ETERNITY'S LAST CHANCE or Prisoner of eternity. Book One. Exile from Death.

Prologue

He, alone among all modern humans, had received the divine gift of immortality—simply, and without any search. His mind had not been tortured by philosophical questions about the meaning of life to attain it. He had not worn his knees down to the bone in prayer. Everything visible to the eye remained unchanged within him across the millennia.

His dark, curly hair was never touched by the venerable silver of age. His expressive brown eyes retained a piercing gaze so intense that it sent shivers down the spines of even those with nerves of steel and an unyielding inner core. On his clean-shaven, heavy cheekbones, which lent his features an air of haughtiness and indomitable defiance, not even the lightest stubble ever broke through. His young, muscular body was always covered in a golden tan. And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he desired it, not a single cell of his flesh yielded to change.

For this reason, he had long since stopped putting mirrors in his many houses around the world. His own reflection caused him acute spiritual suffering: the total absence of change in his appearance reminded him that life was dragging on like a nightmare he was not yet strong enough to break. He had witnessed events written about 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 work with meticulous care using trowels and brushes, he had buried his brothers and destroyed his enemies with his own hands on the side of the Punes.

The blame for this endless torment lay squarely upon himself. His precious gift was nothing more than a compulsory, open-ended punishment. It had happened several thousand years ago, when the armies of two superpowers—Carthage and Rome—clashed on the Sicilian soil for which they fought. He had been among the first to rush forward the moment he saw his commander’s mouth open to order the charge. Covering his countrymen, he went to 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 smashed his way through in the hope that somewhere out there, among the enemy, stood his chosen one—death. He craved a meeting with her more than anything else in the world.

The 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 already been moving forward for some time with a Roman sword protruding from his body. It is finished. He slowly lay down upon the earth and stared into 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 beneath his ribs, which had just been burning his lungs, was suddenly replaced by absolute peace. Life was leaving the wound. Finally. He had waited for this. Waited a long time. A final, whistling breath escaped his chest; his heart gave its ultimate beat and stopped. His consciousness collapsed into a bottomless void where there was neither time, nor pain, nor memory. He died.

But heaven had another plan for him.

A wild, convulsive gasp tore through his ribcage. He opened his eyes. The sun beat down mercilessly. There were no living souls around—only a frozen field of the dead, over which vultures were already circling. The battle had ended long ago. The armies had departed. He frantically clutched at his chest, his fingers searching for the hilt of the Roman sword, but his palm struck only chainmail soaked in dried blood. The metal beneath it was torn, but the skin beneath the metal... The skin was smooth. Not a scar. Not a 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—Alice. He had chased her reincarnations through the eras. She, meanwhile, like a shadow, like a mirage, always slipped away, leaving only the hope of a meeting in her next rebirth. And now, millennia later, she sat in a sturdy, antique armchair right before him—blindfolded tightly, her hands and feet bound with strong knots. His men had brought her by car late at night to his luxurious mansion.

Deprived of her sight, the girl listened warily to every rustle, trying somehow to assess her surroundings. Any barely perceptible sound made her every nerve tighten anxiously and her heart pound wildly. Striving to suppress her fear, she tried to calm her rapid breathing and take control of the emotions overwhelming her. The Immortal watched in silence as his captive helplessly shook her head from side to side, trying to decide on a course of action.

“Who is there?” the girl asked, catching the breath of his presence and feeling his intense gaze on her skin.

She had almost managed to calm her heartbeat, but a treacherous tremor in her voice still betrayed her profound terror. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel fear, but he saw no other way to act right now. To reassure his prisoner, he stepped close to her and slowly removed the blindfold from her trembling eyelids. Now, quickly adjusting 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 against its armrests. He bent so low over the girl that she felt his warm breath on her face. A sensation like an electric current ran down her spine under his close, scrutinizing gaze, forcing her to straighten up and press herself against the back of the chair.

“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 will not let you leave me...”

“What? What do you want?!” the girl’s scream exploded through the great hall like an echo of horror.

The Immortal remembered everything; she remembered nothing. Now, a helpless victim, Alice had no conception of the exceptional, colossal power she held over the man whom even death could not defeat.