In the bitter winter of 1077, as a merciless frost cloaked Cilicia in an unyielding shroud of ice, our Crusader host—a vast sea of over thirty thousand warriors, thousands of warhorses, and countless supply wagons—trudged onward through the majestic Taurus Mountains. I, Ealdred, now twenty-seven years strong, my body forged like tempered steel in the fires of endless battles, bore a face etched with premature wrinkles, scarred by rivers of blood. My armor no longer gleamed under the sun; it was caked in crimson dust, crusted with dried gore, and marred by pale rust, a grim testament to unrelenting ruin. Each step along the jagged stone path was a trial: snow fell in thick veils, winds howled like demons unleashed, and the biting cold seeped into our very marrow.
Our provisions were pitiful—a crust of hard bread per man, rainwater sipped from sodden cloaks. At night, we huddled around flickering campfires that sputtered amid the snow, reeking of hastily roasted horseflesh from beasts too exhausted to carry on, sacrificed to sustain their riders. The pained whinnies of horses mingled with whispered prayers, composing a tragic symphony of survival.
Antioch, the grandest city in Syria, emerged before us like a colossal fortress carved from stone and legend. Home to over a hundred thousand souls, it was no mere wall but a monumental bulwark: ramparts rising more than twenty meters high and wide enough for two chariots to race abreast atop them.
Seven iron gates, guarded by hundreds of skilled Seljuk archers, formed an impenetrable ring; the Orontes River and its tributary snaked like watery dragons, crafting natural moats; and dozens of towering watchtowers allowed bowmen to rain arrows like storms upon any invader. Bohemond, the towering leader with golden hair and eyes sharp as blades, had dubbed Antioch the "gateway to Paradise"—the vital key to Jerusalem. Yet he warned: "It shall be the grave of the arrogant, where blood flows in rivers and souls wander lost forever." We pitched camp outside the walls on sodden, corpse-strewn ground from prior clashes. Our steeds were gaunt shadows, ribs protruding beneath thin hides; the men starved and pallid, yet faith in the Cross smoldered like embers beneath ash. Bohemond tasked me with commanding an elite mercenary band—"The First Ascendant," they called us, the vanguard that hurled itself at walls like moths to flame. None of us, myself included, suspected death lurked not just beyond the stone, but within our souls, cloaked in dark secrets.
The siege of Antioch was a horrific marvel of medieval warfare, pitting tens of thousands of Crusaders against a larger Seljuk force bolstered by locals and allies from across the Middle East. The terrain amplified the brutality: the Taurus range blocked northern supplies, the Orontes formed an eastern barrier, and winter turned the land into a lethal quagmire. Our strategy divided cleanly: Godfrey de Bouillon, the noble duke with silver beard and resonant voice, held the north with Norman and Lorraine forces, hurling massive trebuchets in ceaseless barrages; Bohemond commanded the south with Italian and French contingents, favoring nocturnal raids. Under him, my "First Ascendant"—five hundred seasoned mercenaries, mostly English and German veterans—undertook the deadliest tasks: scaling walls, tunneling beneath, breaching gates.
Logistics were a living nightmare. Rations dwindled to a daily sliver of black bread and foul river water tainted by floating corpses. Daily life descended into hell: soldiers slept on damp earth, curled in tattered cloaks, awakening numb and lice-ridden. Sanitation was a forgotten luxury—shallow latrines reeked across the camp, blending with smoke and rot to draw swarms of flies and plague. Meals grew desperate: horseflesh at first, then boiled leather, chewed roots, even furtive grave-robbing for sustenance.
Foraging parties scoured for horse fodder, returning empty-handed. The war dragged on in slow, savage increments: Seljuks loosed fire arrows from the walls—oil-soaked shafts streaking like meteors, igniting tents in infernos. We countered with soaring wooden siege towers hauled by oxen and horses, but relentless drizzle rotted the timber; many collapsed before contact, burying dozens in splintered graves. Devastation spread: fields scorched black, trees felled for weapons, the Orontes running crimson with the dead.
