WORDS: WES AL-DHAHER
It is the early fifteenth century.
The Ottoman Empire has emerged stronger from the strife of the Interregnum, a brutal, nine-year civil war. It is now bound by the iron will of Sultan Mehmed I under a singular vision: to rebuild the empire, reclaim the lost territories in Anatolia, and spread Ottoman dominance over the Balkans and Wallachia. Though over, the echoes of the Interregnum still shape the region as Mohammedans and Christians vie for control of crucial trade routes that could shape the future of both empires.
The Byzantine Empire, once a beacon of Christian power, clings to survival within the fortress city of Constantinople. With its independence hanging from a thread, the city is a hotbed of political maneuvering, as each whispered promise of alliance or betrayal could spell the end of Christian power in the region.
Outwardly, the city remains majestic, a testament to all Christianity claims to offer, but behind the walls, a group known as The City of the Angel operates in the shadows to ensure Christian dominance in the region at any cost. Kidnapping, bribery, political assassinations—these are well-known by even commoners. Fewer dare to whisper of the darker rumors—people being sucked into the earth, the sounds of distant screams seeming to come from beneath the streets, bodies found with strange punctures, drained entirely of blood.
Life goes on in Constantinople, the people too focused on the evils outside the city to see the evils stirring within. Such threats cannot be defeated by mere men; they require heroes, but in Constantinople, heroes are as missing as hope.
The young lord Nikephoros, pampered and unprepared for the horrors that await him, is about to get his first taste of true darkness.
THE TUNNEL
Adam waited for him at the end of the street. The dark-haired boy was two years older than him. Though Nikephoros thought with some jealousy he looked even older than that—he’d probably have a full beard in the next year, while Nikephoros didn’t have enough whiskers to fill out half a cat’s face.
“God be with you,” Adam said as they greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.
“And with you, Adam,” Nikephoros replied.
“Finally. I thought your mother would never open the cage.”
“I am hardly caged,” Nikephoros said with a frown, though he knew his mother would be even more irritated if she saw the familiar way Adam had greeted him.
Adam slung an arm around his shoulders and turned Nikephoros down the next street. “Thanks to me, that is. If I weren’t around, you’d never do anything interesting.”
“And if I weren’t around, you would have to be carried everywhere because your feet would be beaten every other week.”
“Ah, and that’s why we’re the perfect pair!” Adam said with a grin.
Nikephoros rolled his eyes but grinned back. “What did you have to show me?”
“It can wait—first let’s eat something. Come on, you’re buying.”
After sharing a smoked fish, Nikephoros followed Adam through the streets. They bustled with a multitude of people—Greeks, of course, but also Armenians, Genoese, and even merchants from as far as Venice. In Constantinople, there was always something new to see, always a new food to try, or some new trinket from a faraway land. He loved this city and would do all he could to defend it and Christianity from the devils outside the walls.
As Adam led them through a twisting path, the people thinned out and the bustle of conversation gave way to sharper sounds—the bark of dogs, the occasional angry shout, and most unsettling, a still silence that felt entirely out of place.
“Where are we going?” Nikephoros asked.
“You’ll see.”
After a few final winding alleyways, Adam stopped at a dead end where a pile of trash sat against a brick wall. He looked back at Nikephoros with a grin. “Here we are.”
Nikephoros looked around in confusion, sparing a worried glance over his shoulder—he hadn’t liked the way a few of the people on the street stared at him; or perhaps it had been his fine, clean clothes they were interested in. “Why did you bring me here?”
Adam nudged the trash away with the toe of his shoe, revealing a squat, dark hole in the base of the wall. “I found this a few days ago; I waited until we could explore together.”
Nikephoros eyed the hole warily. “You want to crawl down there?”
“Absolutely. People say there are tunnels that run all over the city. Who knows what we’ll find down there?”
“Probably a lot of rats and vagrants.”
“You’re an officer in the military with a dagger at your hip,” Adam said, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
Nikephoros adjusted the ornate dagger on his belt. “It’s not—it’s mainly for show. And I’m not an officer yet.”
Adam gave him a pitying look. “You’re not still scared of monsters, are you?”
“No, I am not,” Nikephoros said with a glare, even as his mouth went dry at the memory.
Coming home late one night as he’d passed an alley, Nikephoros had stepped to the side abruptly to avoid a pile of fresh dog scumber and a rush of wind made him turn. There, in the shadows of the alley, stood a slender, too-tall figure, one arm hanging nearly to the ground, the other outstretched, as if it had just reached for him and caught nothing but air. Nikephoros stared, shocked, and the figure somehow seemed the same. It slunk back into the shadows, but not before he caught a clear glimpse of its hand—instead of fingers, thick, sharp talons sprung from its paper-white flesh, thicker than a man’s thumb.
He had sprinted away and never looked back. When he got home and was safely in bed, he’d told himself he’d been half-asleep, walking home after a long day and a long week of training and had dreamed it, surely.
“You look afraid to me,” Adam said.
Nikephoros pushed past him to examine the hole. “I never should have told you that.”
Adam slapped him on the back. “Well, you did. Nobles first.”
“You want to stumble around in the pitch dark?” Nikephoros asked, peering into utter blackness.
