Nicolas in Immortalis on Why Allyra Must Remain Close

She does not understand it yet, not fully, this tether that binds her to me, but I do. Allyra, with her wide eyes and that fragile pulse beneath porcelain skin, must remain close. Not because I command it, though command it I do, but because the world beyond my grasp hungers for her in ways she cannot fathom. I have seen centuries unfold like rotting petals, empires crumble to dust, and lovers reduced to husks by forces far less merciful than mine. She is mine to protect, mine to possess, and separation would be her undoing.

Consider the shadows that stalk her steps when she strays too far. The coven whispers of ancient rites, of bloodlines that demand sacrifice, and Allyra’s veins sing with a purity that draws them like moths to flame. I have felt their eyes upon us, those elder ones who remember the old wars, when immortals tore at each other’s throats for a taste of mortal essence untainted. She is no mere girl, no fleeting fancy; her blood carries echoes of forgotten pacts, a key to doors long sealed. To let her wander would invite their claws, their teeth, their insatiable greed.

And then there is the rot within her own kind. Mortals, so quick to envy, to betray. They sense her difference, that otherworldly allure that clings to her like mist. I have watched them circle, with their petty jealousies and hidden daggers, plotting to claim what they cannot comprehend. One foolhardy suitor already lies in pieces, scattered across the moors, his ambitions curtailed by my hand. But there are always more, drawn by her beauty, her unwitting grace. Closeness ensures I am there to sever those threads before they tighten.

Yet it runs deeper, this necessity. Allyra tempers the beast in me, that eternal hunger that gnaws without cease. Her proximity soothes it, turns savagery to something almost tender, a velvet glove over iron fist. Without her near, the nights grow longer, the kills more wanton, the veil between control and chaos thins to gossamer. She is my anchor in this undying storm, and I hers, whether she wills it or no. To part would unleash furies neither of us could contain.

So she remains close, within arm’s reach, under my watchful gaze. It is not cruelty, but clarity. The world is a charnel house, and I am its gatekeeper for her. Let her chafe at the chains; they are forged of necessity, tempered in blood. One day, perhaps, she will thank me, as her lips brush mine in surrender. Until then, she stays. She must.

Immortalis Book One August 2026