In the year 1092, as autumn winds carried a chill from the Taurus Mountains across Anatolia, the Anglo-Byzantine alliance pressed onward westward. Following our blood-soaked victory at Cappadocia, where we shattered the shadow of Bael, our legions now turned toward Smyrna—an ancient city nestled along the Aegean coast, known today as Izmir.
Once a thriving seaport, it drew merchant ships from across the Mediterranean, laden with the salty tang of the sea mingled with sweet grape wine and exotic Eastern spices. Marble-paved streets gleamed under the sun, bustling markets echoed with traders' laughter, and timeless Greek temples stood witness to the rise and fall of empires. Yet now, Smyrna was a mere specter of its former glory: black smoke billowed from ruins, ash blanketed the ground, and eerie demonic horns wailed from crumbling walls, like curses from the underworld.
Emperor Alexios Komnenos dispatched an urgent letter to our camp, his script trembling on faded parchment, as if he himself quaked at the horrors he described. "An ancient entity holds Smyrna in its grip," it read. "It wields no blades or flames, but words that drive my soldiers to end their own lives. They spiral into delusions, muttering twisted scriptures before plunging daggers into their hearts or hurling themselves against walls. Come at once, Ealdred. Otherwise, the entire Aegean will be swallowed by this darkness."
As our forces—over 5,000 Anglo-Saxon and Byzantine warriors, spearheaded by 300 Ascendant knights—approached from the east, the sight chilled even the most seasoned veterans. The city lay shrouded in a dense silver mist, shimmering like shattered glass, born not of nature but supernatural force. Proud Byzantine banners lay toppled, their fabrics torn and blood-soaked. Around the gates, hundreds of corpses sprawled, bound by their own armor—chains twisted around necks and limbs, squeezing until flesh split open. Etched into their skin were ancient Greek symbols: λόγος (logos—word), repeated endlessly like a malediction. Dried blood formed scripted lines, as though their bodies had become pages in a grotesque tome.
Theodoros, the middle-aged Byzantine priest with a flowing white beard and piercing eyes, who had journeyed with me from Constantinople, whispered at my side while clutching his wooden cross. "God created light from nothingness with His word, Ealdred," he said, his voice quivering yet resolute. "But demons twist words to forge darkness and void. This is no battle of steel—it's a war for the soul, where language turns lethal." A erudite scholar versed in Scripture and legends of Solomon's 72 demons, his presence offered solace amid the encroaching gloom.
I rested my hand on Lucifer's hilt—the legendary sword once borne by the fallen angel, now my weapon in this crusade. Its faint silver glow pulsed subtly, sensing the proximity of another Duke of Hell. Each encounter with one made the blade heavier, burdening me with added fate. I, Ealdred, Count of Jerusalem, once a simple knight from Kent in England, had become the alliance's emblem, Bael's mark still searing my chest. But Smyrna would test me differently—not with brute force, but linguistic cunning.
That night, as we encamped on Smyrna's shore, fierce sea winds arose, carrying a grotesque laughter like distorted chants from hell. "In principio erat verbum… et verbum factum est ventus," echoed the whisper ("In the beginning was the Word… and the Word became Wind"). My warriors, the Ascendant knights in gleaming armor etched with crosses, grew restless. They gripped their weapons tightly, staring into the inky sea where waves crashed like monstrous roars.
At dawn, under a leaden gray sky, I led the 300 Ascendant knights through the eastern gate. Our plan was meticulously devised: divide into three flanks, with my central force charging the main square, while Bryennios—a tall, black-bearded Byzantine general loyal to Alexios, with a booming voice—commanded the left and right to encircle via narrow alleys. We advanced in tight formation, horses neighing and mail clinking, but the winds intensified, bearing intrusive voices that pierced the mind: "Drop your swords. Rest now. No more pain."
Several young recruits from England complied, their eyes glazing over as blood clotted into dark lumps within. They turned on comrades, slashing wildly while shrieking warped verses like "The Word is God, and God is nothingness!" Blood sprayed, staining the stone. The conflict escalated rapidly: not just a handful, but dozens, then hundreds of surviving Byzantine troops succumbed, spawning widespread chaos. I bellowed over the gale: "Plug your ears! Wrap them with cloth!" But it was futile—the voices bypassed hearing, invading thoughts like a corrosive curse eroding will.