In the long December nights, as Taurus winds sliced through camp like knives, I dreamed of Asael—the enigmatic foe I thought vanquished in prior battles. In visions, he materialized amid thick fog, half his form radiant with angelic light, the other blackened like hell's ashes. "You have not freed me," he murmured in thunderous echoes, "only shifted me to where light and shadow entwine." I jolted awake in midnight sweat, heart pounding. Then, frantic horse cries drew my gaze—a shadowy figure on a nearby hill, eyes glowing emerald like will-o'-the-wisps. The sentry swore no one was there, but I knew. From that night, gripping Lucifer's sword—the dark blade flickering with cursed violet—my hand trembled, as if Asael's spirit clutched it. Bernard, the aged priest with flowing white beard and hollow eyes, read Scripture by faltering fires in the rain, hands quaking from age and chill. "Ealdred, the Lord tests us as He did Abraham with Isaac. Do you still believe?" he asked. I stayed silent, hearing only Lucifer's whispers from its sheath, its red glow hungering for souls. Bernard warned: "What you bear is no mere weapon, but a curse from the abyss." I replied: "If God won't save me, sin will lead me to victory." In subsequent nights, winds wailed, and Asael's silhouette haunted the mist—not a distant enemy, but my own darkened reflection.
By February 1078, plague swept the camp like infernal wrath. Hundreds perished daily from fever, dysentery, and coughs, bodies bloating and festering. We stacked corpses like windbreaks, their stench mingling with smoke to blacken Antioch's skies in apocalyptic haze. Bohemond, voice commanding, ordered deep trenches around the camp to thwart raids and new towers from fresh-felled timber. I led "The First Ascendant" in tunneling beneath the walls—a desperate bid to collapse foundations. By night, we shed heavy armor, wielding picks and shovels in the frigid, pitch-black earth, air thick with damp soil and sweat. Digging echoes sounded like demonic murmurs. Young Cerdic, with tousled brown hair and an optimistic grin, whispered in the gloom: "If I die here, tell my wife I saw angels over Antioch's skies." My voice rasped: "I will, though angels abandoned us long ago." Hunger drove men to madness: some slew comrades for meat, sparking bloody purges. Bohemond executed two such cannibals himself, hanging their bodies on stakes as warnings, blood dripping into crimson mud. Yet that starvation forged us into fearless beasts. From the walls, Seljuks jeered, hurling severed heads like boulders, staining the earth in viscous red horror.
In June 1078, as desert winds turned the air into a furnace, Bohemond received word from Firouz, an Armenian inside betrayed by personal grudge—he vowed to open St. George's Gate under a veiled moon. I was chosen to lead the vanguard, "The First Ascendant" at its core. That night, hot gusts whipped the camp; a sickle moon hung in inky skies. We bore rope ladders, crawling over rotting corpses, the stench provoking retches. Islamic calls to prayer echoed from the citadel like taunts. I scaled first—true to our name—grit cascading into my face, wind lashing skin. As my hand crested the wall, an arrow whistled past my ear. I vaulted over, drawing Lucifer—its blade pulsing mysterious violet-black—slicing through a Seljuk's iron mail like parchment, blood erupting in fountains. Screams rose and faded into night. My men surged behind like a tide, steel clashing in symphony. St. George's Gate yawned wide; Crusaders poured in as ravenous wolves. Antioch drowned in blood: streets became rivers of red, homes blazed skyward, civilian wails blending with swordplay. Bohemond thundered on his white steed: "God wills it! Deus Vult!" Amid piled corpses, I gazed at the fire-lit heavens, but through smoke, Asael stood atop the central tower, emerald eyes fixed on me. He lingered; he waited.
I charged the tower, boots splashing blood and debris. Air choked with smoke and iron; battles below thundered like storms. At the summit, Asael materialized fully—no longer ethereal, but flesh and blood in gleaming white armor etched with golden lions, towering over me, muscles rippling like Greek gods. "Did you think me dead?" he boomed, voice drumming through the walls. "I cannot die; I am heir to the ancient pact between heaven and earth." I raised Lucifer, its dark gleam mirroring his fiery gaze. "This time, I fight not for God," I snarled, "but for truth." He advanced, air quivering: "And what is your truth, Ealdred?" Coldly: "That God and Devil differ only in who wields the blade—and today, mine decides." We clashed like colliding tempests; the first impact shook the tower, stones raining in a minor avalanche that swept corpses below.
