Alexandria, Egypt. 68AD
The morning sun scorched the limestone streets, baking the spring air until it shimmered above the crowd. Hundreds pressed forward, straining to hear Mark’s fervent words about the Messiah some twenty-five years after His crucifixion, death, and ascension. His voice carried across the marketplace, drawing people like moths to a flame, though Jovias noticed the scowls of temple priests lingering at the edges.
Jovias’s white cloak billowed in the scorching breeze. His scarf tightened around his dark, long, wool-like hair and felt suffocating, but centuries had taught him to hide his unchanging paleness from mortal eyes. His gaze scanned the throng, cataloging threats with ancient precision: three men with daggers beneath their robes, and a Roman soldier watching with too much interest.
When Mark descended into the crowd, laying hands upon the afflicted, Jovias’s muscles coiled. A crippled man rose on trembling legs. A blind beggar screamed as light flooded his vision for the first time.
“Just like Him,” he thought. Memories of Galilee washed over Jovias, those old miracles, that same dangerous hope kindling in people’s eyes. His failure to save Christ burned inside him still. “I was not there, but I will not let it happen again. I must protect this one.”
“No.” The voice crashed through his mind like thunder.
His fingers sought the blade beneath his cloak. “Why not?” he whispered, defiance tightening his throat. “I cannot stand by again…”
Nearby worshippers edged away from the tall man arguing with empty air.
“Our Lord commands it!” The voice split his skull with divine authority, driving him to his knees.
“I’ve served since before you existed,” Jovias hissed, his teeth clenched. “I should have…”
Pain dropped him to the ground. Through watering eyes, he glimpsed a rent in the sky, golden light pouring through, a silhouette of wings and terrible glory at its center.
“Fine,” he surrendered, bitter centuries of obedience weighing on his tongue. “Thy will be done.”
The vision faded, the light retreated, and the marketplace materialized around him once more. Jovias rose on unsteady legs, the weight of divine command pressing down on his shoulders like a physical burden. The crowd moved on, following Mark as he continued his sermon, leaving him alone with his rebellion and his shame.
Blood trickled from his nose, a reminder of the cost of his defiance. He wiped it away, the crimson stark, invisible against his darkened, sunburned skin. Even after centuries, pain rattled him. It made him feel more human than celestial, a sensation he had once despised but now cherished for the reminder of what he had lost.
“So, I am to watch another die,” he murmured, bitterness on his tongue.
The marketplace seemed darker now despite the blazing sun. Shadows stretched longer than they should have, and the air grew thick with something beyond the Egyptian heat. A warning prickle crawled up Jovias’s skin. His senses, honed through millennia, detected a presence that did not belong.
He turned toward the temple complex. There amid the columns, a shadow detached itself from one man, who readied his dagger, a figure darker than shadow, absorbing light rather than casting it. Jovias’s ancient instincts flared with recognition.
“Azakiel,” he growled low.
It did not feel like his kind of past. Ancient. None of the fallen, the banished, but something that inhabits the earth far longer than anything he has encountered. The creature wore human form as poorly as a child might wear an adult’s robes, its movements too fluid, its stillness too complete. To mortal eyes, it might appear as nothing more than a tall, thin merchant, but Jovias saw the truth beneath the disguise.
His hand returned to the blade, this time exposing it from its sheath. The metal hummed, a sound no human ear could detect. Azakiel’s head tilted at an impossible angle, acknowledging his awareness.
“So soon?” he whispered. They rarely manifested without anchoring themselves to a host. Something had changed. The old rules were shifting.
With practiced calm, Jovias moved away from the marketplace, slipping inconspicuously despite his height. His sandals made no sound on the limestone as he retreated into a narrow alley, keeping his senses trained on both Mark and the demon.
The creature followed, gliding rather than walking; its shadow stretched far behind it. The weight of centuries of battle pressed against Jovias’s spine. He faced these creatures before, but none this ancient nor powerful, never without instructions from Astrid. It must be one of the few that escaped the wrath of God. The ones that were protected by him, the devil. Jovias’s mind raced for answers until it grew silent. The silence became deafening.
