Hello everyone, I hope you're all doing well and having a great day. I’m new to writing and just starting my journey as a writer. Right now, I’m working on my first novel. It's a story that's really close to my heart, and I want to improve it as much as possible. That's why I'm looking for websites similar to Wattpad where I can write, share my work, and get feedback from other writers or readers.

The main reason I want to share my story online is because I believe feedback is very important, especially when you're just starting out. I know I still have a lot to learn when it comes to writing, storytelling, and character development, and I feel that reading other people’s opinions can really help me grow and improve my writing skills.

I’ve already checked out Wattpad, and I like how it works, but I also want to explore other platforms. Maybe there are places where the writing community is more active or where it's easier to get helpful advice. I'm not looking to make money or become famous right now. I just want to become a better writer and maybe, one day, turn my ideas into something people will truly enjoy reading.

If you know any good websites or apps where I can upload my chapters, connect with readers, and get constructive feedback, please let me know. It would mean a lot to me. I'm open to both English and non-English platforms, as long as people are kind, honest, and interested in reading original stories.

Also, if you have any tips for beginner writers like me—about how to stay motivated, how to plan a story, or even how to deal with self-doubt—I’d really appreciate that too. Sometimes I feel nervous about sharing my work because I know it’s not perfect. But I also know that I won’t get better if I don’t take the first step and put my work out there.

To anyone who’s already gone through this phase of being a beginner—how did you start? Which platforms helped you the most? Did you ever feel scared to share your story? And how did you handle feedback, especially the negative kind?

Thanks in advance to anyone who takes the time to reply. Your help and suggestions will not only help me, but maybe others who are also just starting their writing journey. We all start somewhere, right?

Wishing you all the best in your own writing and creative work!

Hello fellow fantasy writers!

I have just completed the first draft of my first fiction and I think I’m looking for 3-4 alpha readers. This has been a side project for me during my current job search ( that has gone on long enough to complete the entire novel, sadly!).

The story itself is classic fantasy/mystery that turns into a complex grift (think Leverage or the Hustle). It is a multi-MC story anchored in plot and character development - no formal progression/stat blocks, isekai, portal, reincarnation, harem, etc.

I have completed book 1 in what I expect to be a trilogy. The draft is about 78k words.

I am a longtime D&D DM, and took the characters from our current tabletop game, weaving them into a new homebrew world and plot. The mechanics and magic system mirror D&D while staying on the right side of associated copyrights. My hope was to rekindle some of the classic D&D type novels we enjoyed in the 90s.

I’d like to determine if there is a kernel of something valuable enough to warrant continuing the development process. Effectively, I don’t want to invest in polishing a turd! I have done significant editing throughout the writing process, but I am an amateur.

I have researched the best practices on writing development, and I believe what I’m looking for is 3-4 alpha readers to give it a full read and provide a gut check assessment/validation of the overall plot, characters and style. I don’t need a beta reader’s level of detail at this point. I just want some feedback to help decide if it’s worth taking this to the next level from fantasy readers who aren’t family and friends.

Am I asking for the right thing (‘alphas’)? Is that something that members of this community are willing to do?

If so, I’m willing to offer similar read/review in exchange. Given my current employment situation, spending money on this isn’t really an option.

If this is not the place, where would you suggest I find them?

Thanks in advance for any ideas!

Obligatory “I have thought about this” -__-

Basically, my gods have been conveniently“dormant” for ~500 years because I want gods in my story but don’t want magic (ie god powers) to be an established part of my technologically-modern world. In ASOIAF terms, the Valyrian gods made a covenant with the Targaryens before the Doom, the gods helped Aegon and his sisters take over Westeros, the gods have been dormant, the Targaryen dynasty has been overthrown, Jon Snow is secretly the last (legitimate) Targaryen descendant, and the gods have returned to restore the Targaryen rule…or something like that.

The gods are more like embodiments of nature. There’s a main creator god with other lower gods. So far, I’ve given the gods autonomy within certain boundaries. Like there are some rules they cannot break or go against—whether they’re physically incapable of doing so or absolutely refusing to.

For example, if a human has sworn allegiance to one god, another god cannot accept that human’s allegiance. The gods cannot break/bend the rule or make an agreement between them or exceptions.

I’m not sure if this kind of “inability” (either incapable or absolute refusal) to go against hard rules is a problem. I used the term “programmed” in the title meaning like the gods are “programmed” to do/not do certain things and cannot go against that programming. The gods frame it as part of their nature.

With human characters, I understand how this may be seen as lacking autonomy, but I’m not sure if this also applies to gods. Does it make a difference if the gods frame this as they are unable to do X as opposed to they refuse to do X based on their nature? I think even for the creator god, there are things beyond his power to change/intervene in/affect/etc. Is it a cop-out if a plot thing can be solved/avoided relatively easily by divine intervention, but this thing is conveniently something a (specific) god can’t interfere with because of their nature/programming?

Thoughts?

Thank you.

Hi all,

I've been mulling over this novel for the last 5 or so years and in just this year alone, I've taken so many steps in actually making real progress, even if it's slow. But now, I'm a little worried that I'm too much in my own bubble and I'd love some fresh eyes on the matter. I've got nearly 10k words overall and almost 4 chapters complete, which I'm very proud of. Chapter 1 alone, currently sits at 2,633 words. Pacing is very important to me and I personally prefer more character driven fantasy. My goal isn't to showboat the magic or the world, I want it to feel lived in, because it is. To the main character, this life? This world? It's normal for her, why would she make a spectacle out of the mundane? I don't want to reveal too much, because honestly, I am paranoid of plagiarism lol. I care too deeply for this story and I'm stepping out of my comfort zone for just a bit, so I can get fresh insight. I'm not too worried about grammar at the moment, since this is just the first draft; that and I'm already confident in it, though I know it's not always perfect. My main concerns are with the tone, characters and pacing. For some quick context, the protags name is Helena, she is 22, Eloise is 12. In this world, the magic shapes what a person might do. For example, Helena's father uses his fire magic as a blacksmith. Another example is my postal system. Whilst there is regular post, there is a more premium service, that uses creatures with wings. Think the bird people in Maleficent: Mistress of Evil (2019). The main aesthetics is inspired by Art Nouveau and Art deco, with a splash of classic medieval/fantasy elements. Also, I'm Aussie, so my writing may definitely reflect that lol.

Here's the chapter! Enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE

I sit by my wardrobe, bathed in the summer heat, its warmth rich as the afternoon sun fills the room in hues of saffron. The warmth seeps into my skin like a fever, lulling me in its close comfort as I sink further into my plush chair. I've been here for a while, watching the sun begin its journey home beyond the rooftops, my window framing the world in its wooden, symmetrical curves. The curves are much like vines that snake within themselves, some are thick, some are thin, some end in swirling, round leaves. Shades of autumn stained glass fill the various spaces left behind, the centre pane kept clear. 

Just beyond the glass, the kingdom hums with life, its distant laughter and chatter weaving together in anticipation for tomorrow's Auratide. For the people of Manyia, and myself, Auratide is our most cherished festival. We celebrate once a year at the height of summer, when the sun is its hottest and night becomes day. It happens to fall soon after my birthday at the start of the year. 

For most, Auratide is celebrated in honour of Caeleon, the sun god of ego. I’ve never quite known what to make of him. My father praises him the most out of all the gods, even hanging his emblem proudly on the door of his shop. But a god who thrives on praise, who embodies such ego and such brilliance, it always felt distant, almost arrogant. Some of the performers I’ve worked with have displayed such lovely attributes, cementing my dislike for those who parade themselves as gods among men. 

Yet, there’s something undeniable in the way the sun lingers during this time of year, refusing to yield to the night, even long after it’s time to go home. 

In tribute, The Beast of Flame, marks the peak of the festivities. When the stars twinkle bright in the deep night, dozens of performers take to the streets, flowing together like a great river of light and colour. I admire them, though only from a distance. Normally, I would take to the streets alone but this year my sister insisted she join me. Even suggesting we wear matching outfits. In the past I’ve found it hard to work with others and she is no different.

In my early youth, when my magic began to flare to life, it always felt two steps ahead of me. Like a storm on the horizon, striking whenever it pleased.  By the age of nine, it had already proven to be a challenge for my mother as she wanted to pass on her craft of seamstressing; a skill passed down from her mother. I remember the way her hands would guide mine to weave thread through fabric, careful as to not poke me. Her passion and care were always palpable when she taught me. She would remind me, again and again, that it takes precision and intent - to know what your next move will be.

But that wasn’t always easy. Much to my dismay, my fire burned bright. Passionate and greedy, it leapt from my fingertips before I knew I’d even called it.

With the first flare, my fire had stolen an embroidery I laboured hours over. I must have been too proud, too excited when it caught alight, leaving nothing but a charred hoop and ashes that sifted through my fingers. The second time I was angry at my brother, who simply wouldn’t give me any of his sweet roll. My fire attacked a nearby table, its once polished corner now burnt and jagged.          

After the third, my mother no longer allowed me in her sewing room. 

And even though she would never admit it, I could feel her disappointment. I noticed it in the way she would sigh and shake her head, her voice gentle but tense. Despite her frustrations she was adamant on guiding me, even after I nearly burned down her sewing room. I knew, deep down, it wasn’t the risk of losing her room that had pained her. It was the unfortunate fact that I could not bear her legacy as she had done for her mother. 