Asael was mightier than ever, relying on raw power, no arcane aids. His straight punch exploded like a hammer, air bursting in deafening cracks, shockwaves hurling me back. I rolled, stabbing Lucifer into stone for anchor, then unleashed "Shadow Blade"—a whisper-taught strike birthing ten illusory dark slashes from the void. Asael twisted like a panther, stomping to unleash a seismic wave that flung me hundreds of feet, slamming into walls; ribs cracked, blood frothed from my lips. He approached, mocking: "You've weakened, Ealdred. Each soul you slay feeds Lucifer, leaving you a hollow shell." Kneeling, blood pooling, I grinned defiantly: "This shell suffices to slay gods." Summoning my remnants, I hurled Lucifer—it streaked like a black comet, trailing vortex winds. Asael caught it, but for the first time, his blood sprayed—crimson light like hellfire. He staggered, roaring in pain and thrill: "Excellent! I've never bled for any!" Then "Heaven's Wheel"—a swirling sword-arc cleaving the tower in half, debris exploding, flames erupting from ruins. I plummeted into the fiery abyss, hearing his vow: "Next time, I end you forever!"
I awoke amid rubble and haze at dawn, body agonized: chest torn, blood unending, lungs seared by poison smoke. Devastation surrounded—corpses strewn, homes charred, wounded moans echoing. Bernard dragged me free, hands trembling: "You're alive, by God's grace!" I croaked a laugh: "No—by the devil's curse." My wounds knit before witnesses, flesh sealing in dark miracle. Soldiers recoiled, whispering "Child of Darkness." But Bohemond, seeing utility, knighted me "Knight of the Holy Sepulchre" for scaling first and surviving hell. His hand on my shoulder held fear-tinged awe: "You're no longer human, Ealdred, but this world needs monsters like you to triumph."
Scarcely had Antioch fallen when disaster struck: Kerbogha's Seljuk host—over fifty thousand, including elite cavalry from Baghdad and Damascus—encircled us in turn. Now trapped in our prize, supplies exhausted, plague rampant. Logistics collapsed: rainwater from roofs, boiled horsehide, deaths in filth and fever. Life was infernal: crammed in dim cellars, waste dumped in rivers sparking cholera.
Bohemond convened leaders in the great hall, wielding the Holy Lance—unearthed by priest Peter Bartholomew beneath a church, faith's emblem. Raising it aloft, the army thundered "Deus Vult!" like earth-shaking roar. I stood amid ranks, Lucifer quivering in my grip—holy light clashing with my inner shadow.
Gates flung open; we charged Kerbogha in a three-day maelstrom. Scale was epic: thousands of cavalry clashed on fields, arrows storming, catapults hurling boulders. Ruin immense: armor melted in summer sun, Orontes a red torrent. We struck suddenly, using walls for defense; Kerbogha's riders encircled to cut retreats. I hacked relentlessly like a wounded beast, Lucifer carving dark arcs through foes. After three days, Kerbogha fled; rains poured, cleansing blood. "The First Ascendant" dwindled to twelve survivors, scarred but unbowed. Antioch was ours—but my soul withered in darkness.
Summer 1078 bathed Antioch in ruin's glow and glaring sun. Crusaders reveled in looted wine and roast, laughter echoing shattered streets. I stood atop the walls, gazing south to Jerusalem's bloody promise. Bernard approached, voice warm: "This victory is God's sign." I replied: "Or the Devil's mockery?" He said nothing, hand on my shoulder: "As long as you question, you're still human." I smiled, heart vast as empty desert. That night, Asael dreamed beside ashes, whispering: "I await in Jerusalem. There, you'll know why heaven and hell both need you." I woke at dawn; crows circled the city like omens. Gripping Lucifer, its violet flare intense. The war endured. Antioch fallen, Jerusalem beckoned—with it, my fate.