“You overstepped,” he said when they were alone among the mud-brick walls. His voice carried the weight of mountains, oceans, and time itself. “What is your name, demon?”
“I am Azakiel.” It answered as its face rippled, features sliding like oil on water. “You overstep as well, exiled one.” Its voice scraped against his ears like metal on stone.
“We both serve our masters,” it said, lips pulling back to reveal teeth too many, too sharp.
“Mine are… displeased with the spread of this new faith.”
A chill ran through Jovias’s veins despite the desert heat. The Watchers had been bound since the Flood, their influence limited to whispers and dreams. This direct intervention by the demons from hell means an old threat is escalating its attack and taking what it believes belongs to them.
“My Lord judged and sentenced your brethren,” Jovias replied, his blade now fully drawn. The celestial metal caught no light, instead bending shadows around its edge. “Return to your hell!”
The demon laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Veils rip. Seals break. The cosmos turns, exiled one. Even your kind must feel it, the shifting of powers.”
Jovias’s palm itched where the hilt of his blade pressed against old calluses. The creature spoke the truth he felt but refused to acknowledge. Even in prayer, he heard whispers as the darkness grew stronger.
“The seals hold,” he said, though uncertainty cracked through his tone like poison seeping through stone.
Azakiel circled him, predatory grace in every movement, its form flickering between human merchants and something far more terrible. “Do they? Tell me, exiled one, when did you last hear your Lord’s voice clearly? When did His commands ring with the certainty they once held?”
Jovias’s chest tightened. The divine voice that had thundered moments before had felt… different. Strained. Distant. It echoed, as though carried across an impossible distance.
“My faith does not waver,” Jovias insisted.
“Faith?” The creature tasted the word like spoiled wine. “How quaint. But faith cannot stop what comes. The morning star rises again, and when he does, your foundations will crumble.”
Jovias raised his blade, its edge slicing through the space between dimensions. “Enough.”
Azakiel’s smile warped, stretching beyond its human disguise. “The apostle’s blood will flow before the next full moon. My brothers are already in motion. This one will die more painfully than your precious Messiah.”
Rage flared within him, a white-hot flame threatening to burn through his control. The memory of Christ’s broken body flashed behind his eyes, his failure, his shame. His blade trembled.
“You will not touch him,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“We already have.” The demon’s form dissolved, melting back into the shadows from which it came. From beyond the shadow, the demon continued, “Look at the people closest to him. Corruption spreads like a disease, and his apostles’ followers are already affected.”
Jovias’s blood turned cold. He watched the demon vanish, leaving behind only the scent of sulfur and decay. The alley closed in around him, the mud-brick walls too close, too confining. His blade trembled in his hand before he sheathed it with practiced precision. He braced himself against the wall, forcing his breath to steady.
The demon’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable a barb digging deeper. Corruption from within. Their method had always been the same: set brother against brother, disciple against teacher. His eyes burned with ancient tears he refused to let fall.
Alexandria’s heat pressed down on him like a physical weight as he pushed away from the wall and moved back toward the marketplace. The crowd had thinned, but Mark’s voice still carried across the dusty stones, though his words blurred into meaningless sound. Jovias searched for the faces around those devoted expressions that once filled him with hope, now seemed alien, suspect.
Which ones? The question clawed at his thoughts. A young woman clutched a wooden cross, her lips moving in silent prayer, but was it genuine devotion or performance?
An elderly merchant had closed his stall to listen, his weathered hands folded, yet something in his posture struck him as off, too deliberate, too rehearsed.
He forced himself to move closer, weaving through the dispersing crowd. The familiar weight of his blade against his thigh offered no comfort now. Every shadow between the market stalls could hide another demon. Every whispered conversation could be a conspiracy. Even the air tasted of betrayal; metallic and bitter.
Mark’s voice echoed off the stone walls, as if the buildings themselves were listening. Jovias caught fragments, something about protection, about faith in dark times, and his skin prickled with unease. Why those particular words? Why now?