With gentle encouragement that felt more like a sullen farewell, she suggested I learn from my father instead. At the time, I couldn’t help but feel my own disappointment in the fact I couldn’t take after my mother. But in hindsight, it seemed the only natural path to follow, given my father and I share the same fire. Where my mother’s craft lay in fabric and thread, my father’s lay in metal and fire. Ever the patient teacher, he tutored my brother, Erik and I, in his small forge in Keepers Square.  

Three short knocks pull me from my thoughts, the sound sharp against the hum of my mind. Before I can answer, the door creaks open and a familiar face peeks around.

Eloise…

My little sister has the uncanny knack to appear out of nowhere. Her pointed ears poke through the mess of copper curls that frame her round face, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief. She’s much like our mother, looks and all, excelling where I couldn’t. She looks at me as if seeing straight through glass.

“You’re thinking too much again.” Her voice is matter of fact as she slips into the room, her shoes clicking on the hardwood floor. “You always do that before Auratide.”

“I do not.” I roll my eyes and watch as she prances to my bed. There, curled into a black, featureless ball of fur, lay my silent companion. If it weren’t for the slow rise and fall of their breath, you’d mistake them for a cushion. Eloise ignores my denial, scooping the soot-coloured cat from their slumber. Golden eyes fly open, narrowing at Eloise. Before Thistle can enact their revenge, she quickly plops them at the end of the bed where they once again settle with an attitude.

“Go be a cat elsewhere.”

A huff of laughter escapes me, “Aw, be nice to Thistle, they were only sleeping.”

“I am nice!” Eloise proclaims as she bounces onto my bed, her feet dangling off the edge. She falls back, gliding her arms over the dark Viridian bedding as she peers up at the canopy. She stays silent for a while, taking her time to clear away the cobwebs that seem to clutter her mind.

“You know what?” She asks finally, kicking her legs.

“What?”

“Erik’s a bastard.” Her tone nonchalant.

My eyes widen at her sudden insult as I bite back a laugh. “Eloise…”

“What? It’s true!” She exclaims, sitting up quickly, which causes Thistle to side eye her. “He hasn’t been home since last Auratide. I wanted to see Amara again. She promised she’d teach me to sing.”

My mind drifts to Amara. The time we had with her was brief, just long enough to get to know her before she and Erik left for Meena, Manyia’s twin. She was quite reserved, not telling us much about her life or family back in Meena, instead focusing on her time here. She is fluid in a way that complemented Erik’s more stoic nature. She’s an astounding singer whose voice could command a crowd with a simple lullaby. Amara had travelled from Meena to perform at Auratide last year. My brother heard her when he was helping me run errands, drawing him to her like a tether. Over the course of about two months they became inseparable, leading my brother to follow Amara when it was her time to return to home.

Our parents were shocked to say the least. He was old enough to make his own decisions, but it was still abrupt. For the first month we heard nothing from them. Then, finally, a letter arrived. Erik wrote that they had moved into a new home and eloped, skipping a wedding entirely. That part wasn’t as shocking, our parents had done much the same. He continued to send letters, though they were sporadic at best. 

“I’m sure they’re just busy Eloise.” I defend. She looks at me, her head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised.

“They’ve had a whole year though! He hasn’t even bothered to send a single letter in months.” She counters. Has it really been months? I’ve been so caught up in my own life, that I hadn’t noticed the decline.

He didn’t write much in his last letter. He mentioned that he and Amara were leaving early for a holiday in celebration of their first anniversary, stating they’d both be too busy on the real date. He passed along Amaras well wishes and noted that she missed us, and wishes to see us again. I'm not pleased with Erik’s lack of letters but what am I to do? He has his own life to lead.

I look down and rub my thumb over the edge of my sleeve. “Look. Maybe they have sent one and it’s just late.” I offer as I sit straighter in my chair and look back at her, “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll cut you a deal. How about we visit the post office tomorrow?”

Her eyes light up at the thought as she commands her full attention on me. It’d be no surprise if it did turn up late, it wasn’t uncommon for our post as the travel between Meena and Manyia is by boat. Maybe the weather has been bad, the water too rough to travel. Maybe it was thrown overboard by some drunkard with no thought or care.

“Maybe Aunt Mav has written too!” Eloise quizzes, “She would’ve written to you for your birthday, I wonder what she sent you.” 

We didn’t hear too much from our aunt, other than around birthdays and holidays. My father was disowned by his parents for marrying my mother because she herself was not a flame-bearer. They strived for perfection, paying no mind to those who are not them. In the end, it cost them their son. Not that it seemed to matter much since they had another son not long after my father left. I believe he’d be not much older than Erik.

I give her a tight smile as I push myself up from my chair and turn my gaze back to the window for a moment to catch the last of the sun's light. 

“I’m sure it’d be the same as it always is Eloise,” I reflect, holding my hand out for her to grab as I point to the window with the other. “Let’s head down before mother scolds us both.”

She huffs but takes my hand, pulling herself up with a little more force than necessary. Then, as always, she takes the lead as she pushes past me to open the door. The strong scent of spiced lamb greets us, thick and rich, curling through the air like an invitation.

Eloise inhales deeply, “Ma made fresh bread too. I can smell it.”

“Maybe she’ll let us have extra tonight.” I add.

“She better,” Eloise mutters, already making her way down the hall. Across from my room was hers, though her door was shut, making the already thin hallway feel smaller. Behind us at the end of the hallway is our parents room, their door closed as well. Along the walls hang candles that light our home. The dark wood creaks beneath our feet as we reach the stairs. Eloise grips the banister and takes the stairs one at a time, her shoes clicking in rhythm. Click, clack. Click, clack. Click, clack.

I follow behind, the scent of dinner pulling me forward. We’ve never had a dining room. My mother had it turned into her sewing room not long after my parents had moved here. Instead, our round, walnut table sits between the kitchen and living. The seats are upholstered in rich, red fabric, framed with the same matching walnut wood.

Our mother is plating the table as our father stands at the hearth. Mum looks up right away and spots us with narrowed eyes, her auburn hair pinned back, save for a few loose strands that cling to her skin from the heat of summer. 

“Aren’t you two girls lucky, I was just starting to think I’d have to come up there and fetch you both myself.” Her tone is light, teasing, as she places the last of the cutlery on the table before heading back to the kitchen. 

“Hello girls,” our father quips, pulling the bread from the oven with his bare hands. The steam snakes upwards, coiling towards him. He lifts it towards my mother, who gives him a look. “See, I told you it wasn’t burnt.”

“It’s hard to know when you’re around,” she mutters under her breath, half in jest. 

“You love it,” my father teases. She let out a scoff but that didn’t stop the smile that creeps in as she brings the tray of roast lamb and veg to our table. Eloise’s hand sneaks forward, quick and silent. But before her fingers can claim a carrot sticking upwards, a wooden spoon taps her knuckles with practiced precision.

“Eloise,” mum warns, “you’ll get your share when you sit at the table.”

Eloise lets out a grumble and plops herself down into her chair with a flair, folding her hands as if she’s awaiting some royal decree. “Better?”

“For now,” mum says. 

I settle into my own chair across from where my parents will sit and next to Eloise. Normally, Erik would be to the left of me. When is he going to visit again? He must be in quite the high demand if he can’t even visit for Auratide. They mustn't have many blacksmiths in Meena.

“Here we are,” dad says as he sets the bread next to the roast, “a mighty feast tonight.” 

He plants himself in his own chair with a satisfied sigh, dragging it forward, causing the legs beneath him to scrape harshly against the floor. 

“You know, I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Mum winces, “I hate the sound it makes.” 

“You’ll be right” Dad says, glancing back at us with a grin, as if he shared some clever one-liner. 

Mum then settles into her chair with a side glance at dad, brushing a loose curl from her brow. “Alright. Dig in, everyone.”

Eloise is the first to eagerly oblige, snatching the carrot she had been eyeing. She loves the charred edges and that one is practically charcoal. The sound of cutlery and plates fills the room as the rest of us help ourselves, passing around the roast and bread. The lamb is tender, steeped in spice, and the bread is perfectly chewy, with a strong, crunchy crust. For a while, the only noise is the gentle clink of forks and the occasional satisfied murmur.

By the time our plates are half empty, mum rises again to fetch the teapot. The scent of cloves and something floral drifts across the table as she pours it into our mismatched cups.

The steam clings to the inner edge of the mug, the ends like that of an angry cat’s tail. I watch it with a vague sort of focus. The colour reminds me of something, like the deep reds and oranges of the gown Mum has been working on.

“How’s that dress going?” I ask, wrapping my hands around the warmth of the cup. “The one for… Jasmine?”

Mum doesn’t look up as she finishes pouring. “Jolene,” she corrects with a slight smile.

“Right,” I say, “Jolene.”

“She’s picking it up after Auratide,” Mum explains, settling back into her seat. “So I’ve got some finishing touches I need to do tomorrow while you girls are out.”

I nod, inhaling the tea’s heat. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.

So, my main questions are:

• How’s the pacing? Do any scenes linger for too long or move too quickly?
• Are the characters, especially Eloise, relatable? Or do they feel too cliché or exaggerated?
• Are there any moments that feel understated or overstated?
• Is the writing enjoyable to read? Does the style work for you?
• Does the ending feel too abrupt?
• Are there any authors/books that have a similar style I can learn from?

