Prologue
Prologue
He, alone among all modern men, had received a divine gift—immortality—simply and without any search. His mind had not suffered through philosophical questions about the meaning of life to attain it. He had not worn his knees to the bone in prayer. Everything visible to the eye remained unchanged within him across millennia. Venerable gray had never touched his dark, curly hair. Expressive brown eyes retained a piercing gaze so intense that even people with nerves of steel and a strong inner core felt goosebumps run across their skin. Not even the lightest stubble ever broke through on his closely shaved, massive cheekbones, which gave his appearance an expression of haughtiness and untamable audacity. His young, muscular body was always covered in a golden tan. And no matter how hard he tried or wished, not a single cell of his flesh yielded to change. That was why he had long since stopped hanging mirrors in his numerous homes across the world. His own reflection caused him acute emotional suffering: the absence of any change in his appearance was a constant reminder that life was continuing like a nightmare he had not yet found the strength to break. He had been a witness to events painted by Raphael, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, and Giulio Romano. He had been a participant, crushing the enemy between the lines of Seneca and Cicero. And where archaeologists now worked with spades and brushes with meticulous care, he had buried brothers with his own hands and destroyed foes on the side of the Punic forces.
The fault for this unending torment lay on him alone. His precious gift was nothing more than a compulsory and indefinite punishment. It had happened several thousand years ago, when the armies of two superpowers—Carthage and Rome—clashed on the Sicilian land for which they fought. He was among the first to charge forward the moment he saw his commander open his mouth. Covering his countrymen, he marched toward certain death without regret or fear. The blood of enemies, the blood of countrymen. He did not count the deaths on his blade. He simply walked, ran, and crushed, hoping that somewhere out there among the enemy stood his chosen one—death. He craved an encounter with her more than anything in the world.
Pain began to creep up on him from afar, pulsing ever brighter and sharper beneath his ribs. He did not immediately realize that he had been moving forward for some time with a Roman sword protruding from his body. “It is done.” He slowly lay down on the ground and stared at the sky. The feet of warriors and horses ran past him and over him. The roar of war receded, turning into a dull rumble. The pain under his ribs, which had just been burning through his lungs, was suddenly replaced by absolute peace. Life was draining from the wound. Finally. He had waited for this. He had waited a long time. A final breath escaped his chest with a whistle, his heart made its final beat, and fell still. His consciousness plummeted into a bottomless void where there was no time, no pain, and no memories. He died. But the heavens had a different plan for him.
A wild, convulsive gasp tore through his chest. He opened his eyes. The sun was burning mercilessly. There were no living souls around—only a frozen field of corpses with vultures already circling above. The battle had long ended. The armies were gone. He frantically grabbed at his chest, his fingers searching for the hilt of the Roman sword, but his palm met only mail soaked in dried blood. The metal beneath it was torn, but the skin under the metal... The skin was smooth. No scar. No trace of the fatal blow. On that day, immortality made him its prisoner.
The harbinger of this personal, immortal hell was the appearance of the woman who changed his life for centuries to come—Alice. He had chased her reincarnations through the eras. But she, like a shadow, like a mirage, always slipped away, leaving behind only the hope of meeting again in her next rebirth. And now, millennia later, she sat in a sturdy antique armchair directly in front of him—blindfolded, her hands and feet bound with tight knots. His men had brought her in a car late at night to his luxurious mansion.
Unable to see, the girl listened intently to every rustle to somehow assess the situation. Every faint, barely audible sound made her every nerve tense uneasily and her heart beat wildly. Trying to suppress her fear, the girl attempted to calm her rapid breathing and take control of the emotions overwhelming her. The Immortal silently watched his captive helplessly shake her head from side to side, trying to decide how to act.
“Who’s there?” the girl asked, catching his breath and feeling his intense gaze on her skin.
She had almost managed to calm her heartbeat, but the treacherous tremor in her voice still betrayed her deep fright. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel fear, but he saw no other way to act right now. To calm his prisoner, he walked up close to her and unhurriedly removed the blindfold from her trembling eyelids. Now, quickly adapting to the mysterious lighting, she could see where she was.
“Well, hello.”
“Who are you? Where am I?”
With the grace of a predator, the Immortal approached the chair and leaned on its armrests. He bent down so close to the girl that she could feel his warm breath on her face. His attentive, searching look sent what felt like an electric current down her spine, forcing her to straighten up and press back against the chair’s backrest.
“How long I have waited for you.”
“Do we know each other?”
“You know me better than anyone else on this earth.”
“You must be mistaken. I have no idea who you are.”
“No, I am not mistaken. And this time, I won’t let you leave me...”
“What? What do you want?!” the girl’s scream exploded through the large hall like an echo of terror.
The Immortal remembered everything; she remembered nothing. Right now, as a helpless victim, Alice had no idea of the extraordinary and colossal power she held over the man whom even death could not conquer.