A hand grazed Jovias’s shoulder, and he spun, his pulse hammering. Just a passing pilgrim, already moving away, but the touch lingered like ice through the fabric of his cloak. He scanned the thinning crowd again, noting how some lingered at the edges, their attention not on Mark but on the surrounding faces. Watching. Measuring. Counting.
The merchant he noticed earlier caught his eye and nodded, a simple gesture that could mean nothing, or everything. He held his gaze for a moment too long before he turned back to his stall, and something cold settled in his stomach. He bought bread from him earlier in the morning. His fingers lingered when he counted his coins into his palm, and he dismissed it as the typical hesitation of a merchant ensuring proper payment. Now he wondered what else he was calculating.
The sermon droned on, but Jovias backed toward the nearest alley, his movements deliberate. The stone beneath his feet felt unsteady, as if the very ground conspired against his escape. A woman in brown robes stepped into his path, smiling with teeth too white, too precise, unnatural.
“Leaving so soon?” The woman’s soft voice carried the same hollow quality as Mark’s words against the stone. “He didn’t finish his message.”
Jovias’s throat constricted, choking him. He forced his lips into what he hoped resembled a polite smile. “I have duties elsewhere.”
“We all have duties.” The woman’s eyes never blinked. “Some more pressing than others.” The woman’s head tilted at an angle that made Jovias’s spine crawl. “Perhaps we should discuss yours.”
The scent hit him, sulfur masked beneath frankincense, decay hidden under perfume. Another one. Jovias’s hand darted toward his blade, but the woman’s fingers closed around his wrist with inhuman strength.
“Careful,” the creature whispered, its grip tightened until Jovias felt his bones creak. He remembers what Michael said before their banishment, ‘We are not as strong as before, but stronger than the ordinary human.’
“So many eyes watching. So many faithful witnesses who might misunderstand violence in their sacred space.” The creature’s voice exuded ominous confidence.
Jovias glanced around the marketplace. The remaining crowd formed a loose circle; their faces turned toward him and the woman. Their expressions held a hollow quality, a devotion twisted into something else, something hungry. How many? The question hammered against his skull as he counted familiar faces among them: the town blacksmith, the butcher’s wife, Old Joseph, who swept the chapel steps. At least thirty of them stood in this eerie picture, hardly blinking.
“You see now,” the woman said, her voice like honey poured over broken glass. “You’ve wandered into something far larger than yourself, Jovias.”
The way the creature said his name made Jovias’s mouth dry. How did it know him? The question died as he noticed the silver pendant hanging around each demon-possessed person’s neck, a leathery circle. The top half is red, the bottom green. A golden dragon with the deity Serapis’ white letters at the center.
“What have you done to these people?” Jovias kept his voice low as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression despite the pain shooting up his arm.
The woman’s smile widened, stretching beyond what human muscles should allow. “Merely shown them the truth. As I will show you.” The woman’s free hand moved to touch Jovias’s forehead.
Jovias jerked backward, wrenching his arm free with a burst of strength that sent pain lancing through his wrist. The crowd’s collective intake of breath hissed like a serpent through the marketplace. Her shape flickered; her form wavered.
“Mark!” Jovias called out, his voice cutting through the unnatural silence. “You must leave. Now!”
Mark paused mid-sentence, confused as he looked toward Jovias. He did not know Jovias, but he felt compelled to listen and move. Behind another follower, a shadow shifted; fingers stretched and twisted into claw-like forms.
The furious heathen mob gathered in the Serapis temple at Alexandria descended on the Christians, who were celebrating the Glorious Resurrection and listening to Mark’s preaching. Jovias lunged forward, shoving through the crowd with inhuman speed. Bodies fell away beneath his touch, faces contorted with rage as he forced himself through. The crowd closed ranks behind him, trying to block his path, but he was too quick, too strong. His fingers closed around Mark’s shoulder, yanking him backward just as the creature’s claws slashed through the space where his throat had been.
“What?” Mark stumbled, his eyes wide with confusion and fear.
“Run!” Jovias’s voice was low but commanding. He spun to face the advancing crowd. His blade slid free of its sheath, the metal humming with ancient power. “They are not what they seem.”
