The White Castle
- D.I.Hennessey
- 1 day ago
- 19 min read
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Little children, it is the last time: and as ye have heard that antichrist shall come, even now are there many antichrists; whereby we know that it is the last time.
1 John 2:18
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Chapter 1
Aesti
They will call him “Koletis…”
The Book of Spells
1051 AD, The City of Tartu…
Two and a half centuries after the Aesti people first planted their roots along the serpentine banks of the Emajõgi, the city of Tartu had blossomed into a bastion of splendor and spirit. Its walls, built with granite hewn from the northern wilds, rose defiantly against roving enemies and the encroaching mists of the Baltic. Inside, the city’s hearths glowed with the unyielding fire of their fierce heritage.
At the heart of this thriving city rose the Grand Library of Tartu, a sturdy edifice of arched vaults and stained-glass grandeur, its spires, still under construction, rising to pierce the sky. Within its grand halls, shelves would soon groan under the weight of ancient tomes—chronicles of forgotten kings, maps of starlit seas, and scrolls whispering of the Mara’s ancient history. It would be a testament to the Aesti’s enduring legacy, a sanctuary where knowledge is intertwined with sacred texts, drawing scholars and seekers from distant lands.
Yet beneath this monument of enlightenment lay shadows deeper than the blackest sea. Secret passages, carved by the callused hands of earlier Tartu settlers, wound like veins through the earth, leading to vast catacombs where the bones of ancestors slumbered in eternal vigil. Now hidden within secret passages known only to the Priests of an ancient Order called The Veil, the catacombs flickered in torchlight, revealing walls etched with runes of protection, symbols that pulsed faintly in the damp air.
In these dark recesses, Priests of the Veil convened. They were descendants of the Order that had long guarded the dark mysteries of old. Serving as guardians to preserve a sacred Book of Spells, maintaining its ancient secrets for millennia, since the days of their ancestor, Nimrod. Clad in robes woven with silver threads that caught the light like captured moonlight, they moved with the solemn steps of those burdened by a dark, sacred duty.
On this fateful night, a solemn procession wound its way through the dark corridors, led by their High Priestess, Lirien, widow of Thorne, the Veil’s fallen king. Her eyes, sharp as winter frost, were fixed on her sacred mission. Veiled in a hood embroidered with the emblem of the Mara—a swirling vortex of shadow and star—she led the dark procession. Beside her stood Kaupo, a stoic guardian whose scarred hands spoke of battles fought in both flesh and spirit. His small band of loyal guards encircled an open casket bearing Thorne’s corpse, dressed in regal robes and holding in his lifeless arms a gold-covered chest, encrusted with priceless gems. Yet, the chest’s contents were far more priceless, capable of bending the veil between worlds to summon and control creatures of darkness.
The air in the catacombs was heavy with the scent of incense and earth, a primordial blend that evoked the weight of sacrifice. Rumors slithered through the city above like venomous serpents: invaders from the east, driven by greed and dark sorcery, were seeking the Book of Spells. Its power must not fall into their grasp.
“We must act with haste,” Lirien intoned, her words echoing off the stone walls like a solemn vow. “Whispers of the Book’s power have escaped our land. The time has come for it to be concealed, as the prophecy decrees. Once veiled by its own power, it will be unassailable, revealed only to the prophesied one — the one whose lineage is true and his destiny ordained. He will be the vessel of our dark lord at the appointed time.”
As the entourage labored under the dim glow of lanterns, the air seemed to stir unnaturally, the catacombs humming with a faint, ethereal melody. Lirien placed her hand on her husband’s one final time, his cold arms wrapped across the golden chest. But the book’s ornate enclosure was warm to her touch, as if alive with latent power.
She directed the guards to place her husband’s casket in the sacred alcove prepared for it. Then, with incantations drawn from the sacred book’s forbidden pages, she whispered softly to avoid awakening the Book’s might, sealing the new alcove. It would remain warded by runes that shimmered and faded into the stone, encasing its hiding place in an illusion of solid rock.
Making their way out of the deepest catacombs to their secret chamber of meeting, Lirien unfurled a blank vellum upon a rough-hewn altar. Her fingers traced invisible lines as if guiding an unseen hand. “In layers make this chart speak,” she murmured, her tone reverent yet urgent. “Tartu’s borders—a river’s curve, the hillock’s rise, the library’s grandeur. And beneath... hide riddles in the old tongue: Varjud varjavad saladusi, neetud juhatavad teed—shadows hide secrets, darkness guides the way….”
