The autumn of 1090 enveloped the lands of England in a tapestry of vibrant hues, where gentle chills carried the scent of decaying leaves and the damp earth from ancient forests that whispered secrets of bygone eras. England had only just settled into a fragile peace following the tumultuous storms of political intrigue and warfare, with the sea at Dover lying calm like an immense mirror reflecting the overcast skies above. It was in this moment of tentative tranquility that a royal missive arrived from the court, bearing the vivid red wax seal of King William II Rufus. The command summoned me—Ealdred, Earl of Kent, once hailed as the Guardian of Jerusalem—to the grand palace of Westminster without delay.
As I entered the great hall of Westminster, the atmosphere was thick and oppressive, infused with the warm, honeyed aroma of beeswax from hundreds of flickering candles that cast golden glows upon the polished iron armor of the knights standing sentinel along the corridors. The ancient granite walls were etched with intricate symbols of English royalty, from majestic lions roaring in defiance to ornate Roman crosses, serving as eternal reminders of an empire stretching its influence across the world.
King William II Rufus sat upon his elaborately carved throne, his fiery red hair blazing like a crown of flames, his sharp eyes sweeping over me like the edge of a honed blade. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed through the vast space: "Earl Ealdred, Constantinople cries out for aid.
Emperor Alexios I Komnenos has dispatched envoys, warning that the East is engulfed in an inferno—the Seljuk Turks have summoned twelve Demon Dukes from the abyssal depths of hell. These entities do not merely tear at borders; they threaten to devour the very souls of the entire Byzantine Empire. I require a man who is not only a valiant warrior but also an emissary bearing the hope of the West. You are that man."
I bowed my head, my gaze fixed upon the enormous goatskin map sprawled across the oak table, meticulously detailing the arduous path from Kent across the Channel Strait, traversing the European continent, crossing the tempestuous Adriatic Sea, skirting the rugged Dalmatian coast with its jagged limestone mountains piercing the sky, then hugging the windswept shores of the Aegean before finally reaching the enigmatic city of Constantinople. This was a journey of epic proportions, akin to traversing from the dusty mortal realm to a distant paradise where light and shadow eternally clashed in cosmic battle. I drew a deep breath, feeling the immense weight of the mission upon my shoulders: "I shall go, Your Majesty. Not out of fealty to the throne alone, but because this world still demands salvation from the encroaching darkness. If we fail to act, that shadow will consume everything, from the humble villages of England to the opulent golden palaces of the East."
Matilda, my beloved wife with her long, silken hair cascading like a waterfall and her deep blue eyes brimming with unspoken fears, bid me farewell at the harbor of Dover. The salty sea breeze whipped her skirts into a frenzy, and the gentle waves lapped against the rocky shore like murmured goodbyes. She clutched my hand tightly, her voice trembling with emotion: "You always charge toward the flames, Ealdred. Have you ever considered staying, here with me and our children?" I embraced her, savoring the warmth of her slender form, and whispered: "Light holds true meaning only when one dares to venture into the deepest darkness, Matilda. If I do not go, who will safeguard this world for our descendants? Hold the flame close to your heart, and pray for my return."
The voyage spanned over three months, an odyssey fraught with perils through unfamiliar territories. We set sail from England on sturdy wooden vessels, braving the stormy Channel, then proceeded through Italy along ancient Roman-paved roads where the ruins of a fallen empire loomed like spectral guardians of history. Crossing the Adriatic on towering Genoese sailing ships with their white sails billowing like captured clouds, the tension aboard grew palpable. One fateful night, as the ship glided through the shadowy Ionian Sea, the moon veiled by a dense fog, I stood on the deck and beheld a horrifying spectacle: from the inky depths below, dark shapes emerged like demonic arms, twisting in vivid misty forms. They reached upward, grasping at the air as if to drag the vessel into the abyss. Were these the restless spirits of warriors fallen at Jerusalem, or harbingers from the forces of darkness resurgence, challenging humanity once more?