“Of course not,” Adam said and produced a finger lamp, lighting it with a flint. “There you have it. No reason to wait now. Unless you’re scared.”
“Shut up.” Nikephoros lowered the little lamp to see. There was a slight drop, but the ceiling was high enough to stand. Sure enough, it looked like a passage, though the flickering light died well before he could see where it led. “You better be right behind me.”
“Of course.”
Nikephoros slid his legs in first, making sure to keep the lamp level. As he stood, blinking in the dim light as his eyes adjusted, he was struck by how cold it was, even just a few feet underground. The walls were brick, ancient, but well-laid. Someone had built this place—it wasn’t some half-sunken building buried beneath the sands they were rediscovering.
Adam slid down behind him, springing back to his feet with a grin. “This is amazing.”
“It’s a hole.”
Adam grabbed him around the shoulders and shook him. “Nikephoros, Nikephoros, where is your sense of adventure? Come on, let’s see where this leads.”
He took the lamp from Nikephoros’s hand and headed down the passageway.
“We need to be careful,” Nikephoros said. “We don’t want to get lost.”
“It will be fine. We’ll just go straight and see where this goes. It’s not as if we’re in the middle of nowhere, we’ll be able to find our way out even if we got lost.”
“I don’t—”
“Come on or I’ll leave you behind!” Adam called.
Nikephoros hurried to catch up. The thought of being outside the small yellow pool of light chilled him to the bone. He relaxed slightly as they walked, and Adam mused about who built the tunnels, considering everything from smugglers to heretics.
“Maybe we’ll find the City of the Angel down here,” Adam said.
“Come, you can’t believe those stories.”
“Why not? If you haven’t noticed, us Christians could use the help. A secret society that operates outside the bounds of the law to protect us? Maybe they’ll let me join up.”
“Maybe,” Nikephoros said without much conviction.
“Sorry we can’t all have a straight shot at becoming an archon, sir Nikephoros, my lord.”
“Adam, I did not mean it like—” He bumped into Adam as the other boy stopped dead in his tracks.
“By God,” Adam breathed, lifting the lamp.
They stood at the entrance to a large, circular room. The light barely reached the far walls, but Nikephoros could make out a set of ringed benches that faced a central dais, on top of which sat an altar.
“I knew there would be something down here!” Adam said, turning and giving Nikephoros a wide grin.
“I… what is this place?”
Adam walked down the row of benches for the altar, hefting the lamp. “There are carvings, but I don’t recognize the text. Maybe your well-educated brain will do better?”
Nikephoros scanned the dark corners, the other passages branching from the room and into unknown depths. There was nothing in them, nothing at all he could see in the inky black, but it felt like he was being watched nonetheless.
Swallowing his fear, he hurried to Adam and took the other boy’s arm. “I want to leave, now.”
Adam pulled his arm away. “Leave if you want to, you know the way back.”
“Stop being stupid!” Nikephoros yelled. His voice echoed in the stillness, rebounding back from the yawning passageways. He grabbed for the lamp and Adam jerked it away, dropping it. It hit the ground with a loud clang, spilling burning oil which flared briefly on the ground before winking out.
The room was cast in utter darkness. Nikephoros couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, even touching his nose. A whimper escaped his throat.
“Adam?” There was no response. “Adam?” he repeated, frantic.
“Yeah, I’m here you fool.” His voice was nearby, but not near enough for Nikephoros’s comfort.
“Thank Jesus,” Nikephoros breathed. “Here, stay there, I’m coming to you.”
“Just give me a moment.”
Nikephoros heard the scrape of flint and a tiny spark of light flared up, revealing Adam kneeling on the ground over the spilled lamp—and the tall, slender shadow looming over him. Then the spark was gone, and with it, his vision. The air in the room shifted, like something had moved very fast nearby, bringing with it a strange, unplaceable scent.
It took Nikephoros a moment to find his voice—he had simply imagined it in his fear. “Adam?” The only answer was a faint wet sound, like a dog lapping at water. He held his hands blindly in front of him, groping in the dark. “Adam?”
He stepped forward and slipped, crashing down hard on the stone floor. He groaned in pain, one side covered in something slick—he must have landed in the lamp oil.
But it didn’t smell like oil.
When Nikephoros was younger, he’d run straight into a wall while chasing his mother around the house. His mother had held him in her arms as his nose had bled, tilting his head up so the blood ran down the back of his throat instead of all over his shirt.
With every breath he took in the dark, he could taste the copper of blood, but it wasn’t his. The wet slurping sound seemed to grow louder, until it was all he could hear, even over the desperate beating of his heart in his ears.
Nikephoros whimpered, scrambling away before fleeing the room, stumbling and scraping himself on the rough walls, with only one thought in his mind: flee.
ABOUT THIS DARK HISTORY
The Lesser Evil reveals the supernatural horrors that shaped the fall of Constantinople through both recovered texts and period artwork. This limited edition combines prose with a silent graphic novel to uncover what official histories dare not record. The story unfolds through two complementary pieces: a prose tale of horror and betrayal, paired with a wordless comic that shows how darkness can wear the most beautiful masks.
Created by Wes Al-Dhaher
For those interested in exploring these forgotten passages of history: https://talesofkhayr.com/