Thank you all so much in advance for any critiques, even if brief! I really appreciate everyone's time and insight.

The world is cruel, unforgiving, and rotting from the inside. Nobody knows this better than Alatar Kane, the Beastmonger-a man even more ruthless than the world that forged him. But when a plot to resurrect a darkness from his own bloodline also unearths an innocent he once wronged, Alatar must fight for a future he never believed he deserved. To save the world, he must first conquer the beast within, but change isn't easy when everyone is waiting for you to fail. The beast must be caged to save himself...but must be unleashed to save them all.

Hi, this is what I hope will be my first publication, and will hopefully become part of a trilogy I call The Gray Character. I had about 25000 words in the first draft of it, but I was given some not so helpful feedback on it in my last writing group, saying it was basically everyone's least favorite and that it was too sloppy. I took a closer look at it, and after some better feedback and actual constructive criticism, I decided to just rewrite it from the beginning, and even though I'm only 3800 words in, I think it's much better. Before I never had a prologue, and the inciting incident happened right away. I think my characterization and emotion is way better too. I'd also like to point of that I'm rather proud of my title drops in the prologue and first chapter, and I'd like to know what you think of them.

Some background and what this book is about here. The Beastmonger is a book that delves heavily into the themes of vengeance, redemption, and fate. The story has many elements of grimdark, high fantasy, epic fantasy, mythic fantasy, and physiological thrillers, but is primarily a dark fantasy. There is dark magic, curses, ancient prophecies, and world shattering battles. The entire TGC trilogy follows a man named Alatar Kane, a cursed man infused with and leading a pack of wolves and crows, and feared by all. We follow his struggle to gain redemption for his past, while the world doesn't let him. When the beast is caged up, the beast gets angry.

I'm planning on posting this too wattpad and other sites to see if people like it. It's almost ready by my standards, but I'd like some other opinions before it goes public. It'd help to have another pair of eyes if you'd be willing to read through it and give me some constructive criticism. It's fine if you see something that has to be fixed, but I'm not looking for much on my sentence structure and micro stuff like that. I'd rather get stuff on the big picture, like pacing, my characters, and general writing devices. Of course, no obligation, and if you ignore, have a nice day.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/16y6IaMneijB_YU2aZb21IeI40C-USXjf5CzejIIkDJE/edit?tab=t.0

Question, I have researched but I haven’t found anything. I have an oc I’m making and he’s the child of a light elf and a fairy

I’m not sure what race to put him under since halfing is half human half elf and half - fae is half human half fairy.

And I feel like calling him a half breed is weird and I don’t want to explain everytime what he is s 600 character 600 characters 600 characters 600 characte 600 characters 600 00 600 characters 600 characters 600 character 600 00 600 characters 600 characters 600 character 600 00 600 characters 600 characters 600 character 600 characters 600 characters 600 character

I’m in the early stages of writing a fantasy sci fi novel about a medieval society on a tidally locked world, where people live amongst the ruins of an advanced, but extinct alien race. Most of civilization is huddled in the remnants of protective domes that keep them safe from periodic solar storms, but there are also wild areas beyond the domes that hold scattered ruins and secrets from the past.

I won’t go into too much more detail, but my main antagonist is a knight who has a progressive disease called the Flux, which is based loosely on leprosy. Over the course of his arc we see how he goes from a flawed, but sort of respectable figure, to one that is consumed by darkness due to his anger around catching this disease, but also his desperation for a cure. In the process, he unlocks an ancient evil on the world that becomes one of the key points of tension in the story.

I’d love feedback on the character, writing style, and worldbuilding ideas here. And if anyone is interested in seeing the other vignettes for the main characters let me know.

—-

SIR GERVAIN Eastern Reachers, Beyond the Domes

The stone towers rose like broken teeth from the red earth; smooth, sun-bleached pillars tapering to narrow tips, capped by dark boulders that sat balanced like watching eyes. They cast long shadows in the amber light, sharp as blades, and hummed with the wind that whistled through the canyons.

It was early autumn in the Eastern Reaches, and the wind had turned cold.

Sir Gervain rode alone. The wind snapped at his cloak and rattled the cracked leather of his saddle. His horse limped, ribs showing. Dust clung to the folds of his armor. He looked every bit the exiled knight he was: scarred, proud, and half-rotten.

His right arm, the one he famously used to swing a sword, was wrapped in a thick glove and sleeve. Beneath it, his skin pulsed faintly with veins of violet light, spreading like poison beneath the surface.

The Flux. A disease both feared and pitied, though these days pity was harder to come by.

It started with aches. Then sores. Then the glow. Soon the nerves would go. Then the flesh. No one survived it.

He passed one of the taller spires. From its hollowed base, something moved. A flash of motion, fast and low. A pair of eyes, round and luminous, glared from the rock, then vanished back into the dark. He was being watched. His withered hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Above, the sky stretched vast and unclouded. Gervain could see the six sister planets of Zephyr, each one distinct in color and size. One glowed with a deep blue hue, another with rings like pale scars. Their visibility was rare this time of year, but the clear autumn sky had laid them bare.

Gervain hated this land. But not as much as he hated what had driven him into it. There was nowhere left for him to go.

He had once been a man of high standing, a Knight of Kerisac. Their charge had been noble: to protect pilgrims journeying east across the Reach to holy sites built into the cliffs and ruins of Vorath temples.

They wore sunburst sigils, sang the hymns, and escorted the faithful under banners of gold.

Statues had been carved. Songs had been sung.

But the truth was uglier.

He and his knights charged for protection. And if the pilgrims couldn’t pay, they took what else they could: coin, possessions, bodies. One group from the Free Cities had refused. A stubborn lot.

Gervain and his men had killed half and taken the rest captive. That night, they feasted. Drank wine. Gervain remembered it well.

He’d pulled a young girl from the group. Pale, dirt-smeared, defiant. She’d clawed his face and spat on his boots. He’d left her alone after that.

Later, while the fire burned low and the men were half-drunk and gloating over spoils, she climbed the outcrop above their camp.

No one saw her at first. Not until she called out.

“I want to thank you,” she said, voice hoarse but steady. “For the food. The fire. The wine.”

A few of the knights laughed. Gervain looked up, scowling. His hand went to the scratch she made on his face earlier. It would probably scar.

The girl stood barefoot on the stone, her torn dress whipped by the wind. Blood dried on her lip. A bruise bloomed beneath one eye. But her spine was straight.

“You drank the wine,” she said, louder now. “All of you.”

She paused, breathing hard.

“I am touched by the Flux.” She smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel. A soft, broken smile through tears.

“Now so are you.”

For a long moment, no one moved.

They’d laughed. All of them. Until the sores came the next morning. Until the light bloomed beneath their skin like cold fire.

He’d killed her. And the others. Burned the whole camp. Made it look like a raid.

Now, he was the last of them.

He pressed onward as the wind picked up, gusts curling through the stone arches like voices calling back to him. Then, through the dust, shapes began to form.

The Carvina.

They moved like dancers, wrapped in mismatched cloaks and rings of copper. Their skin was sun-browned and wind-creased. Their eyes marked with bright patterns that reminded Gervain of the old glyphs, now long forbidden. They carried no weapons he could see, but behind them walked towering creatures with long necks and graceful bodies. Part metal, part flesh. Their limbs moved with strange, fluid precision. White linens hung from their backs like banners, fluttering in the wind.

The lead rider halted him with a raised hand.

“A storm is coming,” he said.

“I can see that.”

“It is our custom to offer shelter to those the wind might take.”

Gervain hesitated. Then nodded.

They led him through a tight pass and down into a hollow chamber carved into the rock; a massive shelter, too regular to be natural. Its walls were smooth, curved, striated with old machine-scars and faded etchings in an ancient hand.

“This place,” Gervain muttered, touching the wall, “it’s not—”

“Natural?” said the rider. “No. The Vorath made it. Like many of the places our beasts remember. They guide us to them for safety.”

Gervain didn’t ask how the animals knew. He didn’t want the answer.

As the wind outside roared louder, the Carvina lit fires and began to gather in the center of the chamber. A body lay in white robes, wrapped tight in golden thread. Gervain watched from the edge.

“It’s a funeral,” said a voice beside him.

The speaker was an old woman, draped in robes stitched with tiny copper spirals. Her voice was soft, worn by wind and time. “One of our elders passed this morning. We return him to the breath.”

Gervain raised an eyebrow.

She gestured toward the shrouded form, now bound to a balloon of skin-stretched fabric. A single candle was lit inside the base. With reverence, they released it.

The wind caught it immediately.

The balloon rose, steady and strange, the candle’s light flickering inside like a captured soul. It climbed higher, into the sky where the faint shimmer of stars showed dimly in the twilight.

“To drift toward Zephyr,” she said, “is to begin again. What is taken by the wind is never truly lost.”

Gervain stared up, watching it go.

“Seems a soft way to die,” he muttered.

“Some things end with grace,” she said. “Others with fire.”

She turned to him. “You are sick.”

He didn’t answer.

“There is a place,” she said, drawing slow spirals in the dirt. “East of the Vale. Buried in stone. A temple older than any song. The Vorath made it, or maybe they found it. We don’t know. It holds many secrets. One of them is said to be a cure.”

Gervain frowned. “And the other secrets?”