The coded map took shape, drawn by a shadowy hand: a masterpiece of mystery, its symbols aligned with the library’s architecture above—secret doors hidden or revealed by star’s alignments, passages opened only by moonlight’s kiss. A secret phrase unlocks its supernatural power, a defiant appeal to Nimrod’s ancient rebellion: Teeme endale nime — Let us make us a name.
When the deed was done, the priests ascended the winding passages, emerging into the library’s moonlit atrium where stained glass cast ethereal patterns across the floor. The coded map was now concealed within the binding of a nondescript volume on the shelves, to await the day when history would summon a worthy heir.
Outside, Tartu slumbered, its grand library would be a beacon of knowledge and history, oblivious to the schemes woven in its depths. In its deepest shadows, the Priests of the Veil preserved their sacred charge, a testament to their dark sacred duty and purpose. And so, their legacy endured, a spark of eternity guarded, for millennia, against encroaching invaders.
“Koletis”
1985, Tartu, Estonia…
The Iron Curtain still cast its unyielding shadow over Eastern Europe, but winds of change whispered faintly, like a harbinger of approaching destiny. Despite the Soviet grip, the city of Tartu endured as a quiet sentinel of forgotten glories. Nestled along the Emajõgi's meandering banks, its cobblestone streets echoed with the footsteps of scholars and the hum of hidden intrigues. The Grand Library of Tartu, that timeless edifice of arched vaults and stained-glass majesty, still stood, blackened by the centuries, its spires defiant against the gray autumn sky and corrupt State. Within, amid the scent of aged paper and polished oak, shelves harbored secrets that spanned epochs—chronicles of the Aesti people’s resilience, maps of lost realms, and veiled tomes that hinted at the Mara's dark legacy.
Lugal Marad knew that legacy better than any. He had studied it endlessly since his youth, drawn to its secrets as if by a force of destiny. He knew that beneath the library’s grandeur lay hidden catacombs carved by ancient hands. Within them, the true prize slumbered, guarded by illusions woven a millennium prior.
He moved purposefully through the library's dimly lit aisles like a predator stalking prey. Born in the rugged foothills of the Caucasus, he inherited his family’s oral traditions, which wove tales of Nimrod's unquenchable ambition. Lugal carried the weight of that ancestral fire in his veins. Descended from Nimrod himself—the defiant builder and hunter who challenged the heavens—Lugal bore a bloodline that had survived through exiles and betrayals, its secrets preserved in heirlooms that now fueled his quest. Clutched in his satchel were relics—family heirlooms handed down through countless generations: a cracked Babylonian tablet etched with the Mara's swirling emblem and codex, and a silver amulet, warm against his skin as if pulsing with latent power. A treasured engraving spoke of a "veiled sanctuary by the serpentine river.” These artifacts, passed down through generations of shadowed custodians, had led him here, to Tartu, where a legendary Book of Spells lay hidden. It was said to hold ancient power—a source of dominion over the veil between worlds—awaiting its prophesied heir. Lugal was driven with a burning certainty that he was that heir, the one who would rebirth Nimrod's rebellion.
No one noticed him under the guise of a visiting scholar from Moscow. His eyes, dark as obsidian, scanned the shelves with calculated patience. His family’s heirlooms guided him: the tablet's riddles aligned with descriptions of the Aesti's founding, pointed to a nondescript volume bound in faded leather, masquerading as a treatise on Baltic folklore. After weeks of searching, he finally plucked it from its resting place among the library’s oldest dusty shelves, his heart quickening as his amulet grew hotter against his chest, confirming the match.
Hiding in a forgotten alcove beneath the grand library, he worked tirelessly, bathed in the muted glow of a reading lamp. Lugal carefully unwrapped the book's hidden secrets, spreading Lirien’s ancient map of vellum on the table. Outwardly, it depicted Tartu's origins—the river's serpentine curve, the hillock's rise, the library's grandeur. But as he skillfully interpreted the symbols, guided by ancestral clues, the coded map revealed far more: riddles in the old tongue.
Varjud peidavad saladusi, pimedus juhatab teed—shadows hide secrets, darkness guides the way.
He slowly interpreted star alignments, revealing the location of secret doors in the library’s walls, tracing how the moonlight falls through its ornate windows to reveal hidden secrets—fragments of a puzzle a thousand years old. At last, waiting patiently for the moon’s full height on the year’s longest night, the final clue was revealed.
