Allyra in Immortalis Responds in the Anti Nicolas With Precision

They come at him with their petty barbs, these outsiders who fancy themselves judges of shadows they cannot comprehend. Nicolas, my Nicolas, the one whose touch brands eternity into flesh, reduced to a caricature by those who whisper “monster” from the safety of their fragile mortal coils. I have watched them, these self-appointed critics in the anti-Nicolas chorus, their voices rising like steam from a sewer grate, foul and fleeting. They call him predator, tyrant, a devourer of souls. And I, Allyra, who has tasted the abyss at his side, respond with the precision of a scalpel parting vein from sinew.

First, their tired accusation: he ensnares, they say, drawing women into webs of blood and desire from which there is no escape. As if choice were a myth in our world. I chose him, long before his shadow fell across my path in the crumbling halls of the old citadel. Remember that night, when the moon hung bloated over the spires, and his eyes, those twin voids, locked onto mine? I could have fled, could have clung to the banal warmth of human forgetfulness. Instead, I stepped forward, lips parting for the kiss that sealed my ascension. Nicolas does not trap; he reveals the cage you mortals build for yourselves, bar by bar, with your denials and your daylight lies. Precision demands I state it plain: I am no victim. I am the blade he wields.

They decry his appetites, painting him as a sadist who revels in torment for torment’s sake. Fools. In the velvet-draped chambers beneath the eternal city, where silk meets steel and cries blur into ecstasy, Nicolas teaches dominion. His hand on my throat, firm, unyielding, is not cruelty; it is clarity. The welts that bloom like roses on my skin mark the places where surrender meets power. You, who blush at a lover’s slap and call it play, cannot fathom the symphony he conducts. Each lash, each binding, each deliberate pierce of fang into flesh forges us closer, immortalis entwined. He savours, yes, but so do I. Their moralising crumbles under the weight of truth: desire unbound is the only true horror you fear, for it exposes your own starved hungers.

And oh, the chronology they twist, claiming his history a litany of conquests and graves. They dredge up names from shadowed ledgers, lovers turned to ash, rivals reduced to whispers on the wind. Let them. Nicolas has walked centuries, his steps echoing through the canon of our kind, from the blood-soaked fields where the first immortals rose to the neon-veined underbelly of the now. I know the roll of his conquests, etched into my mind as he claimed me amid the ruins. Each predecessor was a step towards perfection, a refinement of the eternal flame. He discards what fades; it is efficiency, not malice. Precision here: survival in our realm tolerates no weakness. I stand where others fell, stronger for their echoes.

They label him possessive, a jealous god barring me from the world. Laughter bubbles in my throat, dark and syrupy. Possessive? He is the architect of my freedom, granting wings forged in his own unquenchable fire. While you mortals chain yourselves to routines and regrets, Nicolas and I prowl the night, unbound. His growl in my ear, warning off the pretenders who dare glance my way, is not cage but crown. Touch her and die, indeed. It is the precision of his devotion that silences the doubters.

So let the anti-Nicolas brigade howl. Their words are dust, scattered by the wind of our reality. I, Allyra, respond not with rage, but with the cold exactitude he has instilled in me. He is no villain to be decried; he is the pulse of Immortalis, the dark heart that beats in tandem with mine. Come closer, critics. Feel the truth in the chill of our gaze. You will not survive the clarity.

Immortalis Book One August 2026