Immortalis Is Not for Fans of Easily Digestible Narratives
Immortalis arrives without apology, a labyrinth of lore that refuses to unfold in neat, linear progression. Readers expecting a tidy genesis, where gods and monsters emerge in orderly sequence, will find themselves adrift in a void of deliberate ambiguity. The prologue alone, inscribed by The Ledger of Hell, plunges us into cosmogonies that loop and fracture, Primus birthing Lilith from solitude only to fracture his own progeny into Vero and Evro, true selves and primal shadows. This is no heroic pantheon; it is a taxonomy of appetites, where consciousness itself is the missing spark in a world of sands and eternal dusk.
The narrative cadence mimics the world it describes, a perpetual Post Vesperum where suns hang low on the horizon, casting long shadows over bartering kingdoms and Irkalla’s six circles. Events do not march forward; they circle back, petitions and fractures repeating like the clanging clocks in Corax Asylum. Nicolas DeSilva, that fractured jester of Togaduine, embodies this refusal of simplicity. His dual existence with Webster, the rational spectre in the glass, defies easy classification. Is Webster Evro or echo? The Ledger insists on precedence, yet the mirrors of the Ad Sex Speculum reveal only mist where clarity should reign. Such opacities demand rereading, not skimming, for Immortalis punishes the hasty eye.
Consider the Immoless saga, a ritual farce scripted by the inept Pauci Electi. Bred from demoness and priest every century, these challengers to Immortalis power arrive with gifts of mediumship or seduction, only to meet engineered absurdities: hats laced with plague fleas, anchors that magnetise hulls into wreckage. Lucia’s hall of mirrors torment, reflections warping into flayed inmates, underscores the genre’s subversion. No plucky heroine triumphs; the Electi’s tomes peddle outdated myths, their Immoless dispatched in tug-of-war or skillet. Allyra, the bastard third, disrupts this by interrogating vampires in boiling cauldrons, yet even her agency bends under Nicolas’s raven gaze. The Deep thrives on imbalance, Primus’s checks and balances a cruel jest where tribute thesapiens breed for consumption, their daughters sent as futile challengers.
The prose texture resists consumption, sentences building like Irkalla’s circles, dense with implication. The Ledger’s voice, sardonic guide through Primus’s void-born stars and Morrigan Deep’s eternal twilight, circles implications without resolution. Vampires hunt thesapiens, mobs retaliate, Irkalla governs with contracts etched in blood. Immortalis like Theaten gorge on flesh and urge, split into noble Vero and feral Evro, merging only by petition. Nicolas, son of Primus and Baer warrior Boaca, embodies this rupture, his Corax a state-of-the-art crypt of rusty scalpels and soiled gurneys, where cure is bad for business. His medical license, traded for tributes ravaged over moons, allows declaring sanity insane, a loop of self-justifying torment.
Fans of digestible arcs will falter here, where chronology splinters across Post Vesperum years, feasts alternate with floggings, and sovereignty dangles on blood freely given yet coerced. The Pauci Electi’s shipwreck Solis hosts whiskey-soaked poker amid lifejackets, their Immoless plans foiled by Nicolas’s trackers and raven spies. Yet Immortalis persists, its refusal to simplify a deliberate provocation, demanding readers confront the ledger’s truth: in a world of dual selves and binding contracts, easy narratives are the true fiction.
Immortalis Book One August 2026