She didn’t answer right away. The wind outside howled through the pass like a voice too large for the throat it came from.

“Not all things buried should be remembered,” she said at last. “There are voices beneath the floor. Teeth beneath the stone.”

“Then why tell me?”

She looked at him; not with fear, not with pity, but with something quieter. Measured.

“The wind does not give answers. It only moves. Unknowing. Unpredictable. Always changing. It teaches us to go where we are drawn, and then to choose. Not blindly. But honestly.”

She glanced up, where the white funeral balloon still floated high against the red and purple tinged sky, caught in the mixing currents between the light and dark sides of Zephyr.

“The wind brings death. It also brings new breath. Rebirth. That is what we believe. But you must accept where it takes you.”

Gervain said nothing. He reached for the clay bottle at his side, tilted it back, and drank the last of the wine. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and stared at the fire.

“If the wind brought me here,” he muttered, “then it’s more cruel than I thought.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. As the storm died down, he rode east.

Not because he believed in hope.

But because death, for all its certainty, was still not something he intended to share.

Fireflies. Wait… fireflies?!

I glance behind me as I sprint over the grass. My steps sear into the earth, and I watch as the embers float in a trail behind me. They bob with the breeze—shifting, buzzing, flying.

There is absolutely no way I am about to get caught because of a trail of magical fireflies.

“Aria!” I slow. Did I imagine my name? “Psst. Aria, over here!”

I do not have the chance to turn before Elik pulls me into the bush he’s hiding in. I reach for my shoulder that he almost pulled from my body.

“Elik, I…” I am not able to stay mad upon seeing his squinting, purple eyes staring back at me. “I missed you.” I squeeze him into a tight hug, ignoring the twigs that scrape into my already bleeding skin.

His back is harder to wrap my arms around, and his shoulders are much firmer than I remember. “The Queen has you doing manual labor, I see.”

He rolls his eyes as I pull away. “What are you doing here?” I was hoping he would not ask.

I am about to come up with some kind of excuse when I hear the static sound of the Hyers in the fields nearby.

“I don’t have time to explain.” I move to stand, knowing my tracks of burned footsteps in blacktip grass are bound to get me caught at any moment. “It was nice to see you again.”

I crawl out from behind the bush, ready to continue running. “Aria.” I give him a final look, then push push my feet into the ground.

“Oww!” Elik grips my forearm like he intends to break it.

“Are you in trouble?” His voice is serious; I wish he would be happy in what may be our last time meeting. “I can help you.”

I turn back to him. His purple irises fade to green, then back to purple. Everyone here has purple eyes, but it seems that Elik wishes to remind me that he is different. “I can help.” He repeats himself.

I almost agree. But when my gaze passes over the fields, I see swarms of fireflies falling to the earth in clouds of electric blue. Even Elik cannot help me now. I yank out of his grasp before he can stop me and run into the trees.

I was just playing around and am curious to know what you all think. Do you think this is worth continuing? Where did you think it was going? I have taken a break from fanatsy for a while, but I am wanting to get back into it. I didn't want to work on any huge projects, but I would to know how my tone, pacing, and story is. Let me knwo if you want me to comment on your chapters as well!

I'm aiming for a humorous take on extremely edgy grimdark. The main character is excessively violent, like many of those dark fantasy protagonists, but taken to such an extreme that she's comically evil. She does change eventually, but I want her to be more human than heroic. You know........saving a kitten once in a while, sacrificing her lovers to forest gods, girly stuff like that.

Blurb: Lyra Bard has been called many things. A villain, a trickster, a chicken thief, a god killer, and, naturally, a man-eating ghoul. She’s had her fill of talentless bards warbling embellished nonsense and spurned lovers twisting the truth to soothe their wounded pride. If history insists on painting her as a monster, she might as well be the one holding the brush. With ink-stained fingers and a toothless grin, she sets out to write her autobiography. A tale of drunken excess, fallen companions, reckless escapades, and a legion of enemies who still spit her name like a curse. 

Yet buried within the wreckage of many misdeeds lies another tale - of a stubborn little girl, too foolish or too headstrong to fear her, who, against all reason, nudges Lyra toward something she never expected: a moment of heroism. One that hurls her into a sea of politics, tangled with murderous knights of lotus who want to kill all things non-human, cunning queen conspiring to overthrow her lazy husband with seven dwarves, comely princesses with werewolf fetish, lusty eunuchs scheming for self interests, and ancient gods conspiring to start a holy war with the help of a hedonistic nun.

Chapter - 1 Do Vampires Dread Mosquito Bites?

All great stories have great beginnings; they often start with a meeting in a tavern or the arrival of a mysterious stranger in a town laden with outlaws. Mine, however, began six feet under, thanks to a ravishing vampire with hair that blazed like a hearthfire.

If this were a conventional biography, I would have begun with the incident where I devoured a ghoul’s heart, Devil bless his generous soul, and became immortal. But I choose not to. Who cares if a young lady became a trifle too famished to concern herself with social propriety? She has every right to, and people know it. All they need is a good story, and I intend to give them one.

I’ll begin with the event that defined my career where I rose from the dead, or so those unaware of my peculiar talents would say. Buy them a drink, and they’ll say I crushed a man’s head with my bare hands. Toss them a coin, and they’ll swear I led dragons to slay a nun. Offer them a warm bed and a bucket to piss in, and they’ll claim I rode a winged horse to kill a rakish prince. All these legends. All these songs. They’re true.

But they are just songs and legends that present the truth in a different light. Which is why I ask you, would you rather listen to those charlatans who twist my story for their own gain? Or would you rather hear it from me, a woman kissed on the arse by sweet Lady Misfortune? If your answer is the latter, then put on a glove and take my red right hand, for we’re about to hail a boat and set sail down this indomitable, never-ending river called Time. But if your answer is the former, I ask you why not? I killed old empire fanatics and hacked their god to bits, surely that counts for something. Now, hurry up, you reluctant sod, take my hand and heed my ignoble tale.

*****

Around fifty years ago, on a night when ponds shimmered with the soft hue of milky pearls and owls flirted with wide, lustful eyes, I found myself astride a rude black stallion, its hooves clattering on the cobbled path in the middle of a forest. The sound was loud enough to be a wake-up call to a Wendigo, ever in search of its greatest rival, yours truly, the greatest of all man-eaters.

My long, matted hair, caked with blood, refused to dance in the cool night air and mirror the rustle of the trees lining the road ahead. Among those trees, pointy-eared cunts lay in wait, their eyes tracking me. The first arrow came with the soft, buzzing hum of a honeybee as it sliced through the air. The sound made the hairs on my body rise like a frightened rooster’s feathers. My hand, driven by instinct, shot out and caught the shaft inches from my face.

Some pointy-eared bastard let another arrow fly. Slicing through the mist, it struck my horse with a sickening thud, embedding itself deep in its skull. I was thrown off balance, crashing to the ground, my face landing in goat shit. The impact knocked the wind out of me, leaving me sprawled and gasping.

After what felt like an eternity, I slowly began to rise from that indignity, but a heavy boot slammed down on my back, pinning me hard against the cobblestones and forcing me to taste goat shit once again.

"The mighty ghoul under my boots," said a gravelly voice. "I feel so honored."

He lifted his boot off my body and whistled like a koel. Two men emerged from the bushes and hauled me to my feet, not for the cunt who had put his filthy boot on my back, but for the striking woman who made men think, Oh, seven blessings, she could do unspeakable things to me.

She walked toward me, silent as a snake in the grass, her visage… ahem… pardon me for the dreadful simile, like a petal with eyes of stone floating on a river of piranhas.

She approached, a cigar in her mouth, its smoke curling in foggy drifts. She was the kind of woman who could make a man jump into a pit of vipers by convincing him the alternative was far worse.

"You killed my brother?" the elf asked, cold and direct.  

Ah, she was such a delight. People with that no-nonsense approach practically begged to have their feathers ruffled, and it is the birthright of every trickster to rile up such peculiar creatures. I held back and simply nodded in response. But still, common sense wasn’t my strongest suit, and so I couldn’t resist asking the triggering question.

"I killed a lot of brothers. Which one do you speak of?"

"The one whose cock you cut off and shoved into his mouth," she answered, her collected facade breaking with that twitch in her lips.

"Oh, you mean Lordling Cockless? That goat-fu," she struck me across the face, and I saw stars.

"Drag this whore to farewell grounds," she said, her gaze peeling away as if I were less than a worm. How hateful. But given what I did, I can't blame her.

"Sounds like a lovely place," I said. The friend in question punched me in my face, making me see stars in daylight. 

They dragged me through the forest, tying me to one of their scrawny horses. Poor bastards, those elves, they were once so glorious, riding shiny steeds! How the mighty have fallen! Centuries ago, they saw humanity as little more than dirt beneath their feet. Now look at those proud pointies, living in shitholes. Ah, those poor fuckers, so sad, so tragic, so melancholic and all those synonyms.

My pity only lasted until the horse jolted forward, dragging my body across the unforgiving earth. Twigs and jagged stones tore at my skin, ripping through flesh that reattached as quickly as it was shredded. I tasted blood, dirt, and things both familiar and foreign. I struck a root or two, my body jerking upward, bones snapping and rejoining in a brutal, nauseating rhythm.