The Genoese captain, a weathered mariner with sun-bronzed skin, a bushy beard, and eyes wise from countless voyages, murmured in my ear: "That is the breath of the East, my lord. A realm where demons and God Himself still barter for every soul. We draw near the threshold of hell, and those wayward spirits warn us of what lies ahead." When our party finally set foot on Byzantine soil, the heavens unleashed a rain of ashen dust, as if hell itself were scattering its remnants upon the earth. The Anatolian peasants, their faces etched with hardship and clad in tattered garments, fled in panic across barren fields, muttering ancient Greek prayers: "Daimon basileus… The Demon King rises, and this land shall turn to ashes!"
At the venerable monastery of Nicaea, with its moss-covered stone walls and vibrant stained-glass mosaics depicting saints in eternal vigil, the black-robed monks recounted the true horror in hushed tones. They whispered that the Seljuks had breached a portion of the "Sigillum Solomonis"—the Seal of the 72 Demons forged by the legendary King Solomon. Twelve of the mightiest demons had been unleashed, each embodying a primal sin and a profound human fear. With a trembling hand under the dim candlelight, I meticulously noted their names in my worn leather journal: Bael, lord of arrogance and illusions; Agares, manipulator of earthquakes and wars; Vassago, prophet of buried secrets; Samigina, summoner of the dead; Marbas, shapeshifter and spreader of plagues; Valefar, thief of souls and deceiver; Amon, igniter of hatred and division; Barbatos, hunter of souls in the deep woods; Buer, false healer bearing poisons; Gusion, revealer of grim futures; Sitri, awakener of lust and mad passions; and finally, Beleth—the Duke of Despair, who drowns humanity in endless anguish. The name Beleth sent a chill down my spine, like a curse echoing from antiquity.
On December 12, 1090, I at last arrived in Constantinople, the legendary city materializing under the twilight like a dream soaked in blood and gilded splendor. The domes of Hagia Sophia shimmered in the fading light, reflecting a celestial realm stained red by the blood of countless wars. The Theodosian Walls towered immense, riddled with watchtowers and arches, adorned with wide-winged angelic symbols intermingled with coiling serpents and roaring lions—testimony to the East's hybrid essence, where Christianity intertwined with primordial beliefs. Our English delegation was escorted through the fabled Golden Gate, where every stone bore engraved prayers in ancient Greek, forming a barrier against the encroaching void. The city's vibrancy overwhelmed the senses: distant church bells tolling solemnly, the boisterous shouts of Venetian merchants on cobblestone streets, the shrill Arabic cries of chained captives, and the dignified Latin chants of priests—all merging into a chaotic symphony of a world teetering on the brink of oblivion.
Led into the palace to meet Emperor Alexios I Komnenos, he sat upon a silver throne intricately carved, draped in a purple robe embroidered with radiant phoenixes, symbols of rebirth from ashes. His face was weary, lined with deep furrows from endless years of conflict, yet his eyes burned with an unquenchable fire—the eyes of one who had gazed into too many shadows but clung steadfastly to the light. He rose, descending from the throne to embrace me like a brother: "You are Ealdred of Kent, Earl of Jerusalem, the vanquisher of darkness in the Holy Land. Your fame has reached me from the distant West. If you have come, perhaps God has not entirely forsaken my empire. Join me in saving this world."
The initial meeting unfolded in the opulent Blachernae Palace, where sea breezes carried the fresh scent of pine resin from nearby forests and the rich incense from silver censers. Alexios unfurled a colossal map upon a pristine marble table, illustrating the full expanse of the Byzantine Empire and its threatened territories. "Do you see, Ealdred?" he pointed to the vast region of Anatolia, with its winding rivers and soaring mountains. "This was once the heart of our empire, fertile lands teeming with prosperous cities like Smyrna and Iconium. Now, it has become a hell on earth. The Seljuks conquer not just with swords, but by invoking twelve great demons to sow chaos. These are no longer myths from ancient tomes—they are reality, devouring souls and landscapes alike."
