Nicolas in Immortalis Prints a Daily Nicolas Defence of His Latest Decision

Another dawn breaks over this festering pit we call eternity, and the whispers rise like mist from the Thames, thick with accusation. They say I have gone too far this time. They clutch their pearls, those simpering shadows in the Council chambers, and murmur that Nicolas has overstepped. Overstepped? As if the line were not drawn in blood long ago, etched by my own hand. My latest decision, you ask? The termination of Elias Voss, that snivelling conduit to the outer voids. Necessary. Inevitable. And, dare I say, a touch elegant in its execution.

Let us dispense with the pretence at once. Elias was no mere pawn; he was a fracture in the veil, a mouthy little aberration who thought to summon forces beyond his grasp. I felt it first in the dreams that clawed at the edges of my sleep, not true sleep, of course, but that half-world where immortals drift. Whispers of elder things, eldritch nonsense bubbling up from cracks he had pried open with his amateur incantations. The boy had balls, I’ll grant him that, but brains? A deficiency. He believed the voids would reward his loyalty, fill his veins with power. Instead, they hollowed him, left him gibbering prophecies that threatened us all.

The Council dithers, as they always do. Petitions for mercy, appeals to some archaic code of conduct. Mercy? In Immortalis? Spare me. Elias crossed the threshold when he invoked the name of the Crawling Chaos in my own demesne. My demesne, mark you. The penthouse atop the obsidian spire, where the city sprawls like a suppurating wound below. He slipped in under cover of night, trailing that stench of ozone and decay, and set his circle in the marble foyer. I smelled him before I saw him, that acrid tang of forbidden rites.

What would you have me do? Invite him for tea? Discuss the merits of his cosmic dalliances over cognac? No. I descended upon him with the precision of a scalpel. His screams were brief, artistic even, as I peeled back the layers of his invocation. The sigils writhed under my touch, dissolving into ink-black sludge that seeped into the grout. His eyes, oh, those eyes, bulged with the realisation of his folly. He begged then, of course. They always do. But begging is for mortals, and Elias had aspired to more.

I took his heart first, not with claws or fangs, but with the silver dagger from the mantel, the one etched with the old runes. It beat in my palm for a full minute, pulsing defiance before it stilled. The voids he courted recoiled, slithered back to their abyssal homes, cheated of their prize. The rest of him? Disposed of in the incinerator chute, efficient as ever. No mess, no traces. Just ash scattering on the wind come morning.

And now the backlash. Letters flood the postbox, enchanted missives that burn on opening if unread. The widow Voss wails for justice, claims Elias was ‘misunderstood’. Misunderstood? He was a liability, a crack through which the outer dark could pour. I defended the realm, preserved the balance we immortals cling to amidst our endless nights. Without such decisions, swift and unyielding, Immortalis would crumble into chaos. Picture it: voids yawning wide, tentacles coiling through the streets, claiming thralls by the thousand. No, thank you.

Some accuse me of sadism, of deriving pleasure from the act. Pleasure? It was duty, plain and cold. Though I confess, the symmetry appealed: his blood arcing in perfect parabolas across the Persian rug, the gurgle as life fled. Artistry in violence, if you will. But do not mistake necessity for indulgence. I am no brute; I am the blade that keeps the darkness at bay.

To those who doubt: visit the spire yourselves. See the foyer pristine once more, the wards reinforced with Elias’s own essence. Stronger now, unbreachable. That is the measure of my decision, not your hand-wringing. The Council may convene, may vote their censures, but they know the truth. They need me. They always have. Without Nicolas, who would dirty their hands?

So here it stands, my daily defence, printed for the edification of the sceptical. Question it if you must, but sleep soundly tonight knowing the voids are sealed. For now. Tomorrow brings new threats, new decisions. And I shall meet them, as ever, without remorse.

Immortalis Book One August 2026