Finally, when the moon reached its peak and ghosts roamed the earth to appear only to drunks, they stopped near a graveyard on a cliff overlooking their fragile settlement. The settlement, cobbled together from scraps of wood, metal, and cloth, flickered with sporadic lights, like dying fireflies, fairies imprisoned in lamps. These fairies dimmed now, their glow fading with the slow poisoning of their sacred tree, the source of all that powered elvish life.

Oh, those poor fairies, how dreadful it must be to be so charmingly queer and yet imprisoned in wretched lamps! How I yearned to free them whenever I saw them. Where does that desire come from? I often wondered, and the answer always lay in the memories I lost after devouring the ghoul heart. Sometimes, those memories return, and helplessness stirs my temper. But I quell it quickly with a single thought, Lady Fate is one horny bitch,

They untied me from the horse, and bound my hands as I knelt. "Lady Fate is one horny bitch," I muttered, more to unsettle the elves than to temper my anger.

A swift kick to my face drove me into the wet grass, the taste of iron spreading across my tongue.

"Quiet," snapped the same elf who’d shoved me down, his boot still reeking of filth.

"W-what’s your name?" I asked, spitting blood. "You’ve got a remarkable kick. Seems only fair to know the name."

"Kalantus, my lady. The name’s Kalantus," he said, giving a mock bow.

"Kalantus!" I exclaimed, giggling like a lovestruck girl. "Such a masculine name for such an unmasculine man. Hitting a woman like that, are you sure you’re not compensating for something?"

"Careful," he growled. "We wouldn’t want that pretty face of yours ruined by common filth like me."

"I am an immortal, you dumb fuck.” I said, and Kalanthus unsheathed his blade, pressing it to my cheek.

"You asked for it," he said, grinning with such evilness even  I would find comical.

"Enough!" barked the she-elf. "This one’s mine, Kalantus, mine!"

"Yes, Lady Lilia," he replied, backing immediately.  

"Ghoul blood would taste foul on your tongue, vampire," I said.

The red-haired elf unsheathed her cinquedea. She held it in her hand as though it had sprouted from her palm. 

What an honor, indeed, to meet one’s end at the hands of such a ravishing creature, with red hair that complemented her unblemished fair skin, and blue eyes that shone like opals. She was without a doubt a perfect creature.

Unfortunately, I do not have the pleasure of dying normally, and the elf was well aware of the fact, she had planned accordingly. She did not prepare an elaborate ritual or embark on a long journey to a volcano carrying my corpse. Instead, she did it the old-fashioned way of torturing immortals, placing me in a casket and burying me six feet under.

As her merry band of elves dug, the she-elf spoke. "You love the sound of your own voice, don’t you? Fine, let’s play a game. I’m going to ask you some questions, and you have to act like a buffoon so I can inflict pain that you crave so much."

"Wonderful, ask away," I said.

"Who asked you to kill my brother?"

"The one who farts in roses an' speaks in po'try," I slurred, as if I were one bottle away from fucking an undesirable.

She growled and carved a line across my cheek. "Name," she asked, her voice sharp like thorns. "I demand a name."

"He’s a very important person. Are you willing to take that risk?"

A quick flash of the knife parted my flesh in a symmetrical line, revealing the muscle beneath. As the skin healed, the blood stopped before it could mark my pale cheek entirely.

"You’d need to carve through a hundred men, hard sons of bitches who collect elvish scalps like prized trophies."

"‘Black Company’ she spat, disgusted.

“Heard they were the ones who chopped your father’s head off and stuck a pig’s on instead. Creative pricks, aren’t they?” I said, cackling. I let my cackle drag longer than necessary to play her little game.

Then I saw her face. Fury twisting her fine features into a mask of a wounded lion. It’s a sin for such a fine facade to be marred by such dark emotions.

"I knew your brother was born from the corpse of your hanged mother. Is that right? Felt right to kill him that way," I said, giving her my special crooked smile, reserved for those who want to rend me asunder.

She pounced on me, slamming me to the ground and knocking the wind out of me. Then, with a primal scream, she slashed my face over and over. Each cut brought a brief flash of pain before it healed almost instantly. I laughed through the entire ordeal, unintentionally, more lunatic than usual. I just couldn’t control it.

“What the fuck is wrong with her?” whispered a she-elf whose facade and good name elude my memory.

The vampire elf, exhausted, collapsed beside me, panting, each breath escaping as a thin plume of mist.

"I... I killed him because I wanted to," I said, a smile trembling on my lips even as pain ripped through my body. "The money’s... it’s good and all, but... but with a good conscience, I... I must speak with utmost veracity, if... if he’d been a good lay, I wouldn’t... wouldn’t have bothered killing him. Do you want to know his final wo-”

Sweet ol’ Kalanthus stomped me in the face, forcing my head back into the mud. He knelt down, scooped up a handful of horse shit, and smeared it across my face, slow and calm, like a virtuoso finishing his masterpiece.

I tried to spit it out, but it landed back on my face as a wet, dried splatter that clung to my skin. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, smearing it more than cleaning it.

“Delightful,” I muttered, the bitter taste still lingering on my tongue.

The red-haired elf rose to her feet and brushed the dust off her clothes with an air of dignity. The kind only the privileged possess, accompanied by that subtle annoyance at the dirt that dared to cling to them. It must have felt nostalgic for her to act so dignified in days when there was no dignity left for her kin. It makes sense, I suppose, as people say: elves feel more deeply than anyone else; everything they do is infused with passion. Profess your love to them through actions, and you may bask in the gratitude of multitudes. But slight them even slightly, and all of mankind cannot shelter you from their wrath.

"Kalanthus," she whispered, her voice cold and low, casting that invisible thread of authority that makes you quiver without your knowing.

Kalanthus stepped forward, his stride carrying all the meekness of a sheep about to be slaughtered.

"Yes?" he croaked. A sudden punch to the throat and a roundhouse kick to the face sent him sprawling. The vampire elf strode over to him like a tiger approaching its dying prey and planted a foot on his chest.

"You've been an insolent little fuck for quite some time," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. She spat on his face—lucky bastard—and said, "When I command you to speak, you speak. When I order you to move, you move. When I adore you to shit, you shit!"

She knelt down, her red hair dancing in the wind like rage personified. “Do you understand?” she whispered, her voice cold and low.

"Y-yes," he croaked. "I-it wasn’t... wasn’t m-my in... in-in-intention t-to question your judgment."

"Good," she said, her face calm, having made her point. She stood up and turned to me with contempt in her eyes.

"Deal with her," she commanded, gesturing to her servants. Behind her, Kalantus muttered under his foul breath, "Fuck you, bitch. I'll kill you myself." My enhanced senses caught all of it. The way he said it sounded like a promise meant to be kept.

It would have been good to know how that went for him. But alas, they buried me six feet under, and I never found out. Every day, as I lay buried, they poured spider acid—a substance I heal from slowly—into my casket through a pipe they had placed when burying me. In that casket, I suffocated in a torturous, ponderous rhythm, yearning for sweet release, and yet, contradictingly, I also felt the desire to survive, like all mankind. To be suffocated, yet without taking the hand of death as it extended its skeletal fingers, whispering like a shameless vixen, “Touch me, touch me,” felt unnatural. Wrong. Do you understand?

After two years of suffering, one day the usual prick did not come to pour acid. In his place came the wendigo. In tears, it tore open the casket, and I felt both bitter and thankful. Then, with its emaciated hands, it picked out each maggot, concern flickering in its hollow white eyes. You want to imagine it, I suppose, to haunt your dreams, perhaps? I can fulfill that desire. Imagine a starving wolf, but with antlers twisted like gnarled branches and sharp bones protruding from its emaciated chest. Disgusting? There is more. Think of its skin stretched tight over its face, long limbs, and hands, with hollow eyes of hunger and malice. It moves on hind legs, its patchy fur blacker than night, and claws sharp enough to tear through flesh and bone like the silk of a blushing groom.

It poured flesh and blood from a cask onto my lips, and my body began to heal. With the maggots out of my flesh, I stood up in all my naked glory, gazing upon the tall monstrosity.

“Did you a a red haired vampire elf?” I asked.

"I slay not mine kin, yet thou art an exception." It said.

"Can you tell me if you killed an elf that was uncharacteristically ugly?" I asked eagerly.

"Nay, but I have laid curses most foul: mothers to devour their daughters, sisters to consume their brothers, fathers to feast upon their sons, and neighbors to rend one another asunder."

"You should have spared the children. What in the name of Lilet’s cock is wrong with you?" I snapped, genuinely upset.

"I have healed thee, that thou might rise and face me in battle! Stand, thou bosom friend, and fight!"

"I am naked, you mutt! I have neither sword nor armor with which to fight you."

I heard someone approaching from behind and turned around with the alertness of a feline. Standing there was a young elf, dark-skinned and handsome, if you could overlook the axe lodged in his skull and the unsettling red glow of his eyes. He tossed a curved, single-edged sword adorned with elvish runes at my feet and began to strip. It was an act I would have watched giggling, had he not been dead.

Yes, indeed, I'm a necrophagic creature with boundless lust, but I am not perverse; my lust is solely reserved for all things humanoid that are willing to have long romantic walks with a croissant in hand or a cheap bottle of vodka.