I replied, my voice steady yet laced with contemplation: "I have witnessed the hellfire of Asael scorching deserts and the raging waves of Leviathan swallowing seas. If these are Solomon's demons, this war transcends mere faith; it is about the survival of all humanity. We must unite, or everything will plunge into eternal night." Alexios nodded, his eyes betraying the isolation of an emperor bearing the world's burden: "Indeed. Thus, I have sent pleas for aid to Venice, Genoa, Germany, France, and your England. Yet you arrive first, like the initial ray of hope. A true knight does not await commands when humanity hangs in the balance." I smiled: "And a true emperor knows that an alliance is not merely armies, but shared faith."
The subsequent confidential council convened in the mystical Chrysotriklinos Hall—an octagonal chamber with a gold-plated dome, its ceiling mosaicked with Christ extending a blessing hand, a divine reminder of sacred power. Attendees included Byzantine generals in gleaming armor, their faces scarred from battles; Greek clerics in white robes clutching ancient Bibles; Venetian merchant representatives in luxurious silk with calculating gazes; and myself—the sole Western envoy, representing an awakening realm. Upon the table, beside the map, rested a silver chest inscribed with archaic Hebrew runes, emanating an otherworldly aura. Alexios opened it cautiously, revealing glittering fragments of the "Seal of Solomon"—the artifact that once imprisoned the 72 demons in the underworld.
Theophanes the monk, a frail elder with a flowing white beard and piercing eyes, spoke in a quavering voice: "The Seljuks have shattered the seal in the southern quadrant, freeing twelve demon dukes. Each summoning turns a region into barren wasteland: trees wither, rivers dry, and human souls corrupt. We fight no longer with mere spears, but with the fortitude of spirit and faith." The room fell deathly silent, breaths held as if the air itself trembled before the dark might. A Venetian merchant, his tone shrewd and gestures precise, inquired: "Then how much gold to reseal it? We can supply fleets and resources." Alexios retorted icily, his voice thundering: "Not gold, but the blood of those who bear true light. The blood of heroes willing to sacrifice for the world."
The chamber sank into profound quiet, candlelight dancing on faces, highlighting terror and resolve. I shattered the hush, my tone resolute: "Then let my blood be the commencement. As long as this world greets dawn, I am prepared to confront hell itself." My words drew all eyes, the flickering flames reflecting off my silver armor, transforming it into a vivid oath, a beacon undimmed amid the gloom.
Following the assembly, Alexios invited me for a private discourse in the expansive palace library, where thousands of ancient volumes in Latin, Syriac, and Greek lined walnut shelves, exuding the musty scent of aged paper and ink. Walls bore carvings of Alexander the Great grasping a celestial orb, emblematic of world-conquering might. "Ealdred," he intoned, his voice warm yet fraught with concern, "I need not only your sword, but the wisdom and unity of the West. Return and tell your king: we shall divide forces—England to secure the Aegean seas with a mighty fleet, Byzantium to fortify Thrace with impregnable bastions, and I shall dispatch learned theologians to seal the demonic realms." I queried, my eyes on the wall-hung statue of Saint Michael wielding a flaming sword: "And the Seljuks? Where do they lurk?" Alexios replied: "My spies report Bael reigning in Smyrna, turning it into a fortress of hubris; Agares unleashing quakes in Iconium; and Beleth amassing forces in Cappadocia, spreading despair. Each demon assumes the guise of an ancient king, wielding destructive power." I murmured: "Does God still heed our prayers?" Alexios smiled sorrowfully: "Perhaps He does, but we speak in tongues of division, not harmony. That is the true foe—the rift among those who share the same light."
