Nicolas DeSilva Creates Chaos Just to See How Allyra Responds
Dear Reader, chaos is my canvas, and Allyra, that defiant little Immoless, my most intriguing subject. I craft disorder not for destruction alone, though that has its charms, but to watch her dance within it, to see how she bends, breaks, or bites back. The hats in Khepriarth? A trifle, fleas in fine felt, turning gentlemen into beasts and wives into communal graves. The pirate armada that never came, ships slamming together like drunken lovers, wood stolen under the pretence of peril? Child’s play. I sent those rumours on a grinning horse, and Sapari’s harbour master danced to my tune, anchors pulling hulls into wreckage. Tepes complained to Theaten, Theaten to me, and I smiled, for the ripples reached her ears, that third Immoless boiling vampires on her wretched wreck.
She intrigued me from the first raven’s flight. I watched her on The Sombre, grilling that Tepes vampire about me, her black and red hair tied back, shuriken idle in her hand. Mica screamed of my madness, and she dismissed it, boiling him anyway. Bold. Unafraid. I perched as raven, then stepped forth in plaid and top hat, offering brandy and banter. She swapped flasks, cautious minx, and toasted my victory while eyeing Sihr’s silhouette. Mesmerism failed her; she faked it, eyes heavy but mind sharp. I took her dagger as keepsake, left Ghorab as spy, and danced away promising exquisite suffering.
Corax called her back, but I let Lucia flee first, that snivelling medium, just to hunt her through mirrors and clocks. Allyra watched from afar, grilling more fools on my mirrors, my Evros. She came to me then, demanding assessment, and I played the bored doctor, floating in orange silk. She saw through it, ignored my ravens, spied my ravens spying. Bored of Lucia’s sticky end, I sought her at Dokeshi, that rotting carnival of whispers. She sprawled on the merry-go-round, ignoring my theatrics, staring at ghosts in the ghost train. I offered escape to Sihr, beyond, and she refused. Drugged her wine anyway, watched her slump. Yet she resisted even then, whispering defiance.
Her Baers died in Ard Quahila, mutants and headless tearing them apart. I saved her, of course, my army of the dead parting the horde. She drank their blood at my command, strengthening for what came next. Ibliss confirmed it: mariposa blood from Feilecann, hoarded in Elyas’s tower. She swam, fought, climbed, and I watched, my raven circling. Theaten tried to claim her, drained her near death, but I shattered him, fed her my true Evro blood. Chester and I merged for her, gave her everything. She bore our son, Absolem, serpent-god in chrysalis.
Yet she cuffed us in Lilith’s palace, fled with wolves howling. Harlon hid her scent, Behmor her thoughts. Elyas drugged her, but she read Demize’s truths, saw my fractures. I chained her in the Spine-Cracker, poised to erase her will forever. My alters revolted, Chester pulled the lever, Elyas confessed his part. She saw me, all of me, and stayed. Co-regent, bride, mine by choice. Chaos? I weave it to draw her close, to test if she returns. She always does. And that, Reader, is the sweetest response of all.
Immortalis Book One August 2026