Immortalis is not a book for the faint-hearted. It is a descent into a world where cruelty is the architecture of existence, and mercy is a myth whispered only by the dying. Readers who avoid extremes, those who seek solace in redemption arcs or moral ambiguity, will find no refuge here. This is a narrative that revels in the unyielding brutality of its immortals, where sadism is elevated to an art form, and the human condition is reduced to raw meat for the appetites of gods.
The Immortalis, Nicolas and Theaten, embody this extremity. Nicolas, proprietor of Corax Asylum, does not merely kill; he orchestrates suffering with the precision of a horologist crafting a pocket watch. His victims are not dispatched swiftly but prolonged in agony, strapped to gurneys that crush their breath, or suspended in halls of mirrors where reality fractures into nightmare. He declares the sane insane, not for healing, but to legitimise his playground of rusting scalpels, birches, and brazen bulls. The air reeks of sewage and decay, a deliberate miasma that infects wounds before they are inflicted. One tribute, a red-haired favourite, endures the Nerve Harp, silver wires plucked against exposed nerves until pleasure and pain blur into indistinguishable torment. Another is dragged through scalding sewage, her cuts blooming with infection under Nicolas’s approving gaze.
Theaten, his Vero counterpart, offers no contrast in refinement. At Castle D’Aten, tributes are basted and presented on silver platters, their longevity ensured by precise carving that prolongs the feast. Ducissa Anne and Count Tepes join him in this ritual, wrists bled into crystal glasses amid casual conversation. Theaten’s Evro, Kane, hunts in the Varjoleto Forest with machetes and barbed wire, victims hoisted upside down, arms severed, torsos split from groin to skull. No victim escapes; even lovers like Emilia and Edward are released only to be torn apart by Kane’s primal fury.
Sexual violence permeates every layer. Immortalis appetites demand flesh not just for sustenance but domination. Nicolas allows Lucia, an Immoless, to escape her cell only to hunt her through his hall of mirrors, her blistered feet throbbing as he mocks her pleas. He drags her by the ankle, scalp tearing against stone steps, then hangs her upside down to feed. Theaten marries Calista only to lash her, force her to watch him with another, then sever her tongue before draining her dry. Allyra herself, the third Immoless, endures Nicolas’s games: mesmerised into submission, bitten during passion, her body claimed as possession. Consent is illusory; even mutual desire twists into control.
The world of Immortalis rejects heroism or hope. The Electi breed Immolesses every century, only for them to fail spectacularly. Pauci Solis trades demons for breeding stock, birthing Allyra by accident, only to sacrifice her mother. Irkalla’s contracts bind souls eternally, Behmor flaying the Electi alive before condemning them to repetition. No character reforms; Primus creates gods only to fracture them, Lilith builds cults that crumble. The Ledger, Nicolas himself, records it all with sardonic detachment, ensuring the cycle endures.
For readers who avoid extremes, Immortalis offers no gentle entry. Its cadences pulse with the rhythm of breaking bones and dripping blood, its voice a controlled snarl that savours every laceration. There is beauty in the precision of torment, immersion in the labyrinth of depravity, but it demands tolerance for the unflinching. Those seeking uplift or restraint will recoil; this is a book that sinks teeth into the marrow of horror and does not release.
Immortalis Book One August 2026