His Majesty's

PROLOGUE

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Friday, 23:15
Day 68 of The Second Exorcism; The Northern Shrine

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He did not dislodge the swords impaling his chest.

It wouldn't have changed his fate in any way. Three slabs of heavy carbon steel that suspended precisely through his organs. Their positions almost resembled a triangle.

His assailants had certainly enjoyed it, toying with him before his death.

Sprawled across the cold steps leading to his shrine, Illyvah raised his stare in a daze, at the low-hung chandeliers serving the domed sky of his temple. It was a neck-breaker, a piece well deserving of marvel. His people's countenance had said it all.

The containment of his grand temple, with all seven of its complex floors, bore no shadows. Illuminated by God, his people would whisper low. In the absence of darkness, everything almost glowed, blinding, pure off-white.

But not today. Today no amount of lighting could have kept him awake. Today the golden-streaked ceramic flooring carried the illegal blood of its dutiful owner. The walls seemed to disregard their arrogant heights, for the first and last time, to cradle him.

They watched him crawl into their refuge. They were no longer his temple, but his resting casket. And all eighty statues scattered throughout and overhead stood in solidarity, ready to bear witness to his murder.

Illyvah's senses began to dampen. Five hours of bleeding had rendered him as capable as dead. And he bled with cold shame.

How fast was he dethroned, he thought. And with which demeaning fashion was it done.

He was once the pride and crown of his now vacant throne. Following his lead was an alliance that had defied Hell for over twenty centuries. Heiver himself—the Grand Governor of Hell and his own Father figure—did not dare counter him.

Illyvah was once his hope and dream. For ages, Hell had crafted him to be their complementary chess piece.

Humans were weak-willed creatures. Evil was easily adorned in their sights. And their leverage lied in their detachment from the Divine Laws. They could pursue the unthinkable, and the skies would only watch and claim no immediate business.

Now Hell possessed one: a human vessel intricately wired with divine aptitude. The day would come when he possessed the power to break the knees of the upper echelon.

The Heavens had no dominion over him. They had no knowledge to begin with. They were blind to the One, who carried the sword that could behead them.

If only he had followed through.

It took Illyvah seven centuries and a dozen lies to build an image of undying loyalty. One night of resolution was enough to deface it.

In the empty confinement of that night, he blocked out the world and called out to his savior from within his ribs. He offered his blood in feedings of cold rage and retaliation. He begged, he ached, and then he slid his robe off his shoulders to study the damnation that he was. He was an enslaved vessel to their curse, not a son. From the ankles up to the very neck, they had needled their symbols and markings on his skin with inks of black.