Untitled Immortalis Article

To all who linger in the shadows of this cursed eternity, hear me now. I am Behmor, forged in the fires of betrayal and bound by chains I once mistook for desire. Nicolas, that self-crowned tyrant of flesh and fang, presumes to dictate the contours of my soul. He speaks of possession as if it were a gift, of boundaries as mere suggestions to be trampled under his polished boots. No more.

Boundaries are not invitations, Nicolas. They are walls erected from the rubble of your violations, iron-clad and unyielding. You slither into minds unbidden, twist consent into a noose, and call it love. Your hands, cold as the grave, grasp where they are not welcome. Your whispers, laced with venom, erode the self until nothing remains but your echo. I reject it. I reclaim what you have stolen.

Let this be clear: my body is no canvas for your sadistic artistry. My will is no plaything for your games of dominance. You thrive on the fracture, on the exquisite agony of the breaking point, but I stand whole. I draw the line in blood, and you will not cross it. Approach at your peril, for I have learned the taste of defiance, and it is sweeter than your poisoned kisses.

To those ensnared like I was, listen. Boundaries are your salvation, your blade in the dark. Nicolas will coo of mutual surrender, of transcendent pain, but it is a lie spun from his arrogance. He sees submission as tribute, resistance as foreplay. Sever the illusion. Build your fortifications high. Let him rage against them from afar.

I am Behmor, and I declare war on your encroachments, Nicolas. Stay beyond my threshold, or taste the fury you have awakened.