reaper. Subsequently… the greatest failure of the blood purity families and the Heirarchists, those that only care about blood percentages, is to give birth to a Vreka.”
The Lieutenant Second Class gave a deep sigh.
Damien turned over aghast to look at Jeremy who had a dark look on his face as the soldier stared down at his shot glass. Erica softly rubbed his shoulder, sending gentle waves of healing magic and gentle, soothing feelings from her intent into her brother.
“We all know many a Nephilim that has been undeservingly praised and nurtured far more simply because they were born Reapers, Hunters or even Illia,” Zach continued glumly, “same as we all know many a Nephilim that has been mercilessly abused, tormented, bullied, even sold into slavery, treated as second class citizens, murdered, abused, or worse just for being born a Vreka. It’s complete and utter unfounded evil stupidity. I know just as many that have become decorated High Chaplains, Lord High Generals, Nobles, Royals, Imperials, Blessed Saints, Ecclesiarchs, sages and even gods that have been Reapers as have been any other kind of Nephilim, including Vreka.”
Zach stopped speaking, his face contorted in fierce anger thinking about the injustice many citizens of Gera had undergone.
Erica took up from Zach’s silence.
“There were some that would spit in our parent’s faces for giving birth to Jeremy, or even treat him worse if I wasn’t around,” she murmured hatefully, “and yet somehow, I, his twin sister, was never treated the same, just because I was apparently “blessed enough to be born more holy” as an Elerie. They told me I was born lucky, they told Jeremy, he was lucky to be born.”
She spat the last few words with a level of hatred and anger that rocked Damien, heavily contrasting the stark contrast to the happy go lucky attitude Erica had seemed to normally have.
Damien didn’t know how to respond. His earlier feelings of wonder and pride in his race, in his people, had yet again crumbled to dust.
First it was the Illuminated Ecclesiarchy. Then it was blood purists. Now he was learning that even amongst the Empire of the Earthly Host, fanatical racism was alive and well in the form of Hierarchists and possibly much worse he had yet to learn about. Every time Damien wanted to finally feel pride in learning such a large part of who he was, there seemed to be some insane evil hiding behind a corner, waiting to mercilessly beat his happiness into submission.
“However, all is not completely lost,” came the voice of the only Nephilim who hadn’t yet angelized for Damien.
Captain Marcos was leaning back in the bench seat, crossing his massive, muscled arms before his thick, barreled chest.
“At least ever since Empress Hoaquin ascended to the imperial high throne,” he continued, “she’s mercilessly gone after any who dared to openly perpetuate such draconian ideas, reimbursing victims massively for their suffering and even executing the particularly nasty offenders. Some call her Hoaquin the Warden for how many she’s stuffed into imperial prisons with life sentences for refusing to follow the socio-political reforms she heavy-handedly slammed down. Others call her Hoaquin the Honorable, for defending the idea that all Nephilim deserve to exist in The Almighty’s light, and that we are all worthy of respect, blood percentages be damned.”
Captain Marcos looked down at Damien’s face, and his features softened slightly.
“Which kind of Nephilim will you be, Your Highness? Which kind of emperor will you eventually saddle Gera’s empire with when you eventually ascend to the imperial high throne? Will you uphold your mother’s legacy, and be a defender of the common people? Or will you be a fundamentalist, and undo centuries of progress for the sake of a few depraved lunatics?”
Despite the many, many mixed emotions Damien still had over his mother and all of her lies she’d told to him, he couldn’t help but feel intense pride well inside him from hearing the deeds of his mother and her unwavering dedication to her people.
All of her people. And they were his people too.
Damien stood and looked every one of the soldiers in the eye respectively. In turn, each of the 7 soldiers, all with various looks of confusion on their faces, held their tongues in respect, returning his gaze with silent reverence as their imperial crown prince began to address them.
“I do not yet know what it means to lead, and I probably never will fully know. I’ll probably make mistake after mistake, and people will definitely find a score of reasons to curse my name long after I’m gone, ” Damien began in a small voice, looking down in shame, “the thought of having so many lives depending on me always making the right decisions, quite honestly scares the shit out of me something awful.”
A soft, quiet chuckle of understanding rippled through the group of soldiers.
“But,” Damien continued, his voice growing stronger. He raised his head, a look of fierce determination shone vibrantly in his eye, “my mother taught me to follow my own justice and to be strong enough to defend it, no matter the cost. My justice is the happiness of my people, all of my people. I do not care where the opposition may come, from within the Empire, or from some external force, but I swear, on my name, on my aura, on my empire, on my crown and on my bloodline, I will die before I let anyone put my people, those who lay their trust in me, to harm.”
7 deeply shocked expressions stared back at him in unison.
A single, soft tear fell from Jeremy’s eye. The soldier slowly stood, right hand folded over his chest, upturned fist over his heart.
“LONG LIVE PRINCE DAMIEN!” he yelled in a formal, commanding tone, bowing at the waist.
The other 6 followed suit. Saluting their imperial crown prince, and chanting the same, “LONG LIVE PRINCE DAMIEN!”
Damien was overcome with emotion, tears of appreciation began to well up in the boy’s golden and blue eyes. He was about to speak when 13 loud gongs reverberated throughout the Manor grounds.
Captain Marcos grinned and tousled Damien’s hair.
‘Why does everyone keep doing that?’ Damien groaned internally.
“Best run off now Your Highness!” Captain Marcos laughed heartily, “hopefully we’ve helped sufficiently with your homework!”
Damien, smiled gratefully as he got up and bowed again to the group of soldiers, “thank you all, you’ve all been beyond helpful.”
A coy smile flashed across his face as he came back up.
“Oh and I won’t tell Lord Jorie or Lord Henry about your day drinking, so carry on! That’s an order!”
And with that, Damien vanished in a flash of light, teleporting off to meet the Astallon lords.
“Well, you heard the lad!” Captain Marcos yelled with a roaring belly laugh as another round of laughs and loud cheers for their future emperor rang out and the drinking recommenced.