Immortalis Is Not for Fans of Gentle Storytelling
Those who seek solace in tales of tender hearts and whispered affections will find no refuge here. Immortalis unfolds in a world where tenderness is a prelude to torment, where love wears the mask of possession, and where every embrace conceals the glint of fangs. This is no gentle fable spun for comfort; it is a ledger of cruelties etched in blood and bone, a chronicle where the primal urges of gods clash against the fragile illusions of mortals. From the shadowed halls of Corax Asylum to the eternal dusk of Morrigan Deep, the narrative pulses with the rhythm of dominance and despair, demanding readers confront the exquisite savagery that defines its immortals.
The heart of Immortalis beats in the veins of its titular beings, creatures born not of light or shadow alone, but of a deliberate fracture. Primus, the primal Darkness, sired Theaten from Lilith, only to cleave him into Vero and Evro, true self and beast incarnate. Nicolas, half-Baer bastard of that same progenitor, mirrors this duality, his refined Webster a mere reflection in glass, his Long-Faced Demon lurking beneath the jester’s grin. These are not heroes burdened by morality; they are architects of agony, their appetites insatiable for blood, flesh, and submission. Nicolas, lord of his festering domain, does not heal the broken, he breaks them further, declaring sanity a delusion and insanity his sovereign right. His asylum, a labyrinth of mirrors and clocks, exists not to cure but to curate suffering, where straps bind beds for nocturnal amusements and surgical racks gleam with rust-tainted promise.
Consider the rites of governance in Irkalla, that sixfold hell beneath The Deep. Contracts sealed there bind souls eternally, yet even kings like Behmor, lesser Immortalis forged from sewn flesh, evade duty through bureaucratic sleight. The Ad Sex Speculum watches ceaselessly, six mirrors piercing the veil to track Vero and Evro alike, ensuring no fracture goes unobserved. The Pauci Electi, those seven thesapien pretenders, breed Immolesses every century in futile rebellion, their priestesses dispatched only to be torn asunder or flayed alive. Allyra, the bastard third, boils vampires for secrets, her cauldron a grim oracle, yet even she succumbs to the ledger’s inexorable ink.
Gentle storytelling offers redemption arcs and heartfelt unions; Immortalis delivers feasts of the living and wagers over writhing flesh. Theaten dines with Anne and Tepes amid basted tributes, their silver knives carving longevity from screams, while Nicolas’s banquets spin levitating chairs and gramophones crowned with rotting heads. Love here is a lash or a fang, possession a chain disguised as devotion. The Varjoleto Forest claims lovers like Emilia and Edward, handed to Kane’s machete for daring affection beyond tribute status. Even the Djinn Ibliss, exiled to his ziggurat, grants wishes that curdle into curses, his solitude a bulwark against Lilith’s cultish sands.
Do not mistake this for mere horror; it is a precise anatomy of power’s appetites. Immortalis lays bare the machinery of control: the Rationum inscribing fates, Irkalla’s circles grinding souls, the fractured immortals merging and splitting like wounds that refuse to heal. Fans of gentle tales, turn away. Here, every vow is a contract, every kiss a bite, and sovereignty a chalice brimming with stolen blood. The Deep endures in perpetual dusk, its ledger ever open, waiting for the next name to be carved.
Immortalis Book One August 2026