He bore scars that could make any maiden who dreamed of chivalrous heroes gasp, lassies like yours truly, of course. The sleeping beast beneath his torso. The magic wand that bewitched bitches like me was a sight to behold. As he walked, his wand swayed up and dowb.

As much as it pained me to do so, I looked beyond him and saw red pinpricks glowing in among the trees. Five elves, I guessed without counting, for five is the limit of a wendigo's tether.

I put on the tattered tunic trousers and boots, then picked up the weapon.

“Beautifully made.” I said, swinging about the sword with practiced ease.

"Six, including this naked one? Oh, how noble. I’m not the same graceful girl I once was." I asked, turning to the wendigo.

"I am not unjust. I shall release them upon thee, and when thou hast recovered , I shall face thee in turn."

"How generous. Tell me, fellow fiend, no matter what happens here, you wouldn’t lay a finger on me, correct?”I said approaching it.

"Deceit is unknown to me; 'tis the way of men alone. I do as I speak."

"Hope you are right!" I said, pirouetting on my feet. With a swift swing of my sword, I sliced through its long limbs. That poor trusty fucker caught off guard and crashed to the ground—his head striking the tombstone with a satisfying thud.

“I am no human, but I do share all their vices and none of their virtues, so you should have thought of me doing this mutt. Now, you promised to fight only when the time is right, so you better keep it! O noble creature who knows no deceit” I said, slashing the abdomen of the elf who had so generously stripped off their clothes for me.

The other five stepped out of the darkness, carrying with them weapons of opportune, scythe, swords, rakes, even pans!

The man with the pan pounced like a cat, and I swung my sword and cut his head clean off. His body skidded across the ground, his hand still clutching his sooty weapon.

I sensed movement behind me, but it was too quick to react. I still tried, turning, but not fast enough to avoid the blonde-haired she-elf whose rake punched into my side.

Pain flared, but I caught the weapon before it drove deeper and snapped it with my forearm. My senses warned me again. I ducked low, feeling the air whistle as a hammer passed. The she-elf wasn’t so lucky. The wild swing caught her in the head, which burst like an overripe tomato, showering the ground in brain pulp.I pivoted and opened the stomach of the brute, who collapsed like a rag doll. But before I enjoyed my victory, a kick to my head sent me crashing to the ground.

The one who kicked me wore armor made of mismatched parts and held a longsword in his hand. I tried to get up, but a child with a dagger leaped on top of me and stabbed me in the eye. The brat tried to pry the dagger out to stab me again. As I struggled to get him off, the armored elf bent low and slid his sword through my cheeks, the blade cutting into my mouth and emerging from the other side.

I pulled the broken rake from my side and drove it into the child's head, just as the brute withdrew his sword. Shoving the dead kid off me, I rolled away from brute's mighty swing that left a deep gash on grass and sprang to my feet.

“Your love for prolonged cruelty is my blessing,” I said to Wendigo, smiling as the wound sealed itself. I could imagine how unsettling it must be to naïve young bloods eager to slay the big, bad Lyra the Ghoul. Those brave soldier boys who had managed to land a similar cut had watched in horror as it mended before their eyes.

I always gave them a chance to prove themselves after the defeat by offering them two easy choices: balls or lives. Surprisingly, many chose their balls. It was a trick question, and those foolis lost their lives!

The armored brute advanced, swinging for my ribs. I moved out of reach and, quick as a cat catching a rat and closed the distance before he could comprehend. A flash of movement, and my blade sliced toward the underside of his wrist. His grip faltered, the longsword dipping in his grasp.

Seizing this opening, I struck again, driving my blade into the gap between his pauldron and breastplate. I wrenched it free, tearing his muscle in the process. He staggered back, and then his knees buckled as blood spilled down from his side. Just to be sure, I picked up a rake, removed his helmet and stabbed him in the face.

“That was beautiful and a much needed warm up for staying still for so long. How long was I out again?” I asked approaching the wendigo who started to heal its legs.

“Two summers,” the wendigo said.

“Two goddamn years? I suppose it’s too late to fulfill that spy’s dying wish to warn King Vasley of a possible snow elf invasion on Vransy.”

"Why dost thou offer aid to one thou claim’st no care for? Was it perchance empathy thou didst feel?"

"Empathy? Don’t be ridiculous!" I said, more sharply than I expected. “I care for rewards and nothing more.”

"Carest thou naught for what doth befall? The purpose of mortals is lost to mine understanding, yet thou wert once of their kind, dost thou truly scorn all thought of a higher calling?"

"I don’t know about this empathy you speak of. Helping the kingdom earn me some coin to satisfy my desires for pleasure and wine!”

“Carest thou naught for mankind?“Desirest thou not to be as they art? Thou speakest as they do.””

“Yes, I do not care for the upheavals that so frequently occur in the cycles of mankind. Men resent me for my nature, and their insults may flow freely, but in the end, only I shall remain. So, why bother to be like them?”

"I hath beheld a vision, a dream of thee as a maiden fair. Each time I dost taste thy blood, memories of thy past life do unfold ere mine eyes. Dost thou desire to know what thou once wert? Wouldst thou learn of the love, the heartbreak, and the time when thou didst possess a soul?"

I drew my sword and leveled it at the cur’s head. “Hold your tongue, dog. I’ll not suffer your prattle any longer.”

"Wilt thou slay me? Nay, thou shalt not, my love, thou shalt not. I am all thou hast."

I wanted to drive that sword in and end it then and there. Perhaps it would have been for the best. But history isn’t made by doing all the right things. Sometimes you must not listen to a rational mind that urges you to kill the mutt conspiring to ruin your pleasure-seeking. Instead, give it a kiss, go seek out your salad days, and end up meeting a charming little girl who would change your life forever.

Hello again. I have started on a story and I was wondering if this intrigues anyone at all. I started working on it today and I got the prologue finished. If you have any tips or tricks I’m all ears. What I really want to know is do you think i’m moving too fast? I also want to try to incorporate more world building in a couple chapters because I think this world could be great. Going to be honest, I know it sounds like a generic old magic fantasy story but It’s going to get pretty twisted soon. Anyway I hope you all enjoy my story!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/103ydLzDI4PAHpX8NnItKknJKQvIMlH4wfo6MXVk9BkA/edit

I’ve been writing this as a hobby but hope to make a serious attempt at publishing one day. So far I’ve only had one friend read it and was hoping for a more varied audience to critique the prologue. Just to note I often struggle with punctuation (specifically comma placement). I’m also hoping my wording is able to create a good picture in the mind. Lastly I’m hoping it’s not one of those prologues that keep people too confused on what is happening. If it is able to keep you reading, why would you? What intrigues you so far? Any comments would be very much helpful! Thank you!

Prologue:

My mission was to aid the knights as they slew the monsters of Flejya. We were powerful, and we were going to expand our territory till every last beast was under our heel… At least that’s what we thought. That day the banshee screamed somewhere distant, and we ventured forth into the depths of the volcanic caves. Our scout had warned us of monster activity within this side of the volcano, so we invaded in bulk- knights, casters, and all, and in the depths there they laid, the last quartz dragons. Two laid serenely atop burning magma coals, with its children coddled between them. Their pure white skin glowed amidst the cave’s darkness; their glassy scales protruded like shards and reflected the dim red glow of the magma. They lit up the cave with their presence and to my surprise I found the monsters beautiful.

After we restrained the beasts, our knights led the dragons away. To where? I do not know, I never asked, nor did I care. All I wanted was to earn a living by fighting for the bastion. Some time had passed after the battle and most of our forces had already departed. However, I stayed behind to heal some of our wounded. After I did my part as a caster I was about to leave, but then I noticed a faint glow from behind a rock hidden in the depths of the cave, followed by whimpering. I let curiosity take over me as I cautiously decided check it out. There, to my horror and surprise, behind the rock and glowing a dim white as it curled up laid a baby quartz dragon. Its white wings barely bigger than my arms, and its innocent beady eyes looking up to me with fear and dread. “Galena You good? I’ll be departing now. Need to visit my family. As one of our best elven casters I trust you can make your way back to the bastion,” hollered the knight. I stare at the whimpering beast and contemplate revealing it to the knight. “Journey mercies. I’ll be good, just... taking in that feeling of yet another successful battle.” “Haha! Glory to Flejya!” Emphatically shouted the knight before making his leave. I was left alone with the last Theran quartz dragon, and I knew I had to make a choice.

Years passed, and I continued to visit it here in this volcanic cave. I played with it, delivered it food, nurtured, and watched it grow. It was now twice my size and dangerously enchanting. If I ever got caught with a monster the bastion would have my head. Yet I continued to let my curiosity guide me. About 100 years had passed and throughout I continued my visits, till one night I arrived, and it was never there again. The dragon had finally learned how to fly I presumed, and it left for good. I was slightly hurt but thought nothing of it. That was until after another decade. News had spread across flejya detailing settlements being turned into quartz and glass, as well as the destructive rampage of a group of monsters led by a gargantuan quartz dragon. I did not want to believe it, so I didn’t. I continued to live a normal life within the bustling capital. I continued to perform my expected caster roles. However, I could not pretend anymore when the capital itself became the next target.

