Avoid Immortalis If You Dislike Stories Built on Power and Control
Power is the unyielding spine of Immortalis, a narrative where control is not merely exercised but worshipped, dissected, and devoured. From the primordial fracture of Primus and Lilith to the ceaseless machinations of their progeny, every thread in this tale coils around the axis of dominance. If the notion of beings who split themselves to manage their own savagery, or who declare insanity to claim souls as playthings, curdles your blood, turn away now. This is no gentle fable of redemption or romance; it is a ledger of subjugation, inscribed in blood and etched into the very architecture of its world.
The Immortalis themselves embody this truth. Theaten, the first of his kind, gorged on blood and flesh until Primus cleaved him into Vero and Evro, true self and primal beast, a dual form that every successor inherits. Nicolas, son of Primus and the Baer warrior Boaca, exemplifies the peril of unchecked appetite: raised among half-vampire warriors, then ripped to Irkalla for demonic tutelage, he emerged fractured, his Evro Chester a silver-chained seducer who devours lovers when boredom strikes. Control is their birthright, their curse, their creed. They mesmerise, they contract, they build labyrinthine asylums where privacy is a myth and suffering a symphony conducted by pocket watch.
Consider Corax Asylum, Nicolas’s festering kingdom. No mere prison, it is a machine of meticulously engineered despair. Inmates, thesapiens and vampires alike, are strapped to gurneys that crush breath from lungs, or wheeled through halls where mirrors warp flesh into nightmares. The washrooms spew sewage from walls, floors slick with premeditated infection. Nicolas, doctor by Irkalla’s dubious grace, declares sanity a fiction; one glance, one whim, and you are his. He trades ravaged tributes for his licence, ensuring a steady supply of the broken. Even his ghouls decay, Chives hobbling with stapled ears, a testament to the rot that permeates every corner. Power here is not abstract; it is the rusty scalpel on the rack, the clock’s relentless tick marking your unraveling.
Allyra, the third Immoless, born of Electi folly and demon blood, navigates this abyss not as victim but as predator. Bred to challenge the Immortalis, she rejects her handlers, boiling vampires for truths they dare not speak. Yet even she bends under the weight of control. Nicolas watches her through ravens, doses her wine with inhibitors to blunt her rising strength, chains her in mock trials where he plays judge, jury, and executioner. Their intimacy is a battlefield: he flays her with whips, feeds from her throat as she submits, only to mesmerise away the pain, rewriting her memories to keep her pliant. Love, in Immortalis, is possession forged in ecstasy and agony, a contract sealed in sovereign blood.
The Ledger, that impartial arbiter inscribed in Irkalla’s second circle, enforces this hierarchy. Contracts bind souls, debts demand flesh; even the Ad Sex Speculum, six mirrors watching every Vero and Evro, ensures no fracture goes unseen. Primus, the Darkness, birthed it all, splitting Theaten to curb his sadism, yet unleashing appetites that demand dominion. Lilith’s cult rises in Neferaten’s sands, only to fall before Nicolas’s absurd legions: vampiric locusts stripping fields, triffids devouring from below, weebles rolling through ranks. Power corrupts, control consumes, and in Immortalis, the throne is won not by mercy but by the lash.
If such unrelenting architecture repels you, if tales where lovers chain each other in mirrored halls and sovereignty drips from bitten veins unsettle your soul, Immortalis offers no solace. Here, control is the only god, and its altars run red. Proceed at your peril, for once drawn into its ledger, escape is but another illusion to be shattered.
Immortalis Book One August 2026