He recited the words hidden in Lirien’s map: “*Teeme endale nime*”—Let us make us a name. Nimrod’s declaration of ancient defiance. The amulet, pressed to the vellum, shimmered, unveiling illusory inks. Lugal's lips curled in a predatory smile as the path on Lirien’s map unfolded in glowing light, like a venomous bloom, revealing the path leading to the sacred tomb warded by rune and bone.
Within the very alcove where he stood, a rune began to glow upon the ancient stone wall: a crescent moon entwined with thorns – King Thorne's sigil. Lugal’s face twisted with his lust for power. He pressed his silver amulet against the ancient mark, whispering the secret phrase as the rune and amulet glowed brighter.
With barely a rumble, the passage slid open, a secret entrance to the forbidden catacombs beneath.
But the library's guardians—descendants of the Priests of the Veil—had sensed Lugal’s unauthorized intrusion. Now embedded in the city's underbelly, they were the keepers of Mara's fragmented empire. A stern archivist, eyes narrowed in suspicion, approached Lugal's alcove.
"This volume is restricted," he growled, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the glowing maps spread across the table and the open passage it had revealed. He lifted the radio in his hand to sound the alarm, but Lugal's response was swift and treacherous: a dagger, heirloom-forged and etched with Nimrod's sigils, flashed in the lamplight, sinking into the man's throat. Blood sprayed across the wall, some falling on the secret map, a crimson anointing that seemed to deepen the room’s shadows. The man’s body slumped, and Lugal dragged his victim into the secret passageway.
Responding to their colleague’s muted cry, two more Veil guardians searched for him. In the darkness, Lugal struck again—strangling one with a silken cord, the other's skull cracked against the stone wall in a brutal grapple. Their lifeless bodies littered the floor, a macabre sacrifice to his quest, as he took their keys and passcards, stowing their corpses inside the secret passageway. No remorse flickered in his mind; the amulet's heat quelled all doubt, urging him onward with a growing fierceness, like Nimrod's unyielding spirit.
Standing in the secret passage’s entryway, Lugal clasped his glowing medalion and repeated the coded phrase: “*Teeme endale nime*,” watching with a diabolical grin as long-hidden runes appeared, glowing on the walls, guiding his way into the catacombs' depths.
The catacombs embraced him with chill dampness and the musty scent of ancient graves; light from his lantern danced upon walls etched with pulsing runes. Following the veiled path, Lugal descended alone, navigating twisting veins of earth, evading illusory passageways that beckoned deceptively. In the deepest vault, where ancient roots entwined with stone, he confronted the final cavern: a tomb carved from solid rock.
At the dark cave’s center, Lirien slept; her bones, a thousand years old, glowed white in his lantern’s light, the ornate rings on her skeletal hand confirming her identity. It was confirmation that he had found the goal of his search. The glowing runes on the cavern’s wall corroborated the fact—he was close to Thorne's eternal resting place.
Retrieving Lirien’s ancient rings from her grasping skeletal hand, Lugal placed them on his fingers and gripped his glowing medallion. Symbols on the ancient talismans began to glow as Lugal chanted the incantation he had pieced together from the library’s clues and ancient writings—words of rebellion and command. The alcove’s illusion dissolved in a cascade of ethereal smoke, revealing Thorne’s open casket: Thorne's bones, regal in decayed robes, still cradled the gold-covered chest in his skeletal grasp.
With hands that trembled—not with fear, but a greed for power—Lugal pried open the gem-encrusted lid, finding the Book of Spells gleaming within, its golden binding alive with forbidden warmth. Power surged through him as he claimed it, the air humming with an ethereal melody turned discordant. Incantations from its pages flowed unbidden from his lips, summoning a legion of ghostly Eljo specters—twisting forms of shadow and mist, eyes like smoldering coals, claws that rent the Veil itself. They swirled around him, bound to his will, their chill presence a testament to the book's dominion.
Emboldened and infused with the book’s intoxicating power, Lugal ascended from the tombs’ shadows, the Eljo at his command. In the nights that followed, he unleashed them upon his opposition: rival factions within the Mara's underworld empire of crime syndicates—smugglers of arcane relics, enforcers of shadowed pacts, lords of illicit trades spanning continents. His Eljo specters infiltrated dens of power, sowing terror—whispers that drove minds to madness, strikes that left bodies drained of life without a mark. Blood flowed in hidden alleys and opulent chambers, victims piling as Lugal's deceitful assaults crumbled all resistance. One by one, the old guard fell, their empires absorbed into his tightening grasp.
