Immortalis and the Dungeons Where Private Moments Never Stay Private

In the shadowed underbelly of Corax Asylum, where the air hangs thick with the tang of rust and despair, privacy is not merely absent, it is systematically eradicated. Nicolas DeSilva, the Immortalis who reigns over this labyrinth of torment, has engineered a domain where every whisper, every fleeting intimacy, every desperate gasp becomes public property, observed, dissected, and weaponised. The dungeons of Corax are not mere cells; they are theatres of exposure, designed to strip inmates of autonomy and render solitude impossible. This is no accident of neglect, but the deliberate architecture of control, a testament to Nicolas’s profound sadism and his unyielding need to dominate even the most private recesses of the human spirit.

The crypt-level dungeons form the foundation of this regime, a warren of stone cells each equipped with beds rather than coffins, a peculiar mercy that serves only to facilitate Nicolas’s nocturnal predations. Straps and handcuffs adorn these beds, transforming rest into restraint, ensuring that even sleep offers no refuge. Beyond the cells stretches a damp corridor lined with surgical instruments, rusty scalpels and bone saws gleaming dully in the perpetual twilight, shelves heavy with whips and birches for those petty tortures Nicolas savours so keenly. No door seals these horrors; the narrow stone steps ascend directly to his private chambers, a mid-stair doorway granting seamless access to his prisoners. Hygiene, that bourgeois concern, holds no sway here; Nicolas revels in the mire, his chambers immaculate by contrast, a sterile throne room attached yet apart from the asylum’s filth.

The ground floor extends this violation upward, east and west wings crammed with cells where inmates are packed one or five to a room depending on Nicolas’s whim for discomfort. Soiled gurneys and oversized wheelchairs litter the corridors, tortured figures strapped into them, their cries harmonising with the incessant clanging of clocks and the omnipresent mirrors that line every passage. These mirrors are no mere decoration; they are the eyes of Irkalla, the Ad Sex Speculum transposed into everyday surveillance, reflecting not just the inmates but Nicolas’s own fractured gaze. The chapel and meeting hall stand as cruel jests, venues for pointless speeches that reinforce subjugation, while his banqueting suite and library remain forbidden sanctuaries, accessible only to him.

Ascend further, and the first floor reveals bespoke torture chambers: the iron maiden, brazen bull, hall of mirrors, each a masterpiece of Webster’s ingenuity, calibrated for maximum suffering. The second floor looms cut off, a mystery even to most inmates, and above that the washrooms spew sewage in open-plan horror, inmates cut beforehand to ensure infection takes root. Nicolas’s aggressive building programme ensures perpetual disorientation; groups of thesapiens rotate through construction, each modifying the last’s work, secret corridors and rooms proliferating until only Nicolas comprehends the full atlas of his domain. Patients know no privacy, no predictability of where his tortures will spring from next.

This is the genius of Corax: a panopticon where the watched become performers in their own degradation, every private moment refracted through mirrors, clocks, and Nicolas’s unblinking eyes. Inmates whisper of his raven form, spying unseen; of Webster’s inventions that turn flesh into symphony. Even the dead linger, their voices echoing in the hall of mirrors, reflections of flayed skins and stretched limbs haunting the glass. Nicolas trades tributes with Irkalla for his psychiatric license, declaring the sane insane, driving them mad to justify their confinement, a perfect loop of manufactured monstrosity.

Allyra, the third Immoless, navigated this hellscape with rare defiance, her extraction chamber on The Sombre a counterpoint of controlled violence. Yet even she could not escape the gaze; Nicolas’s mirrors watched, his ravens circled, his will intruded. The dungeons of Corax stand as eternal testament to Immortalis dominion: private moments never stay private, for in Nicolas’s world, solitude is the first casualty of control.

Immortalis Book One August 2026