The crowd’s features twisted; humanity slid away like masks removed. Their movements synchronized as they advanced in unison. The woman who grabbed Jovias pushed to the front, her figure warping beneath the fabric.
“The apostle stays,” it hissed, voice splitting into multiple tones, each syllable layered like a chorus of whispers. “His blood belongs to Serapis.”
Jovias felt a chill slither up his spine. The surrounding air grew heavy, charged with something ancient and wrong. He thought the town was corrupt, but not in this way. Never consumed to this extent.
“Mark,” he said without turning, “when I move, head for the alley behind the apothecary. Don’t stop for anything.”
The crowd’s skin bubbled and shifted as fingers elongated into curved talons. Their eyes darkened to bottomless pits, reflecting no light. Jovias tightened his grip on his blade, feeling the familiar warmth pulsing through the hilt into his palm. The runes etched along the metal glowed with a pale blue light, illuminating the grotesque transformation happening before him.
The thing that was the merchant smiled wider, its jaw unhinged like a serpent’s. Black ichor dripped from between rows of needle-sharp teeth that had sprouted where human molars should have been. The sound it made, a wet, clicking laugh, sent nausea rolling through Jovias’s stomach.
He could smell them now. The stench of decay wrapped in something sickly sweet, like rotting fruit left too long in summer heat. His nose burned with each breath, and he had to fight the urge to gag. The blade’s glow intensified, casting dancing shadows across faces that appeared inhuman.
The crowd chanted in unison, “Serapis hungers,” their voices creating a toothache-inducing discordant harmony. “Blood must flow!”
Jovias’s heart hammered against his ribs. He faced corruption before, but never this much. Never so widespread, so alive. The realization struck him like ice water. Alexandria was not just harboring corruption. It had become a nest of chaos.
Jovias’s blade sang as he swept it in a wide arc, the celestial metal slicing through the air with a sound like breaking crystal. The nearest creature stumbled backward, flesh sizzling where the weapon’s light touched it. The unpleasant smell of burning sulfur filled his nostrils.
“Move!” he barked at Mark, not daring to look back as he heard his sandals scraping against stone in retreat.
The creatures pressed forward despite the blade’s radiance; their movements became more coordinated, more predatory. Jovias recognized the hunting pattern. They were trying to separate him from Mark, to drive him deeper into the marketplace where more of them waited in the shadows between stalls.
He feinted left, then spun right, his cloak billowing as he carved a path through the demon vapors. His movement was a choreographed madness that kept demons clear. The horde of demons pushed through the narrowing alley. As demonic humans gathered, space contracted, making it difficult to escape. Jovias took a swing, striking two with one swoop, but he failed to recoil his sword fast enough to combat the oncoming masses.
One demon swung a fist into his face, blood spat out of his mouth, and he tried to keep his balance. Another struck him from behind, then two dove at his feet. They overthrew Jovias, pinned him to the ground, and sustained him.
They seized Mark and dragged him with a rope around his neck through the city’s main streets. The crowd shouts, “Lead the ox to sacrifice.” The mob dragged Mark to a rocky area where they sacrificed oxen to their gods, most notably Serapis, by dragging them over the rocks.
Jovias looked over at Mark, who was being held, and resisted fighting back. Mark raised a finger to Jovias as if letting him know not to fight. Jovias shut his eyes tight and felt a thud blow over his head, and everything went dark.
Jovias awoke in the darkness a few hours later, disoriented. The hot, metallic smell of blood and death filled the air, stinging his nostrils and pulling him from a haze. As he tried to regain his senses, he stared into the darkness of the prison; the silence broken only by the drip of water. Dizzy, he crept toward the hefty wooden door, its tiny, barred window letting in just enough light.
“Mark,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Are you here?”
Jovias watched as the celestial light overpowered the darkness of the prison. The vision of an angel visited Mark. The angel spoke to Mark, bolstering his courage. “Now your hour has come, O Mark, to receive your recompense.” The angel encouragingly told Mark, “Your name is written in the book of life.”
