Book 1 of the Salvation Series, the first part of Act 1

The realm of He’aeven has always been influenced by prophecies, but when one speaks of the end of everything, it will be a race against time to interpret what is written, and to save the multiverse.

When Ezekiel, an Erelim angel of light, finds out that he may be a part of the prophecy, his whole life is thrown into chaos. But before he can answer the questions of his fate, he is thrust into the middle of an ancient war, one that he never wanted to be a part of. On the run, he will try to find the truth.

Meanwhile, seven Archangels, legends and survivors of their own prophecy, are trying to save their world, and a universe in peril while an army of demons move against them. Including, Envy, a member of the elite group of demons known as the Seven Deadly Sins. He enacts his own plans, to interpret the prophecy and change his own fate.

They will fight to avoid, fix, or change their destinies. But can prophecy be changed? Or are their fates written in stone?

Preview:

Do you believe in fate?

Do you believe in the machinations of destinies? Or in the speaking of prophecy?

Are we walking a predetermined path, following the winding tapestries of time and fate?

Merely following the whims of the universe, despite how we act day to day.

Is our will an illusion?

Despite how much we attempt to have control over our lives, is there some already determined destination that we will be inevitably drawn to?
A combination of events that we cannot avoid?

Or is fate merely a sequence of events that are destined to take place,

with merely the journey between in our own hands.

As humans, if we are given a glimpse of our futures,

is it a natural response to try and change it.

To fight against our destiny, our fate. We could spend our whole lives just looking for answers,

and never see the truth of it.

This is the fate of many, and although we may not accept it, nothing will change.

This may not be limited to humans.

Angels and demons, creatures from a hundred different worlds,

do they all have their fates written?

Do they fight against it?

Or have they come to accept it

and simply live life to their fullest?

Angels and demons I can tell you, especially,

do not accept this.

Although their very culture is built upon prophecy and destiny,

they can spend their very long lives looking for the right way to interpret that which has been written.

But the question remains, can someone change their destiny?

Or is our fate written in stone…

With a tired sigh, the old man put his quill down, before looking over the piece of parchment once more.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, then scrunching his eyes closed a few times, he tried to clear his vision and be rid of his splitting headache. Though the action itself did not make much difference, he felt a little better for it. Scanning quickly over the lines before him, the writer checked over his work, before reluctantly scrawling a symbol at the top of the page to signify that the piece was not for publishing. Once satisfied, he stretched, then pushed his chair back and stood up from his makeshift desk. With an awkward limp that came from stiff joints, the man walked to the far end of his small room, where one wall had been left open; but lined with sturdy gold bars. There was no visible opening, or obvious doorway set in them, just the long bars running vertically from floor to ceiling. His cell, rather fancy and decorative, had more comforts than most places. A large bed which was comprised of a circular mattress, with gold metal frame and an abundance of pillows. The large wooden desk at which he had been working from, a large matching wooden cupboard and a separated bathroom complete with vanity. But comforting decorations aside, none of it changed the fact that the room was what it was.

A prison cell.

Taking a small circular object out of his pocket and using its reflective surface, the old man checked both directions down the adjacent corridor to make sure there was no one coming. It was late, most likely mid afternoon heading toward evening, but that did not mean that the Guardians who patrolled the prison might not make an unexpected visit. He did not want anyone to see what he was about to do. Satisfied that he had a few moments to himself at least, he hastily made his way over to the window on the opposite wall. Most of the scenery beyond was simple clouded sky, open plains, and mountains that lined the horizon. But the view outside was not what he was there for.

Tapping the bricks below the window sill, he counted two down, then three across. Knocking the next brick loose, he carefully slid it out to reveal a book hidden in the wall. It was merely a notebook; at least, that was what it appeared as, but it was one that the man had devoted a lot of his life to. On nearly every page he had scrawled symbols and sketches, or written down all of his experiences and thoughts. Hundreds of notes filled the pages, as varied in their depth as there was different subjects. It was all facts he had checked himself, or had learned from a trusted source, as well as any general knowledge he thought could be shared.

