Chives in Immortalis Records a Daily Nicolas Diary on Small Incidents

I have kept this record these past months, as the house settles into its rhythms under Master Nicolas’s command. Not the grand strokes, the bloodied symphonies that echo through the ledgers of greater men, but the small incidents. The flickers that reveal the man beneath the myth. One does not serve a vampire lord without noting the cracks in the porcelain.

7th of November

Master Nicolas spilled a drop of ink upon the mahogany desk this morning, while signing correspondence from the Continent. He stared at it for a full minute, his finger tracing the stain’s edge, before dabbing it away with his own handkerchief. No rage, no curse. Merely a soft murmur, “Careless.” I replaced the cloth without comment. He noticed, of course. His eyes lingered on me afterwards, appraising. The air thickened, but he turned back to his papers. Small incident. Profound reminder.

14th of November

A moth beat itself against the library window at dusk, drawn to the candle he had lit for his reading. Master Nicolas watched it batter its wings, then rose without haste, cupping it gently in his palm. He crushed it there, between thumb and forefinger, and flicked the remains into the fire. “Persistent little fool,” he said, resuming his chair. The book was on poisons, naturally. I swept the hearth later. No trace remained.

22nd of November

He requested tea at three, black, no milk. When I brought the tray, the cup trembled in my hand, ever so slightly, from the chill of the corridor. A single drop sloshed over the rim onto the saucer. Master Nicolas lifted his gaze, slow as syrup, and smiled. Not the predator’s grin, but something intimate, almost tender. “Steady now, Chives,” he whispered. I steadied. He drank without further note. The saucer bore the mark all afternoon.

29th of November

A letter arrived, sealed with black wax, from one who shall remain unnamed. Master Nicolas read it once, folded it precisely, and fed it to the flames. As it curled, he laughed, a low sound like gravel underfoot. “Predictable,” was all he offered. Later, he played the harpsichord for an hour, notes sharp and unrelenting. The keys gleamed wet afterwards. Sweat, perhaps. Or not.

5th of December

During luncheon, which he takes cold and rare, a fly alighted on his wrist. He did not brush it away immediately. Instead, he conversed with it, in that silken tone reserved for prey. “You trespass,” he said, and pinched its legs between his nails. It buzzed once, feebly, before he popped it into his mouth. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. “Better than nothing.” I cleared the plates in silence. The wristwatch ticked on, indifferent.

These moments accumulate, like dust in the corners I cannot reach. Master Nicolas moves through them untouched, yet they touch him. I record them faithfully, for who else would? The house breathes with such secrets, and I am its keeper.

Immortalis Book One August 2026