Theodoros, riding beside me, shouted amid the pandemonium: "It's Agares! Master of Language, one of Solomon's 72 demons! He rewrites reality with speech, enslaving minds!" I spurred my horse forward, drawing Lucifer, its blade blazing silver through the fog. "If he fights with words, I'll counter with fire!" I slashed downward, unleashing a river of silver flame that cleaved the vast Smyrna square. It spread, incinerating corpses and mist, forming a temporary barrier for our troops.
From the swirling smoke emerged a figure—not the hideous demon like Bael, but a gaunt elder in flowing white robes, clutching a thick tome bound in human skin, its pages aglow with golden runes. Agares, the second Duke of Hell, resembled an ancient sage, his long white hair drifting like clouds, eyes abyssal with lost tongues. "You are Ealdred," he intoned softly like a breeze, yet each syllable resonated in every mind. "You slew Bael, so you fancy yourself chosen? A mere English knight defying what has endured since creation's dawn?"
"I am just a man striving to survive this inferno," I replied steadily, gripping Lucifer.
"No. You are an unfinished word. I am its completer—the rewriter of worlds through divine tongues." Agares smiled, flipping open his book, and proclaimed: "Fiat mare – et mare surgit." ("Let there be sea—and the sea rises.")
Instantly, Smyrna's harbor erupted as if rent by a colossal hand. Aegean waters surged into a towering wave wall, dozens of meters high, sweeping away all in its path. Coastal buildings crumbled, timber and stone shattering; Byzantine vessels were flung skyward like toys, crashing in splinters. The devastation was unprecedented: waves sprawled for kilometers, submerging half the city, transforming Smyrna into a lethal marsh. Hundreds of soldiers were dragged under, screaming in murky torrents, bodies slamming against reefs and wreckage.
We fought atop treacherous floods, waves cresting like battlements amid howling gales. Our initial strategy shattered; I commanded anchors fired into remaining shore pillars, weaving a web to anchor positions.
Bryennios led the left flank, shielding archers with massive barriers as they loosed flaming arrows at the swells, while the right used spears to repel floating cadavers—now reanimated puppets by Agares, murmuring hexes. He hovered aloft, hair like stormy clouds, book splayed before him. Each utterance birthed catastrophe: "Veni tempestas—Come, storm!" Lightning rent the heavens, bolts striking water, electrocuting clusters of men, their forms charring and smoking. Winds hurled even armored fighters into abyssal depths.
I leaped onto a drifting plank from a wrecked ship, charging him like a silver arrow. Lucifer flared; I arced it in a fiery sweep, parting the tempest into opposing gusts for a fleeting passage. Agares sneered: "You pit blade against speech? Pathetic, mortal." He raised a hand, intoning: "Fiat saxa – et saxa volant." ("Let there be stones—and stones fly.") Boulders from the seabed soared, hurtling like meteors. I defended with spiraling swings, forging a silver light shield that pulverized them to dust, though the impacts numbed my arms, drawing blood from my palms.
I retaliated with the sword's power: "Lucifer—accende lumen verum!" ("Lucifer—ignite true light!") Silver radiance lanced forth like a destructive beam, shredding invisible scripts adrift in the air—each glyph a fragment of archaic language, dissolving like crystal powder. Agares howled: "My words are infinite! They will rewrite you, making you a chapter in my scripture!" He spread his arms, summoning swarms of Greek and Latin characters buzzing like venomous bees, piercing our ranks. Contact etched skin into parchment, blood into ink, exploding victims into scripted ash.
Closing in, I struck the massive central sea pillar—his perch. Lucifer embedded deep, cracking it wide and releasing thousands of glyphs that stabbed my flesh like needles. Agony surged, but visions emerged: each symbol bore a weeping soul, victims transmuted into "words." "Agares! You don't teach language—you slaughter with it!" I roared, voice piercing the storm.
He sang in response: "You fail to grasp that speech is God Himself. And I—His mirror. Sicut scriptum est: omnis caro littera fiet." ("As it is written: all flesh shall become letter.") Smyrna transformed on a grand scale: structures melted to fine sand, seas parted revealing hundred-meter depths where colossal serpents coiled pillars, spewing venom that turned water to corrosive acid. My warriors were "rewritten"—skin wrinkling like aged vellum, blood oozing black ink, bodies detonating in thunderous blasts, leaving drifting lettered dust.
