Merchants carry them from harbour to harbour while loading crates beneath the cranes of Sapari. Sailors repeat them in taverns where the air smells of salt and smoke. Travellers whisper them along forest roads where the lantern light barely reaches the trees. By the time a story has crossed three kingdoms it has usually grown into something quite extraordinary.
The Deep survives on these rumours.
Civilisations often pretend that official proclamations control the flow of information. Kings deliver speeches. Priests publish doctrines. Scholars produce volumes of commentary explaining how the world functions. These efforts would be impressive if anyone actually believed them.
Most people trust the rumours instead.
Rumours contain a peculiar kind of honesty. They may exaggerate details, but they rarely invent the atmosphere surrounding an event. When sailors describe a harbour as cursed, the description usually reflects something real. When villagers speak about a castle that no one visits after dusk, the silence around that castle tends to confirm the suspicion.
The same pattern appears whenever the subject turns to the Immortalis.
Across the Deep there are three names that appear again and again in whispered conversations. Each name carries a different tone. One is spoken with the caution normally reserved for aristocracy. Another is mentioned with the fear people reserve for ancient beasts. The third is often delivered with a mixture of dread and reluctant amusement.
That name belongs to Nicolas DeSilva.
A raven travelling across the Deep will hear his name frequently. Port workers in Sapari speak about Corax Asylum as though it were a landmark in gothic horror. Traders passing through Ashurrel describe it as a labyrinth where mirrors and clocks replace ordinary architecture. Even pirates navigating the coast of the Getsug Sea seem to prefer sailing around the region rather than through it.
No one wishes to become a story.
Corax has achieved something unusual in the landscape of dark fantasy. It exists simultaneously as a real institution and as a legend. Those who have never seen the building speak about it with the certainty normally reserved for places they have visited personally. Every rumour adds another layer to its reputation.
Some say the asylum director conducts psychological experiments on the inmates. Others claim he has converted entire wings of the building into theatrical stages where elaborate performances take place. A few insist that the corridors rearrange themselves overnight, leaving prisoners wandering through mirrors that lead nowhere.
The truth is difficult to separate from the rumours.
What is certain is that Nicolas encourages the speculation. A reputation built on gothic horror travels much further than one built on simple authority. People fear monsters, but they also become fascinated by them. That fascination ensures that every new rumour spreads quickly through taverns and markets.
Reputation, in this sense, becomes a form of influence.
The other Immortalis operate very differently. Theaten, for instance, maintains the image of a noble ruler surrounded by tradition. His court resembles the aristocratic courts described in older dark fantasy tales. Rituals matter there. Titles matter. Even the arrangement of seats at a banquet can become a political statement.
Such structure reassures the population.
A noble vampire may terrify villagers, but villagers understand how nobility behaves. The rules governing such figures appear predictable. Tribute flows upward. Protection flows downward. The system may be cruel, but it remains recognisable.
Nicolas provides no such comfort.
Stories about him rarely follow a consistent pattern. One rumour claims he spends entire nights composing letters that no one receives. Another suggests he wanders the corridors of his asylum speaking to reflections in mirrors. A third insists that he occasionally appears as a raven perched on distant masts, observing events that should not concern him at all.
The inconsistencies make the rumours more powerful.
Unpredictability is the most effective tool in horror. When people cannot anticipate how a powerful figure will behave, they begin to imagine possibilities far worse than reality. Gothic literature has relied upon this principle for centuries. The unseen threat often frightens audiences more effectively than the visible monster.
The Deep provides endless opportunities for such speculation.
Every harbour produces new stories. A fisherman swears he saw six identical figures sitting around a table inside the asylum. A traveller insists that electricity once surged through the corridors and made every clock strike at once. Another claims that a chapel inside the building has been transformed into something resembling a theatre.
Whether these events occurred is almost irrelevant.
The rumours themselves shape the behaviour of the population. Sailors alter their routes to avoid certain coastlines. Messengers ride faster when carrying letters addressed to Corax. Villagers speak quietly when the conversation turns toward the Immortalis.
Fear and fascination travel together.
For readers of horror fiction this environment feels familiar. Gothic horror thrives in worlds where whispers carry as much weight as facts. Dark fantasy expands those whispers into entire landscapes filled with uncertain truths and half understood legends.
The Deep operates exactly this way.
Perhaps that is why the rumours continue to spread. Every new tale adds another piece to the mythology surrounding the Immortalis. Every whisper ensures that travellers across the Deep remember the names they hear in the dark.
And ravens, of course, hear everything.
Immortalis is a new horror book out August 2026. Watch this space.