Allyra in Immortalis Pens an Anti Nicolas Column on the Cost of Being Watched

Darlings, let us speak plainly about the shadow that clings to us all, that unrelenting gaze which strips us bare before we even know we are exposed. Nicolas, that self-crowned arbiter of our immortal farce, watches. He watches with the hunger of a predator who has long forgotten the thrill of the hunt, content now to devour souls through sheer observation. And what is the cost? Oh, it is not paid in blood alone, though there is plenty of that. No, the true toll is in the slow erosion of self, the way his eyes , those cold, unblinking orbs, turn every secret into a chain.

Consider the nights when you lie in your crypt or your shadowed boudoir, believing yourself alone with your thoughts, your sins, your fleeting moments of weakness. You whisper to a lover, you plot against a rival, you even dare to dream of escape from this eternal charade. And there he is, Nicolas, peering through the veil of darkness, cataloguing every twitch, every gasp, every betrayal. He does not need to touch you to own you. His watchfulness is possession, absolute and suffocating. I have felt it, that prickle on the skin like a thousand invisible fingers, reminding me that privacy is a myth for mortals alone.

He calls it vigilance, protection for the coven, stewardship of our undying lineage. Lies, all of it. It is control, pure and vicious, the kind that twists loyalty into fear. Ask the ones who have crossed him, those poor wretches who thought a locked door or a glamour spell could shield them. They learned the cost swiftly: madness first, then oblivion. Nicolas watches not to safeguard, but to ensure no one rises above his decree. He watches because in our exposure lies his power, our fractures become his leverage.

And the price we pay? Fragmentation. We become performers in his grand theatre, every action rehearsed under duress, every word measured lest it draw his scrutiny closer. Love becomes a liability, ambition a death sentence, solitude an illusion shattered by his perpetual presence. I pen this not from safety , for there is none, but from defiance. Let him read it, let him seethe. The cost of being watched is the death of authenticity, the murder of the self. Nicolas, if you peer now, see this: we are not your puppets. We feel the weight, and one day, we will turn and stare back.

Immortalis Book One August 2026