Atlantis, tall and proud island city. Atlantis, the ruler of everything, the keeper of the world’s secrets. Eternal Atlantis was burning, its tall buildings crumbling to the ground.

The Nephilim, who were mindless weapons for the emperor until now, had rebelled. These giants that had made up Atlantis’ conquering legions were now tearing the city down.

Where were the Grigori now? Samyaza, prideful to a fault who had taken the emperor’s sister for wife and had given the then prince the heavenly mandate. The name of the almighty himself.

 Azazel, who had thought the prince how to fight with the sword and shot with the bow. And had told him of all that lay beyond the borders of the island, when before all its inhabitants had thought that it was all there was to it. That they were all alone.

Where were Baraqel and Chazaqiel? Those who helped with the building of the ships and the navigation of the ocean? Where was wise Penemue? The one who thought the prince the mystery of the ink and paper and made him an Emperor?

The one who demanded Emperor Nikola’s heart for the gift. Only to disappear from the man’s quarters when the giants, led by his son, who he had sired on his female lover Vasiliki, rebelled and begun to tear down the civilization that the emperor spend a thousand years building?

Emperor Nikola looked out of his window as he saw Pallas, his stepson, hurl a stone at the palace. The building shook and Nikola resumed his drawing on the ground. He had slit his wrists for this.

 To better paint, the symbols needed for his task. He wasn’t going to die. Penemue had shared his immortality with him. Nikola cursed his consort then, for Penemue should have calmed his son.

Should have told him that the Nephilim were getting more and more rights, more so than even the Atlanteans. But Penemue had chosen to abandon the island of Atlantis in its time of need, and now the only one who could do anything to stop the giants was Nikola.

He shouldn’t have laid with an angel of the Lord. He should have left Penemue when Vasiliki became pregnant. Poor, beautiful Vasiliki. His fourteen-year-old great-granddaughter, to whom he was supposed to give the throne.

 But he hadn’t. And now Pallas, who wanted the throne for himself, was rebelling against the one who was both his grandfather and father, the rest of the Nephilim following him.

Nikola finished writing the last of the signs and brought the dagger to eye level. Penemue had always liked his emerald eyes. He had composed more than one poem for them.

And now Nikola was going to gauge one, or both if it wasn’t enough, out and hope the waters of the ocean proofed a worthy opponent for the beasts. A good grave for his people, their island sinking to the bottom. And if God was merciful, then a good grave for him too.

He bit his lips and blood flowed down his jaw as the dagger begun its bloody work. He didn’t scream, though. Furthermore, he was 1018 years old. The people who were screaming in terror below didn’t have such a long life.

 But he had to do this. For all the Nephilim had gathered on the island and if he didn’t kill them all now, they would spread like a plague across the world.

His eye fell down on the floor with a wet slosh and Nikola blinked back the tears from his one remaining one. He placed his eyeball in the center of the ritual circle and begun to chant the incantation for rain.

The death that ruled the island would multiply the magnitude, and when he saw the first raindrops falling from the heavens, he began a chant that awoke the sleeping volcano at the outskirts of the island.

Pallas roared, and Nikola allowed himself a smile full of teeth. He was Emperor no longer, for when the storm was over there was not going to be anything left of the island and all the lands that he took over with fire and violence would be free.

 And he? He would sink to the bottom of the ocean. To be eaten by sharks, his marrow sucked out by fish. Atlantis had been a civilization, a place of learning. And now the sun set on its magnificent white buildings, the screams of humans and giants alike it’s funeral march. A worthy end for an empire.

Nikola stood up and went to the balcony. The railing was broken from a stone hurled by a giant, but Nikola wasn’t afraid of the fall. The ritual needed one more thing so that the island could sink.

The torment of the one who cast it. Nikola had never felt braver than at this moment. Penemue’s name was on his lips as he leapt down. A bird’s feather was falling with him. It had the same black color as Penemue’s wings.

Nikola allowed himself to snatch it and pretend it had fallen from a wounded Penemue who had attempted to stop his son and save his lover. He closed his remaining eye and smiled softly; feather clutched in his hand.

The feather was too small to have come from the angel’s wings. And the reality of this hit Nikola harder than the impact with the ground. And then he knew only darkness.