Chives in Immortalis Logs a Daily Nicolas Entry on Duties

15 October, evening. The master returned from the cellars at precisely half-past seven, his coat flecked with the damp of stone walls and something darker that I shall not name here, lest the ink curdle on the page. Duties commenced as ever: first, the ablutions. I prepared the silver basin with warmed vervain water, though he waved it aside with that familiar impatience, his eyes still carrying the gleam of whatever nocturnal business had detained him below. “Chives,” he said, voice low as a crypt door creaking, “the ledgers.”

I fetched them from the study, the great tomes bound in leather that smells faintly of iron and regret. He pored over the estate accounts while I laid out the crystal decanter, its contents sourced from the locked cabinet, the one with the sigils etched into the oak. Duties dictate precision: three fingers of the crimson, no more, lest the haze descend before midnight. He signed the papers without comment, his quill scratching like claws on slate, tallying rents from the tenants who whisper of shadows in the fog-shrouded fields.

At nine, the correspondence. Letters from the city solicitors, sealed with wax imprinted by trembling hands. One from the widow Hargrove, pleading extension on her late husband’s debts; another from that fool Doctor Ellis, inquiring after the “incident” at the mill. The master dictated replies, curt and final: payments due by the full moon, or consequences. I transcribed, sealed, and set them for the morning post. Duties include discretion; I burned the drafts in the grate, watching the flames lick secrets into ash.

Midnight brought the ritual inspection of the grounds. We walked the perimeter, lantern in my hand casting long shadows that twisted like supplicants. The hounds bayed from the kennels, sensing his mood. A breach in the eastern wall, where brambles had overgrown the iron spikes, required noting. He paused at the mausoleum, tracing the names carved there, his duties to the bloodline eternal as the stone. “See to it tomorrow, Chives,” he murmured. I inclined my head, committing the repair to memory.

By one, the house fell silent. He retired to his chambers, where duties end and darker appetites begin, though I station myself without until dawn’s first pallor. The master sleeps little, dreams less, and wakes ever vigilant. My log closes thus: all as ordered, save the faint tremor in the earth tonight, like a heart stirring far below. I shall watch.

Immortalis Book One August 2026