Demize in Immortalis Writes an Anti Nicolas Commentary That Cuts Through Illusion

Oh, Nicolas. How the shadows cling to you, how you preen in their embrace as if they were lovers’ fingers tracing your flawless jaw. You, with your honeyed whispers and your eyes like polished obsidian, promising eternities that dissolve at dawn. I see you for what you are, a confection of smoke and mirrors, peddling illusions to the desperate and the damned. Demize speaks now, and my words are scalpels, not silk.

You strut through the underbelly of this world, Nicolas, cloaked in that veneer of tragic nobility. The brooding immortal, cursed with beauty unending, drawing moths to your flame only to watch them char. But let us dispense with the poetry you so adore. Yours is no curse, no grand affliction handed down by indifferent gods. It is a performance, meticulously rehearsed, each sigh calibrated to elicit surrender. You feed on adoration, on the quiver of throats bared in fealty, yet you recoil at the first taste of true reciprocity. Illusionist extraordinaire, you paint yourself victim while your hands are slick with the vitae of the willing.

Recall the nights in the velvet-draped chambers, where supplicants knelt, their pulses racing like frantic hymns. You extended your grace, Nicolas, that false sacrament, and they drank deep, believing in your myth of mutual salvation. But I watched from the eaves, unseen, as their eyes glazed not with ecstasy, but with the hollow realisation of deceit. Your gifts are chains, forged in the fires of your ego, and you revel in the rattle they make. Anti-Christ of the eternal night, you mock redemption while hoarding its shadow for your private gallery.

What illusions do you shatter for them, pray tell? None. You erect them higher, spires of delusion reaching into voids you yourself fear. The lovers who trail you, ensnared by your siren call, they see a god in the glass you hold before them. But shatter it, Nicolas, and behold the fractures: a parasite preening, a thief of souls who barters eternity for fleeting worship. I, Demize, have tasted the dregs of your chalice, and they curdle on the tongue. Bitter artifice, devoid of the raw pulse that true power demands.

You decry the crude appetites of lesser kindred, those who glut without finesse, yet your table is no less stained. Yours is the gourmet’s gore, savoured slow, paired with sonnets and stolen glances. Hypocrite in silk, your commentary on virtue rings as false as the pearls at your throat. Cut through the illusion, as I do now: you are no saviour, no tormented prince. You are the architect of cages, gilded and groaning under the weight of broken dreams.

Let this be your mirror, Nicolas, unadorned and unyielding. Gaze long, and perhaps, in the depths, you will glimpse the monster you have always been. Demize has spoken. The veil is rent.

Immortalis Book One August 2026