The battle paused amid the fractured sea. Facing Agares, winds bore millions of dark-snow fragments around us. His tone deepened: "Humans wield words for prayer, deceit, love, and hate. They are double-edged. I merely reveal their essence—freedom from the order you deem light." Silence gripped me; my soul's shadow stirred at his truth, yet I murmured: "If words hold power, silence is sanctity."
I interrupted with a decisive thrust—Lucifer's silver pierced his human-skin tome, tearing it asunder. For the first time, Agares cried out in agony, his "blood"—ebony ink—erupting like a glyph storm, staining the sky. Reality fractured: errant phrases warped existence. An incomplete sentence liquefied rock; a repeated clause reversed time in Smyrna—arrows hung midair, blood retreated into wounds, soldiers clashed in nightmarish reverie.
Agares attempted recitation, but his throat tore, voice rasping. He carved "Ealdred" into his chest, convulsing my body—he was rewriting me as his extension. His echo resounded: "Henceforth, you are me." With utmost resolve, I plunged Lucifer precisely into my heart, silver blood gushing to halt the invading script. "No, Agares. I am not the word—I am its author!"
He morphed into a colossal ink vortex, hundreds of meters wide, blackening the Aegean like liquid obsidian, devouring all nearby. I strode across water miraculously, each step imprinting silver trails. Lucifer transcended sword, becoming destiny's immense quill. I inscribed the air with my blood: "In nomine veri silentii—dissolvatur verbum falsum." ("In the name of true silence—dissolve the false word.") The maelstrom halted abruptly, letters melting like snow, unveiling Agares reformed—a broken silhouette clutching a smoldering book.
He whispered humbly: "You prevail… for you comprehend words beyond me. But remember—every utterance rewrites the world." I countered: "And every silence preserves it." He offered a faint smile, dissolving into the breeze, leaving a drifting page inscribed: "Ealdred, you have penned the next chapter of the Ancient Scripture."
As the storm subsided, Smyrna lay in vast desolation: seas receded miles, exposing thousands of mingled human and fish remains in mud, buildings reduced to rubble heaps, air thick with ink and blood stench. Bryennios approached, face ashen: "Was that a demon? Or our own nightmare?" I replied: "Neither. It was the demon's word—and we silenced it to triumph."
Theodoros knelt amid the wreckage, chanting prayers for souls turned to text, his voice echoing on sea winds. I gazed seaward, sunlight piercing dark waters, reflecting like countless burning pages. A voice murmured on the breeze—whose, perhaps fate's: "Do not mistake silence for an end. Ten Dukes remain, each a chapter in Your Scripture."
I smiled wistfully: "If it is Scripture, I shall author it in true blood."
That night, as the camp slumbered in makeshift tents, I peered into a mirror. Beneath my throat, a new Greek symbol emerged—Λόγος—burning like infernal fire. "The second mark…" I breathed. Lucifer trembled nearby, silver laced with black, like merged scripts. I realized: defeating each Duke claimed their power—but etched it into my soul. No longer merely Ealdred of Kent or Count of Jerusalem, I was evolving into something between God's script and Hell's silence—a chronicler of history in blood and hush.
Upon returning to Constantinople, Alexios greeted us personally at the Golden Gate, amid resplendent retinue. He regarded me intently, aged eyes fraught with concern: "What did you witness at Smyrna, Ealdred?" I answered: "Theology forged in blood.
Language is no longer human—it's weapon and destiny." He nodded gravely: "Ten more await. Each stronger, pushing your spirit to its brink."
I affirmed: "I will pursue them, lest they come—and rewrite the world in shadow."
That evening, I inscribed in my journal, quill trembling on parchment:
"Bael taught me willpower's might—to endure amid chaos.
Agares revealed language's force—to create or annihilate worlds.
The remaining ten will unveil the soul's cost—and perhaps its salvation."
Closing the volume, I stared at the moonlit Marmara Sea. Lightning flashed overhead, shaped like ancient Greek letters. I knew the third darkness loomed, arriving not in blood or words… but memories—capable of rending my soul asunder.