The angel left a streak of golden light down the corridor and out of an opening. Mark dropped to his knees and thanked God for sending His angel to him. Suddenly, a vision of Jesus appeared and said to Mark, “Peace be to you, Mark, my disciple!”
Mark shouts, “Oh my Lord Jesus,” but the vision disappeared. A profound calm washed over him; fear no longer had a hold.
Astrid appeared to Jovias, his light less radiant than the angel’s but enough to dominate the gloom.
“Stand down, Jovias,” Astrid spoke softly, but commanded. “The Savior of men has bequeathed it to be such.”
“Why?” Jovias looked out the opening, hearing the soldiers and men walk into the prison.
“Not again!” He dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands.
Astrid did not answer, but he rested a hand on his shoulder. A calming warmth came over Jovias, and he felt at peace for the first time in centuries.
Jovias watched as the men dragged Mark out of his prison and down the corridor. Mark walked as two armored guards held each arm and two more walked in front and behind them.
He stood as Astrid stepped away. “That’s it?” Jovias questions the reasoning behind what was happening.
Astrid raised a finger, pointed to the sky, “He made it so.” A simple phrase that Jovias accepted, even if he did not fully agree. He would wait until sunrise. When the doors opened, he could leave without interference.
Sunrise came, and Jovias tried the door, which swung open. He poked his head out and looked to the left, then to the right. He crept out of the prison and onto the sunlit streets. Jovias shook his head in disbelief. He cast his eyes downward. He blurted, “Lord,” closing his eyes. “My doubt is unwarranted. You have shown mercy.”
During the triumphal procession the following morning, the mob dragged Mark around the city until he died. They tore his bloody flesh, but the wind blew and the rain fell in torrents, and the people dispersed. Christians stole his body and buried him in a grave engraved on a rock beneath the church’s altar.
Jovias stood on a nearby rooftop as the sun radiated off the ground. He witnessed the death of a righteous man; the same way he had watched the people drown and die during the flood. The scene of the flood replayed in the back of his mind as he watched the evil of humankind take hold and overpower the righteous, Jesus’ chosen man.
Astrid appeared at his side on the rooftop.
“Jovias,” he whispered in a low tone. His presence resonated in his mind. Jovias turned to see Astrid standing before him. He watched the mob below carry Mark’s dead body off the streets.
“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice edged with coldness.
“Your work here is complete,” Astrid replies.
“Work?” Jovias’s fury erupted. He took two steps toward Astrid, grabbing Astrid’s wrist in his fist. He pulled Astrid in close, Astrid’s chin resting close to his forehead, and spat in a fury. “Why would I work for any of you? You could have stopped this! You could have stopped the death of Jesus! The death of so many, and you did nothing!”
Astrid remained patient. “Release me!” he commanded. He yanked Jovias off his wrist and pushed him back. Jovias dropped to his knees in pain as Astrid held him down.
“Listen!” he said. Jovias rubbed his wrists, alternating between both hands, trying to regain feeling. He looked up, waiting for Astrid to speak.
“Stand.” Jovias obeyed.
“You will go to the country of Spain on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year one-thousand six-hundred and thirty-seven,” Astrid declared.
“For what!” Jovias was defiant.
“Why should I do what you want? All of you care for yourselves, not these people!” Astrid remained silent.
“Tell Michael this will not continue. I cannot stand idly by and watch men, righteous men, persecuted and tortured because of the name of God! Because they follow the teachings of His Son!” Jovias’s ire flared with each word. His fury blazed, visible for Astrid to see. But he remained calm, unmoved.
Jovias took a deep breath and shut his eyes, rubbing his aching wrists to regain feeling. He steadied himself and glared at Astrid. “So, what am I to do on this date?”
“That day will reveal what you and the Seven will do. Your actions will decide the fate of many,” Astrid responded. He unfurled his wings wide. With one powerful flap, he rose into the sky in a golden blur and disappeared among the clouds.
Jovias followed Astrid’s path with his eyes. He returned his gaze to the dispersing crowd. Mark’s body was no longer in sight. He took one last look around.
Down the street stairs, he entered the alley and walked to the outskirts. He looked back once, and never again, as he walked out of town, into the desert.