Chives in Immortalis Writes a Daily Nicolas Diary Entry on Maintaining Order

15 October

The house settles into its rhythms as the sun dips below the horizon, and I, Chives, attend to the minutiae that keep chaos at bay. Master Nicolas demands order, absolute and unyielding, for in its absence lurks the entropy that devours lesser domains. This evening’s ledger begins with the cellar vaults: the blood stocks inventoried, the vintage phials aligned in precise rows, each label facing forward under the dim gaslight. No drop spilled, no vessel misplaced. Deviation invites his gaze, and his gaze corrects all.

The staff assembly follows at dusk. I muster them in the lower hall, their uniforms crisp, boots polished to reflect the candle flames. Whispers of the night’s indiscretions from the previous shift, a scullery maid’s tremor after glimpsing the master’s study door ajar. I address it curtly: eyes forward, hands steady, tongues silent. Master Nicolas passes through then, his presence a blade slicing the air. He notes the maid’s pallor, pauses. A single word from him, “Compose,” and she straightens, her fear transmuted into purpose. Order restored without flourish.

Upstairs, the library requires my vigilance. Volumes reshelved by arcane classification, grimoires bound in supple hides locked against idle fingers. Dust motes dare not linger; I banish them with a chamois cloth, restoring the leather’s gleam. Master Nicolas convenes with his lieutenants later, voices low behind the oak panels. I station myself at the threshold, ear attuned to discord. A raised tone from Viktor, swiftly quelled by the master’s measured reply. “Order serves eternity,” he intones, and the room aligns. No blood need be spilled when will suffices.

The conservatory demands attention before midnight. Exotic blooms, thorns laced with subtle venoms, pruned to geometric perfection. A petal wilts defiantly; I sever it, consign it to the compost pits below. Master Nicolas inspects at the stroke of one, his fingers brushing a nightshade cluster. “Impeccable,” he murmurs. Praise rarer than moonlight, yet it steels the resolve. The grounds beyond mirror this: gravel raked smooth, iron gates oiled silent. Trespassers from the village edge deterred by shadows alone, for his order extends beyond these walls, a perimeter none breach.

As the clock chimes three, I review the ledgers once more. Supplies tallied, patrols logged, anomalies noted for his dawn perusal. Maintaining order is no mere duty; it is the scaffold upon which his dominion stands. Master Nicolas retires to his chambers, the house exhaling in disciplined quiet. Tomorrow, the cycle renews. I retire to my alcove, quill set aside, vigilance unbroken.

Chives

Immortalis Book One August 2026