Flipping through the pages towards the back of the book, he placed his most recent piece in its correct place, then closed the book and put it back within the hole in the wall. Once he was sure the book was safely hidden again, he returned to his desk. The notebook was his own personal secret and he intended to keep it that way, no matter how generous his captors were. He shuddered to think what they would make of the book, or some of its contents in particular, if they ever found it.

Seated again, the old man stretched once more, retrieved a new piece of paper, then smoothed it out before him. One thing could be said about his hosts, and though he hated to admit it; they understood the need to write down one’s thoughts. Therefore they had no qualms about providing him with fresh paper on a regular basis. Though they had made him promise to let them read, and or reproduce anything which they thought was worth sharing. Hence why he felt it necessary to hide most of his notes inside a hole in the wall.

The old man dipped his quill in ink. Then, just as he placed the tip on the fresh piece of paper his hand jerked, causing the quill-tip to snap and the ink to spill across the page. While looking at the resulting ink splotch, he rubbed his temples furiously.

It had happened again. That had been the fifth time today.

Some distant psychic event had triggered somewhere, and anyone sensitive to such things were feeling its effects. While this one was powerful enough to feel like someone had stuck a red-hot poker through his brain, this was merely an aftershock. He remembered the first one vividly, having been halfway through writing a piece on angels at the time. The sudden assault on his mind had nearly knocked him unconscious and had left him curled up in agony for some hours. Afterwards, he had been left with a splitting headache and as a result of which, had been unable to focus on what he had been writing. Instead, he had stuck to writing down his thoughts, as well as anything else he could, just to clear his head. Whatever had caused such an unprecedented psychic event, must have been dramatic enough to be felt worlds away. The old man desperately wished to know what had caused it, but could not do so from his current position. He would have to make do.

With a long sigh, he picked up another quill, then proceeded to write down his next train of thought.

According to chaos theory, our present will determine our future.

But the approximate present does not necessarily determine the outcome of the future.

The slightest change of a preset system at its point of origin can alter its outcome.

Two paths with the same direction can alter dramatically by the tiniest shift of origin.

This theory is more popularly referred to as the butterfly effect.

This is all existential in theory, but in a practical sense it can be explained as such;

If one were to learn of what would happen in their future, via prophecy, prediction, or otherwise.

Would the very fact of knowing it, alter its outcome?

Or would it still run the same course?

Would the outcome be the same, whether or not one knew the future?

I once knew a woman who had her fate determined for her.

But she thought nothing of it, merely wishing for her life to take its own course.

I never did find out if-

There was a sudden tapping across the bars of the man’s cell which interrupted his thoughts, causing him to stop suddenly. Looking up from his paper he spotted a dark-haired man peering into his cell. Not only had he never seen this person before, but judging by his dark and tattered outfit, he was not a local.

The stranger looked at the old man inquisitively, then grinned mischievously. “Greetings, knowledgeable one,” he said with a thick accent.

The old man stood and faced the stranger, cautiously keeping his distance by staying in the middle of the room. With his hands clasped at the small of his back, he studied the stranger for a moment. The man wore mismatched pieces of black and silver armor underneath a worn out tunic and cloak. Disheveled would have been a generous description, but the man was definitely a traveler. Looking up at the stranger’s face revealed more about him, besides his mischievous grin. Taking in the unusual tattooed markings on his cheek and the very dark unnatural blue of his eyes, the old man realized the stranger was, in fact, an Archon. A demon.

“What are you doing here?” the old man asked. While it was usually considered a bad idea to be rude to a demon, the man knew from experience that it was worse to allow them to lose interest in a conversation. It was better to get straight to the point with an Archon.

“We are just following our Master’s orders,” the demon admitted, unwittingly giving away the fact that not only was he someone’s minion, but also the fact that he was not alone. “We are here to bring back a few select individuals,” the demon said oblivious to his verbal slip. “That may include you, if you wish.”

The old man raised an eyebrow, aware that the demon was not being entirely honest with him. Though that always seemed to be their way.

