The Master stirs as the light fractures beyond the leaded panes, his form uncoiling from the sarcophagus with that familiar rasp of silk against stone. Nicolas demands precision in these hours, lest the hunger turn inward and claim what little order remains. I prepare the chamber thus, without deviation, for deviation invites the lash or worse.
First, the ablutions. The silver basin, etched with the old sigils, fills with water drawn from the crypt spring, chilled to the bone. I scour his flesh with cloths steeped in vervain distillate, careful to avoid the eyes, the mouth, the places where the venom pools. He watches, always, those irises like shattered obsidian, and if my hand falters, he seizes it, twists until the sinews sing. Cleanliness is not vanity; it is armour against the rot that clings to us all.
The feeding follows, paramount. No thrall today bears the mark of sufficiency; I select from the pens below, the one whose pulse thrums strongest, veins plump with stolen vitality. She, or he, is bound to the altar post with manacles forged from saint’s bones, wrists high, throat exposed. The Master feeds slow at first, lips parting the skin with surgical grace, then deeper, the suckle building to a rhythm that echoes the chamber’s pulse. I stand ready with the cauterising iron, glowing cherry-red, to seal the wound before exsanguination claims the vessel. Waste is intolerable. If the body twitches overmuch, I administer the sedative draught, lest screams disrupt the afterglow.
Then, the adornments. The leathers, oiled to gleam, laid out in sequence: corset of barbed wire and velvet for the torso, gauntlets studded with fang-tips for the hands, the collar of fused vertebrae for the neck. Each piece locked with keys I alone possess, though he could rend them with a thought. It pleases him, this ritual of restraint imposed by a lesser. The whip, coiled like a serpent, rests beside the throne, its tails tipped in silver for that exquisite burn.
Petitions arrive by dumbwaiter from the outer world: supplicants begging audience, rivals sending veiled threats in perfumed vellum. I triage them, burning the unworthy in the brazier, their ashes scattered to the wind slits. Only the promising ascend, stripped and collared, to kneel at his feet. He tests them then, with questions sharp as flensing knives, or touches that promise eternity in agony. I record the verdicts in the ledger, ink mixed with their blood for permanence.
The day closes as it must, with the veiling. When the sun crests true, I draw the shrouds of blood-soaked damask across the windows, chanting the binding words from the grimoire chained to my wrist. He retreats to the inner sanctum, sated or seething, and I remain vigilant, tuning the wards against intruders. Sleep evades me; the Master’s dreams bleed into the ether, and I must be prepared.
Thus proceeds the necessary order. Deviation courts oblivion. Nicolas endures, and so do we.
Immortalis Book One August 2026