Demize in Immortalis Writes an Anti Nicolas Article That Reads Like a Warning

Listen close, you fools who still draw breath in this rotten world, or whatever passes for it among our kind. Nicolas. Say the name, and feel the chill crawl up your spine like fingers from the grave. He slithers through the shadows of our eternal night, promising ecstasy in his gaze, death in his touch. I know him. Better than most. Better than you ever want to.

He comes to you first as salvation, doesn’t he? A whisper in the dark, a hand extended across the abyss. Those eyes, black as pitch, pull you in, make you believe in redemption where none exists. But redemption is a lie he peddles, wrapped in silk and stained with blood. I watched him once, in the dim-lit halls where we lesser immortals scrape for scraps of power. He took a girl, fresh-turned, eyes wide with the hunger we all know too well. She thought him her maker, her god. He carved her open slow, savouring every whimper, every plea. Not for sustenance. For sport.

Nicolas does not feed. He devours. Souls, wills, futures. He leaves husks behind, hollowed out and grinning like idiots at the ruin he wrought. You think you’re safe because you’re clever, because you’ve danced this dance before? He smells that arrogance, tastes it on the air. I’ve seen empires crumble under his whim, covens shattered like glass under his heel. He whispers secrets that unravel you from within, turns your own desires against you until you’re begging for the end he denies.

Stay clear. Bar your doors, though they mean nothing to him. Clutch your crosses, your sigils, your pathetic wards. They buy you moments, nothing more. He is the storm that never breaks, the blade that never dulls. I write this not from hate, though God knows I harbour enough of that. No, from the cold clarity of survival. I crossed him once, paid in rivers of my own blood. You will not be so lucky. Heed this, or join the legion of the lost, echoes in his endless night.

Demize

Immortalis Book One August 2026