On the eve before the alliance's formal sealing, Alexios summoned me to Hagia Sophia—the world's grandest cathedral, its colossal dome like a golden firmament where light filtered through colored glass panes, birthing ethereal rainbows. Choral hymns echoed from the choir, mingling with the aromas of incense and beeswax from hundreds of candles encircling the altar. At the center lay the Codex Angelicus—a lost scripture holding the rite of the "True Light Alliance," an archaic ceremony bridging East and West. Alexios declared solemnly: "Today, we forge a pact between East and West, as Constantine the Great once did. Our blood shall mingle, symbolizing unbreakable unity." I drew my keen dagger, pricking my fingertip to let crimson drops fall upon the ancient page. He followed suit, and as our blood blended, a wondrous glow spread, quivering across mosaics of Christ. A distant voice resounded, ambiguous—angelic or historical echo: "The alliance is forged, but each drop of blood exacts a soul's toll." Candles flickered wildly, a chill wind sweeping the church like a infernal warning. Alexios bowed: "The world nears apocalypse, but today, at least, we stand united against the dark."
The following morning, as I stood by the Bosphorus shore, watching Byzantine ships glide over waters gleaming gold in the sunrise, an uncanny event unfolded. Amid the thick mist, a colossal shadow rose from the depths—not the mythical Kraken, but a giant form crowned in darkness, with twelve elongated arms, each clutching a sin's emblem: pride, enmity, lust… Byzantine soldiers screamed in terror: "Beleth! Beleth awakens to shatter the alliance!" Yet upon blinking, the vision vanished like a mirage. A nearby monk whispered: "No, merely a wind's illusion. But perhaps the demonic souls sense our unity's power and quiver in fear."
I comprehended that this war would rage not solely on terrestrial battlefields with blades, but within human souls, where light and shadow waged their fiercest duel. I penned a letter to England, my quill trembling on parchment: "Should I not return, instruct Lucien—our son—to preserve the flame of light. Let it not extinguish even if the world succumbs to hellfire." Then our entourage departed the city, venturing eastward—toward where the twelve Demon Dukes awaited with primordial might.
That final night in Constantinople, sleep eluded me. Church bells chimed steadily, interwoven with the Bosphorus waves' rhythmic murmur, like fate's whisper. In the lavish chamber, the legendary sword Lucifer—its silver blade ethereal—leaned by the window, its glow dim as if anticipating a new tempest. Alexios visited unexpectedly, seating himself opposite and pouring two goblets of deep red wine from a silver decanter. "Do you know why I trust you, foreigner from the West?" he inquired. I answered: "Because I too have beheld hell and survived to recount it." He chuckled: "Precisely. So survive once more, for this world requires heroes like you." We drank in silence, save for the howling wind outside. Suddenly, lightning flashed, and I glimpsed demonic shapes soaring through clouds—perhaps illusion, perhaps omen of impending strife. I inscribed the journal's closing line: "Tomorrow, I enter where light cannot pierce. If I return, this world shall be forever altered."
The next dawn, our delegation set forth under a brilliant sunrise. Atop the Blachernae Gate, Alexios stood resolute, his purple cloak billowing in the gale. He raised a gleaming silver cross high: "O man of the West, carry our oath. When facing darkness, recall that light resides not in lofty heavens—but within the human heart." I bowed in farewell. The gates swung open, sunlight bathing Hagia Sophia's golden dome, striking Lucifer and forging a elongated beam like sacred fire, illuminating the entire city. Crowds knelt along the paths, singing hymns praising God and heroes, their voices resounding like a benediction. I turned for one last gaze at Constantinople—a metropolis poised between sky and sea, God and Devil, emblematic of humanity's fragility.
Then we advanced, aware this journey transcended mere salvation mission; it was the destiny of the entire world. Ahead lay Anatolia's infernal flames, the twelve Demon Dukes with archaic powers, and trials testing faith's utmost limits. Yet in my heart, the breeze from Hagia Sophia endured—a reminder that all great alliances commence with sincere belief and culminate in heroic sacrifices, enabling light to triumph over darkness.