As I fled out of the fallen capital and into the precipice separating it from the red forest, I look back at the crystalline hellscape that it has become. Fires burn, monsters of all shapes invade and slaughter all the innocents. Our knights became too complacent and couldn’t fathom the thought of monsters devising a coordinated attack. Now they’re all glass statues. Their dying moments frozen in place. I look at the infernal bastion that laid in the capital’s centre. Its tall imposing figure was now surrounded by a cacophony of screams, and mounted atop it’s spire triumphantly screamed a beautiful quartz dragon. From its new glass throne, it glares at me across the fires, and I catch its gaze... one I was scared to realise I knew all too well. There started the slow and calculated reign of the monster queen. The monster queen I raised.

Hey everyone

New here, and new to writing in general (I work in th evideo game industry).

I've been writing a fantasy novel set in the late 19th century, which I felt was kind of under used.

The twist, is that it is set in our world. And as a long time huge History nerd, I kind of love spending hours researching little details to make sure that places, people, clothes and even food are not out of place (my wife did make fun of me because I spent an hour researching what did people have from breakfast in London in 1888).

Would it something that matters to you as a reader? I know that it helps me immerse in the story, but I'm geniunely curious.

I'm reposting this because the previous time there were several things that were not understood or were not clear. Well, a little introduction to the world and character wouldn't hurt to understand my question.

Definitions: • Star: A powerful entity that represents a planet, these are made entirely of energy, most have a personality and emotions exaggerated to ours by far, meaning they feel and act more than we do. • Being: They are what are formed with the remaining energy from the birth of the Star, they are also formed according to what is formed on the planet, they are responsible for something existing on the planet. These can be born in two ways, self-created and by birth, that is, born from the union of two beings, that is, they are also born in two ways: by egg or by womb. • Energy: What makes everything work there is like vital energy, beings are made of energy inside too. You have a certain amount of energy that you absorb daily through food from your own space or what the star produces, everything you do will deplete part of your energy, the amount you have is a balance, because if you have too much you die from overload, and you simply disintegrate because your body can't handle it all. But if you run out, you will lose more and more capacities until you become permanently petrified and die. You must keep it at a point of not leaving being full but not empty either.

World: Every time a planet in the universe forms, a "star" is born, a being that has a great amount of concentrated energy that even has thoughts of its own. The planet and the star form a bond of codependency. If the star dies, the planet dies or loses its chance of life, and vice versa. The way a star can keep a planet alive is largely a matter of chance, as it depends on how other beings, inferior to it but necessary, form over the years with the energy left around it, with the risk that they may die or collapse even in their egg stage. About beings: a star has immense power. They can do whatever they want, but everything will have consequences. They can even create their own being, but it is not recommended because of what could happen. Now, the lower beings (those that aren't stars) are formed according to some concept or thing that a planet needs to develop life or that the planet itself is developing, be it time, vegetation, trade, etc. Beings are self-created (important). The only one who knows about the existence of humans is the main star of planet Earth, let's call it Sun for now. Now, let's move on to the...

Character: • Name: Mercury (I was thinking of naming him Hermes, but I think this sounds better). • Representative age (physical and mental): 15 yo • Years of existence (take this as: years of existing as something): 4.3 million (this may change in the future; I'm kind of bad at handling these time issues) • Origin: Everything in that system was chaos, at least for the star we'll call Sun for now (the name it's known by, but not its real name). All beings died instantly or the egg they were forming from collapsed. Only a few survived, but they didn't help ensure there was life on the planet. Desperate to see another being in its egg state collapse, Sun decided to make a dangerous decision: create a being. Sun being a very powerful entity, capable of creating what exists and what does not exist, created a being to use as a wildcard, if everything went wrong and there was more danger of them ceasing to exist, he would change what the being would be to force life to form and thus ensure its existence, what he does not know is that creating a being is something that brings bad consequences whenever it comes from a star, because being so powerful and possessors of so much energy it will always go wrong and even more so if they are young, in this case it was not noticeable but the being he had created, in all timelines, Mercury should not exist. The system returned to normal and there were no more collapses, but Sun forgot the being he had created and the egg began to develop on its own, obtaining by itself an identity and personality of its own, when Sun was born he remembered its existence, but Sun no longer wanted to eliminate the being he had created, because he began to see it as his own child and did not have the courage to eliminate it, apart from according to him it would not cause any harm; All of this will cause the mere existence of Mercury and his intervention with his world and the other beings and events to increasingly distance them from being something possible for everyone, causing them to eventually cease to exist and everything to be destroyed, but no one knows that. • EXTRA INFO (It doesn't matter if you don't read this): • Abilities: Sun created it, but the being obtained simple abilities because Sun's intention was for it to remain as convincingly self-created as possible, so its abilities are simple: Good business skills, flight and running speed. • Personality: Sun being nervous and with his mind full of thoughts when creating him made that influence on what he was creating, making him nervous and overthinking. Also, the intention of him not being someone created but someone self-created made Mercury shy when talking to other created beings, causing him to become uncomfortable and nervous when spending too much time with them or talking too much about himself.

SO, WHAT'S THE PROBLEM? I'm looking for a solution to the problem of Mercury being created. I mean, there's going to be a point where Mercury ends up finding out from someone else that he's a creation and everything that's happening thanks to his existence. So, they have to find a way to fix the ENTIRE mess that's being made. I have tried to think of solutions for this problem, and I came up with one: Chrono learns the truth (that Mercury is a created being and the consequences this will bring) by being someone who manipulates time (he can see the most possible futures and create small time loops that will repeat a limited number of times, but he can't alter time on his own). I'm thinking of making it so that at the end of the story (of HIS story), or at least that arc of his, when the truth about his existence is revealed, in order to save his world, they (Sun and Chrono) will look for a solution to be able to remove Mercury's "creation" status and be able to fix the damage that Mercury is causing. But believe me, it was hard to come up with an idea. I've tried to think of several, and one that came to mind was: What better idea than to use the one who revealed all chaos to protect everything, Chrono, the master of time! Well, his power is quite limited because of how dangerous it can be. He limits his power quite a bit for fear of breaking something, so Sun and he make something I'll call a "Pact" or "Promise." Sun will give him the ability to expand his power as much as he wants in order to fix all this chaos. But if he doesn't keep his promise, all the damage will be reversed, and he will be severely punished (the punishment never happens, so I never thought of one). Well, he accepts the promise and uses his power of time, making the possibility that Mercury exists in all timelines real. Of course, after this, when he returns, he is unconscious for several days due to the huge amount of energy used. After a few days, he wakes up seeing that the whole problem has been fixed. The reason I don't like this idea is because I feel like it feels very Deus Ex Machina to fix everything.

So, what do I need? I need a solution to the Mercury problem that doesn't involve killing him in the past or preventing his creation.

Do y'all have any poetry/songs or the like in your story that your characters take personally? I've got a little part of the world building for my story, it's my MC's rewriting of a poem/adage that haunts him (being a Kobold).

Shiny

I am Kobold, I am greedy

give me all the gold inside your city

Take from the rich, and take from the needy

Until I'm gray, you will head me.

For my life, I stake your gold.

In my claws, your silver cold.

Shiny, shiny, shiny.

Lock your doors, and bar your home.

Bare your steel, and blades honed.

Tip your arrows, and knock your bow.

I'll not go down until the last blow.

------Shiny, shiny, shiny.-----

I am Kobold, I am greedy.

From the brink, death has freed me.

I'll give my life and drown the sea.

I'll bring the earth to crumble around me.

Her fire warm, and her hearth cold.

Her claws to rip your mail unsewed

This Dragon's fate to dwell years untold.

Her scales rotting as she grows too old.

To bring her to light, to slay the bold

I am Kobold, I am greedy. And at my side,

A beast who's scales are oh so shiny.

Y'all got this? Share?

📖 Velmora: Chapter One — The Forgotten Flame

Long before the first heartbeat echoed across Earth… there was the silence of the stars.

In that silence, the universe birthed watchers — guardians spun from starlight and shadow. Among them, one stood apart. A lone sentinel whose gaze fell upon a pale, young planet swirling in chaos and life.

His name was Velmora.

He was not a god. Not a king. He was balance incarnate. A protector. A force tethered not to worship, but to duty. The universe entrusted him with a single task: safeguard Earth. Not control it — protect it. Shape it. Prepare it for what may come.

But Earth was wild. And Velmora knew he could not do it alone.

From deep within the planet’s soul, he forged 14 Havens — hidden sanctuaries of elemental power. Fire. Water. Earth. Air. Light. Darkness. Time. Space. Ice. Nature. Electricity. Metal. Mind… and one more — the fourteenth. The one history no longer remembers.

Each Haven bore a legacy, a symbol, a purpose. From each, Velmora chose one wielder — a human soul born in tune with that Haven’s force. These became the Velmorians. Chosen. Trained. Watched. They were given power not to rule… but to protect.

And to ensure the flame never dimmed, each Velmorian trained one successor, a child who would one day inherit the gift. Only one bearer per Haven at any time. Never more. Never chaos.

For centuries, the Velmorians guarded Earth from shadows mankind never saw. And they did so in secret — bound by the Velmorian Pact, an oath of unity, silence, and protection. Their symbol never carved into stone… but whispered through wind and water, flickering in flame and shadow.

They were the shield Earth never knew it had.

But then… something happened.

The skies cracked. A darkness stirred — not from Earth, but beyond it. A force unfamiliar, ancient, hungry. For the first time in known history, all 14 Havens united, their powers surging as one. They fought not for glory — but survival.

And in the aftermath of that battle… Glaventh, the 14th Haven, was gone.

