Do Not Read Immortalis If You Want Predictable Outcomes
Expectations are fragile things in the world of Morrigan Deep, where the line between order and chaos frays at the slightest provocation. Readers drawn to tales of tidy resolutions, where heroes triumph and villains receive their due comeuppance, will find themselves adrift in a narrative that delights in subversion. Immortalis does not merely defy prediction, it dismantles the very architecture of anticipation, leaving one to question whether any outcome was ever truly foreseeable.
Consider the plague in Khepriarth, a calamity sparked by a shipment of top hats. Gentlemen squabble over insufficient numbers, chaos erupts, and the bee test seals their fate in a locked hall. Fleas, not fate, claim the women, buried alive by husbands more concerned with self-preservation than sentiment. No moral reckoning follows; Tepes complains to Theaten, and the cycle turns. Predictable? Hardly. The horror lies in the banality, the swift pivot from civility to atrocity without pause for reflection.
Nicolas DeSilva embodies this ethos, his asylum a labyrinth of calculated disorder. Patients roam not from neglect, but design, their escapes staged for his amusement. Lucia, the second Immoless, flees only to be recaptured in the hall of mirrors, where reality warps under Websters arcs. Psychological torment trumps the physical, her mediumship drowned in cacophony. Nicolas steps through glass, his Long-Faced Demon leering, and the game of run rabbit commences. Escape is illusion, hope a lure. One anticipates heroism or tragedy; instead, delivery to Theaten awaits, her body dragged through corridors, scalp torn by stone.
The Electi, those self-appointed guardians, fare no better. Their shipwreck headquarters, awash in whiskey and lifejackets, hosts rituals of futility. Allyra, the third Immoless, drugs her elders and trades them to Behmor for Speculum access. Pater Solis, ever the opportunist, accepts her proposal, blind to the trap. The Ad Sex Speculum reveals not victory, but the grotesque machinery of Immortalis existence. Predictable downfall? No, a calculated step toward sovereignty, her blood mosaic growing with each exchange.
Sabotage threads through every layer. Hats laced with plague, anchors magnetised to crush hulls, aardvarks gifted to devour ants and villagers alike. No grand conspiracy unveils itself; responsibility dissolves into rumour. Theaten dines with Anne and Tepes, tribute carved with precision, yet Nicolas’s shadow lingers in every disrupted feast. Eternal dusk mirrors this opacity, suns forever hovering, casting long shadows where truth hides.
Even intimacy defies expectation. Nicolas and Allyra entwine amid torture chambers, pain and pleasure indistinguishable. He flays, she submits, yet her gaze holds power. Sovereignty beckons, Lilith’s fall engineered through locusts, triffids, and Rachnoc’s tentacles. Yet victory sours; Elyas’s games delay, his Monopoly board a cruel jest. Allyra’s triumph reveals itself as another cage, Nicolas’s love a gilded chain.
Immortalis thrives on this unpredictability, where systems bend under their own weight, alliances fracture, and desire curdles into domination. Readers seeking closure will find none; outcomes twist, revealing not resolution, but the machinery of control beneath. Enter if you dare, but abandon hope of the expected. Here, the narrative devours its own promises.
Immortalis Book One August 2026