Saint Michael Sigil Novels & Stories

The sudden, freezing absence of Michael's heavy cedarwood musk hits his inner wolf like a physical blade. Jone shifts his heavy boots against the stone steps, his hand freezing on the iron latch of his entrance as his eyes drop to a polished black obsidian chest resting on the threshold, bound tight with a silver moon-ribbon. His fingers tremble slightly beneath his leather gauntlets as he tracks the raw, aggressive script carved into the tag, recognizing the way Michael uniquely curls the curves of the Jackson lineage glyphs. "You should have left this in the dirt, Michael," Jone growls to the shadows, carrying the heavy chest directly into his private den.

“I never saw his face. He wore the sigil. That was all.” Elowen froze. “What sigil?” The spy fumbled at their collar with shaking fingers and produced a small disc, no larger than a coin. They dropped it to the floor. Elowen’s breath caught. He knew that symbol. It was carved deep and clean, lines intersecting in a shape that mirrored the arch from the eastern wildlands. The forgotten seal. The mark was tied to soul shaping, not guiding. It was very old magic. “You should not have this,” Elowen whispered.

The world shifted. A lance of light shot up my arm. It was not burning, but so cold it burned, the kind of cold that steals the breath from your lungs. Symbols along the relic’s edge erupted with brilliance, flooding the chamber with silver fire. At the center, an ancient sigil blazed to life: a circle of woven stars, split by a blade that seemed to cut straight through the heavens themselves. It pulsed once… twice… and then the air itself seemed to explode.

The priest took a step back, eyes widening in fear. “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium,” he began to chant, raising a hand in the sign of the cross. He reached into his cloak, grabbed a small decanter of holy water, and sprinkled it on Scarlet. As the water hit her skin, in the sunlight, it felt like acid. She shrieked.

He and Rocco exchanged a puzzled glance, then stepped back slightly, giving me room to see what Demiscus held that could humble my Capos so fast. My eyes zeroed in on the shiny gold metal clutched in his thick palm. My blood rushed through my veins. Is that what I think it is? My hand slipped off Alina’s wrist as I stepped closer, my brow furrowing as I studied it carefully. It was a triangular gold medallion, engraved at the center with a tiny Saint Michael, sword raised, flanked by a closed rose representing the Virgin and a simple cross at the apex. Around the edge was a Latin motto: Ille Protectus, meaning The Shielded One.

Autumn’s fear and curiosity couldn’t hold her back from questioning him about what had just happened, and what was that? “I think he’s near Earth.” Who is near? Is someone supposed to come to Mahdfel?” She said, looking at Bastion for answers. “Michael.” “Who is Michael? Is that someone you know?” “Well, doesn’t everyone know him?” “No, I don’t.” “You’ve never heard of Michael the Archangel?” “Wait a minute, I don’t think we are speaking about the same person.” “There’s only one Archangel, and his name is Michael. He’s written in the scrolls.”

I carefully sketched the Sigil, needed to summon the King of Hell. As I completed my task, I carefully placed the chalk back into its case, ensuring it was secure, before returning the case to my pant pocket. After tidying up the rest of the supplies, I took my position and joined hands with Maurice and Brair, forming a triangle around the center of the Sigil.

“Proof of lineage? House seal?” Elarion raised his right hand. With a smooth motion, he pulled aside the edge of his dark cloak. Etched in glowing arcane ink on the skin of his upper chest—directly over his heart—was the sigil: A tower piercing through a storm cloud, its base wreathed in flame, its tip lost in stars. Lightning forked around it. Beneath the tower, a single open eye glowed—unblinking, eternal. The Sigil of the Tower.

KEITH “Why would he kill himself?” I asked Saint. Michael was young and timid, and from the few times I had an encounter with him, he seemed reserved. It just didn’t add up that he would commit suicide. “This is why I said that they are not saints,” Saint said. “You have no idea what I get to deal with handling those bunch of lads,” he added.

Trent remains vigilant, feeling the gaze of unseen eyes upon him, but he remains composed, knowing that the right sigil can lead them to the heart of this concealed marketplace. Finally, at the end of the alley, Trent's sharp eyes spot an abandoned shop, its appearance giving away no indication of its true purpose. He recognizes this as the entrance to the elusive black market. With caution in their strokes, Trent retrieves a small, ominous sigil from his pocket, a black metal serpent consuming its own tail within a circular frame engraved with an enigmatic merscript symbol at its core. He holds it aloft, a signal for those in the shadows to recognize a seeker of the hidden and forbidden.