“Our Master did not know you were being contained in Tartarus,” the demon continued with a wry smile. “But I am sure he would be most glad if you returned with us.”

The man considered it a moment, aware that he probably had no choice in the matter. It was troubling to think that not only were the demons aware of the prison known as Tartarus, but they had found a way to attempt a breakout. Not only was the place a well-kept secret, but its location was hard to reach. Regardless of the situation, or the reasons for this Archon being here, there was really only one answer the writer could give him. “I am afraid I will have to decline your master’s invitation.”

“That is too bad,” the demon said with a shrug, before reaching out with his right arm and pulling on something nearby that was hidden from the old man’s view. “I do not think he will like that.”

The thick gold bars slid quietly apart, half disappearing into the ceiling and the other half into the floor, like a giant set of teeth. They clicked into place with barely any noise, held by some hidden mechanism.

“Thank you,” the old man said with a slight bow of his head toward the Archon. “But I will take my chances with the consequences.”

The demon laughed again, “as you wish knowledgeable one.”

Ignoring the demon given moniker, the old man started gathering a few of his belongings. Starting with the items at his desk, he began throwing them into a satchel, picking only what he thought was necessary or personally valuable. The demon watched him with an amused expression on his face, which made the old man feel rather uncomfortable. “So what will you do next?” he asked the demon, hoping to at least distract himself.

Leaning on the wall at the cell’s corner, the demon gave a yawn. “Oh, I do not know,” he said, in a manner which belied that he did in fact know. He brushed some dust off of his tattered cloak in a rhetorical fashion, before he continued. “Break out a few prisoners, corrupt a couple of people. You understand, basic stuff.” He then grinned to the other man like he was proud of something, “I did have a plan to convince someone to turn on his master.”

The old man stopped what he was doing, an armful of clothes between his hand and his satchel. He looked back at the demon, “and you plan on doing all of this without being caught?”

“Of course,” the Archon boasted. “My master would not have sent me here otherwise.”

“Of course,” the old man said, shaking his head. He did not really agree with what the demons were up to, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to really stop them either. Their plans usually consisted of causing havoc wherever they went. The man knew that it was not that they were evil, or held a predisposition towards acting menacing, but a result of how their society had evolved over the centuries. They tended not to trust anyone, including others of their kind, so they usually fought for superiority, or coerced each other to get what they wanted. The demon’s master must have been another, more powerful Archon, one who could pull together whatever had led them to Tartarus.

The writer gave the demon beside him a sideways glance and went back to gathering his belongings, busying himself with the task, before heading towards the window.

“What about you old man?” the demon asked casually, all premise of respectful formality gone.

The man stared at him for a moment, then rubbed his temples again. He did not really have time to lecture a demon on proper etiquette right now and he assumed that the demon would dismiss the notion anyway. Ignoring the Archon, the old man limped over to the far wall and carefully removed his book for the last time. “If you must call me something, call me Raziel like they do,” he said as he worked. Once the book was in his hands, he showed it to the demon, before hiding it in his robes. “And if really you must know, I plan to continue my journey.”

The Demon whistled in admiration, “is it true? Did you really steal the book?”

“You can not steal something that belongs to everyone,” Raziel corrected. Grabbing his traveling cloak, which had been hanging on the wall of his cell, he threw it around his shoulders.

“I bet they did not agree with you,” the Archon said mischievously.

“No, they did not.”

The last thing the old man picked up was a staff, one which he used as a walking stick. He tapped it on the ground a couple of times to test it, before throwing his belongings over his shoulder and making his way out into the empty corridor. He was admittedly surprised that no Guardians had discovered them yet.

“So, how will you get out of here?” the demon asked as he joined him. Giving one last not so subtle invitation to go with him.

The man smiled, with a knowing look in his eye, “I have my ways.”

“Very well, keep your secrets,” the demon said with a chuckle, “if that is what you wish.”

Raziel took two steps before turning back. He would need to give the demons something they could use, some snippet of useful information, if only to keep them from coming back for him. “One more thing,” he said quietly. “Tell your Master that the moment he was waiting for has passed.

It is time.”