Before long, Lugal Marad stood as the unchallenged master of the Mara's dark domain—a web of syndicates that were bent to his ambition, fueled by the book's unholy might.
The old secrets hidden beneath the grand library, in the catacombs' timeless embrace, had faded into obscurity—a new legacy had awakened. A spirit of rebellion for a new age, forged in treachery and poised to consume the world.
They would call him “Koletis,” …The Beast.
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Chapter 2
Living Water
“Come on down to the Living Water, waves of mercy flowing over you.
No more strangers, only sons and daughters.
Come down to the Living Water, and rise up new.”
~ Anne Wilson, song, Living Water
A Rebel’s Redemption
Loch Harnan…
The ocean stretches before Jeff like an endless expanse of liquid sapphire under a sky kissed with twilight. The sun is drawing low on the distant horizon. The air is thick with salt, and the relentless crashing of endless waves. There is a faint hum of hover-drones circling above; their lenses glinting as they beam the scene to far-flung locations, recording the moment for posterity.
Jeff stands waist-deep in the surf, his bare feet sinking into the cold, shifting sand of the island’s Atlantic shore. His heart thunders, not from the chill of the water or the sound of waves breaking against distant rocks, but from the gravity of what he is about to do.
A year ago, he would have scoffed at this. A baptism? A ritual dunking in seawater, surrounded by praying believers? Preposterous. He’d spent decades dismantling superstitions in his college lectures, convinced then that his mind was a fortress of logic. His faith had been reserved for equations and the cold certainty of quantum mechanics. Back then, God was a hypothesis long disproved, a relic of a less enlightened age. Yet here he is, trembling, not from doubt but from the truth that has unraveled him.
The waves lap at his thighs, each one a gentle nudge, as if the ocean itself is urging him forward. Behind him, his friends form a crowded semicircle on the shore, their faces a mosaic of joy, awe, and quiet reverence. There is Genie, her hair catching the last rays of the sun, her eyes wet with tears she doesn’t bother to hide. Beside her stands Ernest Billingsly—the fatherly figure whom Jeff is proud to call his dearest friend. Everyone except Genie refers to him by his initials, E.B.; she just calls him Shan’er, an endearing Scots term for Grandfather. At Jeff’s request, EB clutches a worn leather Bible that bears the handwritten signature of Jeff’s uncle Barrymore. It has become Jeff’s most prized possession; a lifeline through some of his life’s most difficult days.
Isabel stands beaming beside Genie, bearing a stack of fluffy white towels. Adalwin Brinker, the company’s President of Operations, stands beside EB wearing a wide grin, accompanied by Cy Arterbury, their Chief Operating Officer, and Berenger Bern—simply ‘Bear’ to his friends, the head of the Aerospace Division. They are joined by the entire Board of Directors.
At the surf’s edge is Brandish Rushforth, the tenacious and brilliant head of engineering, along with a cast of interns and engineers. Beside them stand dozens of others from the Grounds crews and Security teams, followed by nearly the entire Island’s population, which has crowded along the narrow beach and perched on rocks and shelves in the cliff face behind it.
“Jeffrey,” a voice says, soft but steady, leaning a hand on his shoulder. Their Chapel’s Pastor, Diarmuid Abbott, known as Colby by his friends, stands in the water beside him, his robes billowing like the sails of an ancient ship. He is assisting the older missionary, Eusebios Christos, who has become Jeff’s mentor in his new walk of faith. The older man’s smiling face is weathered, etched with lines that speak of a life spent wrestling with both storms and souls. “Are you ready?”
Jeff swallows, his throat tight. Was he? The question tugs on his heart with a force stronger than the tide’s pull. He thinks of the nights spent staring at the stars from Lab Turrim’s tower balcony, wrestling with the void in his soul that no logic could fill and the irrefutable discoveries that had whispered of purpose, of design, of something greater than chaos. Endless conversations with his great-grandfather, Hun Hunahpu, fill his thoughts. The amazing man who had so gently and incessantly led him to the Lord. He thinks of the sound of the old man’s prayers in the dead of night, and the terrible day that took his life, bringing a fresh mist to Jeff’s eyes for the countless time.
All of these experiences—along with so many others—have carried him here, to this moment, to this water.
“I am,” he says, struggling to raise his voice above a whisper, yet it feels like a shout that could shatter galaxies.
Christos smiles, placing a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “Then let’s begin.” He raises his other hand, palm open to the sky, and the crowd on the shore grows still. The drones’ hum fades into the rhythm of the waves. “Jeffrey, do you confess your faith in Christ, the one who made the stars and holds the seas? Believing that He died in your place, a sacrifice for your sin?”
Jeff’s breath catches. Christos’ words are simple, but they carry the weight of a universe reordered. He thinks of the cross now, not as a symbol but as a singularity—a point where logic and love collided, where his skepticism had finally crumbled. “I do,” he says, feeling a deep stirring in his spirit.
“Do you then take Christ to be the Lord of your life, vowing to obey and trust Him for the rest of your days?”
“I do,” Jeff says, and the words feel like a release, like a star igniting in his chest.
Christos’ hand tightens on his shoulder, and he feels Pastor Abbott’s hand against his back. “Then I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”
Before Jeff can brace himself, the men guide him backward into the water. The ocean rushes over him, cold and alive, swallowing him whole. For a moment, there is nothing but the roar of the deep, the weight of the water pressing against his chest, his ears, his closed eyes. It is as if the sea were claiming him, washing away the man he’d been—the cynic, the skeptic, the solitary genius who thought he could outsmart eternity.
Then he breaks the surface, gasping, water streaming down his face. The crowd erupts into cheers, their voices mingling with the crash of the waves. EB’s grin is wide enough to rival the horizon. Genie wipes a stream of joyful tears from her cheeks and runs forward, splashing into the shallows to throw her arms around him, heedless of the water soaking her clothes.
“Now, ye’re truly home,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.
He holds her in his wet arms, dripping, shivering, surrounded by friends who’d become family, and feels the weight of the moment settle into his bones. The sun is lower now, filling the sky with streaks of color, like a promise written in fire across the heavens.
Jeffrey Thomas Sutherland Hastleworth, the man who’d once denied the divine, is reborn in the embrace of the sea and the love of those who’d never given up on him. As he wades back to shore, his heart feels full, and his soul is alive with irresistible light; yet he feels a deep conviction that this is only the beginning.
The White Castle Awakes
2,500 Nautical Miles away ~ Montagne Blanche…
The Maranish brothers’ White Castle looms like a jagged tooth against a storm-wracked sky, its alabaster spires piercing the clouds that churn over the secluded Mediterranean island. The ocean roars below, clawing at the cliffs as if desperate to reclaim the ancient fortress from the grip of its new master.
Just arrived from Estonia, the mysterious Lugal Marad stands at the edge of the throne room’s balcony, his silhouette sharp against the flickering light of bioluminescent torches. Unlike the shriveled and decrepit Maranish brothers, his face is striking in appearance; handsome, with chiseled features. His eyes, sharp and piercing, yet black as the void between stars. He surveys the horizon with a hunger that has festered for ages.
Until now, he’s been known by his underworld brothers—minions like Dreyken Sidero and others—as nothing more than a mysterious voice on the line, but now the time has come for his ascension to the world stage. Lugal is no ordinary man—his blood carries the familial signature of Nimrod, the ancient hunter-king who dared to defy the heavens. Through countless generations, his lineage has woven itself into the shadows of history, steering empires, toppling kings, and whispering chaos into unwary hearts. For forty years, Lugal has been the High Archon of the Order of the Veil, a secret society older than the pyramids, with tendrils coiled around the roots of every major civilization. From the fall of Babel to the collapse of Rome and beyond, the Veil has orchestrated the tides of power and countless wars, always unseen, always unyielding.
With Chesed and Eblis—the Sons of Maranish—now gone, the ancient castle awaits him like its long-promised messiah. The walls hum with the residual energy of ancient power—power that his predecessors had squandered. Lugal’s lips curl into a sneer at the thought. Chesed and Eblis had been fools, wasting such ancient power on petty vengeance and vain luxuries. He would not make their mistakes.
He turns from the balcony, his crimson cloak sweeping across the polished obsidian floor. The throne room is vast, its ceiling lost in shadows where his allied Eljo writhe. The ghostly creatures, translucent and faintly glowing, drift like wisps of smoke, their forms humanoid yet grotesquely distorted—elongated limbs, hollow eyes, mouths stretched into silent screams. They are the disembodied offspring of fallen angels, their once enormous bodies drowned in the great flood of Noah’s time, their spirits bound to the earth by God’s curse. Lugal has mastered them, bending their tormented wills to his own. Thousands strong, the Eljo are his army, his spies, his harbingers of dread.
“The young heir must be dealt with,” Lugal mutters. Jeff’s name is a bitter shard on his tongue. The young hero had surprised them all, destroying the Sons of Maranish and disrupting the Veil’s plans with his infuriating blend of faith and ferocity. Lugal knows that Jeff is no mere warrior; he is a bearer of ancient power that even he does not yet fully understand. Worse than that, he has become a beacon, a rallying point for those who cling to hope in a world teetering on the edge of collapse. A collapse that has been carefully orchestrated for centuries. Lugal’s spies have infiltrated Loch Harnan; their whispers now speak of the young heir’s baptism, a public declaration of faith so dangerous that it sends ripples through the Veil’s network. Jeff is gathering allies, building a resistance. He has to be eliminated.
Lugal strides to the center of the room, where a holographic globe of the Earth flickers to life, floating above the floor. Red markers pulse at key locations—capital cities, military ports, underwater assets—all nodes in the Veil’s grand design. For centuries, the Order has manipulated global economies, incited wars, and seeded technologies to prepare humanity for subjugation. The final phase is near: a unified world under Lugal’s iron rule, a new Babel to challenge the heavens. But Jeff’s interference threatens to unravel it all.
“My lord,” comes a voice, rasping and hollow, from the shadows. An Eljo materializes, its form coalescing into a vaguely human shape, its eyes like twin voids. “The assault legions are readied for the Borgia attack.”
Lugal’s eyes narrow, cold and dark. “Proceed… be swift,” he decrees.
His Eljo general nods, closing its eyes of glowing coals in obedient acknowledgement.
“What news is there of the young heir?” Lugal questions, his brow dropping lower.
“Our spies have confirmed the Mantle Bearer’s ceremonial Baptism. He is drawing closer to our eternal enemy; soon, the power he wields may be impossible to overcome. His growing knowledge of the Niergel ways could threaten our plans.”
Lugal’s fist clenches, Lirien’s rings—each inscribed with signets of ancient power—bite into his palm. “Then we move swiftly,” he says. “Send the Eljo to their secret aerospace base. Let them haunt their engineers’ dreams, sow doubt and fear among them before unleashing their deadly terror. The young Niergel protector will never reach them in time.
The Eljo specter flickers, its form rippling with eagerness. “And the Mantle Bearer himself?” it asks, its voice a chorus of whispers.
Lugal’s gaze returns to the map, lingering on a blinking marker at Loch Harnan. “The heir is a fire that must be snuffed out. Deploy the Shroud Legion—our human agents—to track him. If they fail, unleash the Eljo. Let the Niergel see what happens to those who defy me.”
The creature bows, dissolving into mist, and Lugal is alone again, save for the restless hum of the Eljo in the rafters. He approaches the throne, a monolithic seat carved from ebony stone and inlaid with strange glowing symbols that pulse like veins. Sitting, his fingers trace the armrests, feeling the castle’s latent power thrumming beneath him. The White Castle is more than a fortress; it is a nexus, built on a fault line of supernatural energy. Chesed and Eblis had squandered its potential, but Lugal would wield it to reshape the world.
Outside, the storm intensifies, lightning splitting the sky like a warning from the heavens. Lugal smiles, a cold, predatory curve of his lips. Let the heavens rage, he thinks defiantly. He is Lugal Marad, heir of Nimrod, master of the Eljo, and architect of a new age. His time has finally come. Jeff can rally his believers, his scientists, his ragtag band of dreamers. They will all fall before the shadow of the White Castle.
And then the world will kneel.
Coming April, 2026
The White Castle
The Niergel Chronicles - Book Five
Catch up with the Adventure...
Books in the Niergel Chronicles Series:
Book 1: Niergel Chronicles - Last Hope
Book 2: Niergel Chronicles - Quest
Book 5: Niergel Chronicles - The White Castle (Coming Soon)
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Available on Amazon
Niergel Chronicles Series:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The White Castle © 2026, by D. I. Hennessey, (Niergel Chronicles - BOOK 5). You have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this book. Unless otherwise stated, biblical quotations are based on the American Standard Version of the Bible, 1885 by the English Revision Companies. At least one Scripture reference is taken from THE MESSAGE. ©1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of Nav-Press Publishing Group.
ISBN 979-8-9924577-4-2 — (Paperback Edition)
ISBN 979-8-9924577-5-9 — (Hardcover Edition)
Version 0003222026
Copyright © 2026 by D. I. Hennessey
Cover design by Russ Scalzo, russscalzo.com
All rights reserved.
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