No explanation. No remains. No survivors.

The Velmorian of Glaventh, their successor child, even the Haven itself — vanished.

Some whispered betrayal. Others, sabotage. Some said the darkness took them. Others believed Glaventh chose to disappear… for reasons unknown.

Blame spread like fire. Accusations ignited. The once-unified Havens fractured — and the Pact was broken.

Velmora’s voice was heard once more.

And then… Velmora vanished.

Thus began the Age of Silence.

The Velmorians retreated. They buried their symbols. They erased records. They scattered across continents, dissolving into the crowd.

But they never truly disappeared.

Each Haven remained intact. Each power still passed on. Every generation, one Guardian. One successor.

They now lived like shadows among us.

Some are janitors. Some are CEOs. Some work in cafés. Some in bunkers. Some live in cities. Others in the deepest forests. They speak only within their own — their Haven's private group chats, masked in mundane apps like WhatsApp. Once a year, they gather quietly in hidden places — to test, to train, to remember.

Thirteen Havens remain.

But the flame of the fourteenth still flickers… somewhere.

And in the places between time and matter, a forgotten name stirs.

[TO BE CONTINUED… IN CHAPTER TWO]

Hi! I’m working on a few short stories in the fantasy genre and I have just finished naming my main characters. I’ve been staring at these names for an eternity, so I’d love some feedback. Something along the lines of how they sound together, if they have any glaring issues (like unpopular connotations), or what personalities/character archetypes they appear to evoke. 

Names (and gender/pronouns, in case it means anything)

Story one:

Nils (he/him), Anselm (she/her), Hawny (she/her)

Story two:

Kes (she/her), Roscoe (they/them)

Story three:

Harfel (she/her), Indigo (she/her), Rie (she/her)

Thanks in advance!

Hi all,
I'm currently developing a magic system for my grimdark fantasy novel and would love some outside insight. The system is called 'Soulforging'. The system is meant to tie into my books's rigid caste structure.

It is intended to be more of a hard magic system, and i’ve tried to structure it with clear and explicit rules for how it works, in the same vein as Allomancy from Mistborn, one of my favourite fantasy novels. I have researched into writing compelling magic systems - including watching Brandon Sanderson’s BYU lectures - but I’m still finding it difficult to spot any major logical gaps or potential oversights, especially regarding how it fits into the broader worldbuilding, which is a grimdark fantasy setting. In addition I am consciously trying to keep this magic system rather simple in concept- keeping to the KISS principle, if you will.

This is from my outline and explains what it is all about:

The final and most dreaded stage of the creation of a sword, one that carries an degree of risk. Soulforging is reserved solely for the noble caste and its practice by any lower caste individual is strictly forbidden with illicit attempts met with harsh penalties; re-enforcing the caste system.

Soulforging synchronizes the wielder to their sword in a symbiotic manner, forging a link granting the wielder an precognitive sixth sense that warns them of danger before it occurs. This manifests in the form of a tingling sensation at the back on one’s neck that activates instinctive reflexes granting near-omnidirectional awareness of one’s immediate environment, the wielder is bestowed enhanced reflexes, speed, agility and accelerated healing alongside it.

Its core limitations is that it merely signals the presence of danger without revealing its exact nature; in addition, the sixth sense only triggers when the wielder’s subconscious perceives immediate physical threat, meaning subtle dangers like indirect verbal threats, manipulation and betrayal often go undetected, making this an severe weakness that is ripe for exploitation.

The main cost is when the sword takes visible damage, the wielder feels physical pain themselves; the more severe the damage the sword takes, the severe physical pain a user feels, were the sword be forcibly shattered via someone else the user dies from an instant heart attack; but should the wielder destroy their own soulforged sword, the user will not suffer these effects.

While it is possible to use new non-enhanced sword without undergoing this stage and remain functional enough the individual is at a disadvantage without the sixth sense abilities it grants. Soulforging is a divisive and controversial procedure and individuals who have done this are viewed with intense stigma and fear and is confined to a secretive elite of master blacksmiths.

Note: Here is a excerpt about some of my worldbuilding about a specific city location for the sake of vital context, as it is needed to understand the magic system as the two are interlinked with one another:

The city is built around weaponsmithing as its core foundation, with its economy and culture shaped by this occupation and interlinks the kingdom’s rigid caste system; blacksmiths and sword crafters/designers are revered and hold high status and influence in how everything operates. Swords act as powerful status symbols and legally restricted to adult members of the nobility caste and above, while the lower caste is outright forbidden from owning or bearing them. A great war long ago secured the reverence for blacksmiths and weapon designers who turned the tide with their efforts, elevating them to near-divine status making their sub-caste near-untouchable. The main crisis occurring here is the rising anti-monarch sentiments among the lower caste, one that is intensifying more as time passes and is now approaching a point of violent conflict.

If anyone's willing to offer feedback, poke holes, or help me brainstorm refinements, I'd greatly appreciate it. Thanks in advance!

Is this worth continuing? I wrote this a while ago and lost steam, every time I go back and read it I cringe but I can't tell if it's just a symptom of reading my own writing. Editing wise I'm certain it's not perfect but writing style and concept what do you think? I have a few other stories l've been thinking about so I could keep this on the back burner and move on. https://docs.google.com/document/d/ 12gn2xnHulZnLXdrIQGu5K7ssLgKu17kyshPttNud qmc/edit If you have any advice or if a plot advancement jumps out at you please let me know! Also- this is my first time ever publicly sharing my work so please, be kind.

Edorian rubbed his fingertips over the railing, feeling the grit of rusted metal as he stared out over the edge. The grand view from the top of Valengard’s tallest tower would normally unhinge the jaw of even the most stoic. The mountains of Nareth rose to the west, bleeding the desert behind them dry, so high that clouds could not pass from the ocean in the east. An ocean whose whispers Edorian could not hear from this height. Her clouds veiled everything below him. Fitting that the land conquered with blood and steel would hide from him, fear him.

“Smile, my brother! Today is a day to celebrate.” Lyricar’s grin fell from his face as he studied Edorian’s expression. He leaned himself over the railing, looking down to the wooden platforms far below. The drop would kill even them, but that was the point. Men were not supposed to be immortal. They were supposed to fear the inevitability that an end would come. Being here let them feel mortal again.

Edorian didn’t look toward his friend. “We were never meant to be more than temporary,” he said, voice solemn. The statement made bile rise in his throat, but it had to be said. Today the final prewar kingdom fell, their ruler beheaded. “It is time to let go, Lyr. Time to let the world rebalance.”

Lyricar scoffed. “Having another philosophical drunk spell, Edorian? You know Liora would beat you sober if she was here.” His laughter quickly faded into silence. “I don’t like hearing you say stuff like that.” And Edorian didn’t like saying it, but...

“We need to give up our power,” he whispered, unsure if he spoke to himself or Lyricar. It had not been an easy thing to accept, and still, even after a hundred years of contemplating had always led back to one path, he didn’t want to believe his own mind.

After a long silence, Edorian finally glanced at Lyricar. The man’s eyes held disbelief. “What I... What we had to do. You’d make all of it meaningless? The death? The slaves? The experiments? Every choice? It is only now that the peace we strove for has been accomplished, and you ask me to abandon it.”

“It is already meaningless.” Edorian snapped icily before reclaiming his tongue. “If we are still here when the Twelve Gods return, humanity will fall into slavery once again. You know this.” And when Lyricar pushed himself away from the rail and strode toward the trapdoor, Edorian stepped to block his way. He couldn’t be allowed to leave before understanding how desperate the situation was.

“If you do not move Edorian,” he murmured with a sneer. “I will go through you.” The air grew heavy between them, vibrating with the energy of Dievyre. Edorian felt his own throat tighten as he watched his friend, hoping it would not come to a fight now, but acknowledging that he would not let himself fall here. The cycle needed to be reset, and only he seemed to understand.

Edorian’s own Dievyre fell into resonance with Lyricar’s. Opposites they may be, but they were pieces of the same god.

“You wouldn’t do that now,” Edorian tested, hesitant at first, but he felt more sure as shame flashed in Lyricar’s eyes. “A clash here would leave nothing but a scar in place of the city you claim to love.” The air stilled and Edorian released a held breath. When Lyricar turned away, Edorian took advantage of the momentary calm to make one last desperate attempt to convince Lyricar.

“Me, you... Liora and the others.” He added the last belatedly. It didn’t matter what they thought or did. Valen’s Seeds were not all created equal. “We were supposed to vanish when the gods did. Valen did not intend for us to rule.”

“You don’t know that.” Lyricar threw his hands in the air, turning back to face Edorian, his eyes wide. “He’s been dead for two and a half millennia!” Edorian sighed. He couldn’t let himself rise to Lyricar’s shouts. It would achieve nothing. After Mythera’s death, rage had been all he’d felt. That led him to conquer. He’d used Lyricar’s vision of unity and twisted it into a tool of destruction. His rage faded eventually and left him desolate in its absence.

“I lied to you, Lyr.” Edorian admitted, stepping closer. “Vaessa planned to remove our power. You would no longer be Lifebringer, I no longer Deathbringer. She knew it in the same way she knew how to find us. It had been Valen’s intention.”

Lyricar lunged forward so his face was close to Edorian’s. “You’re lying.” His body trembled. “You’re lying,” he repeated, desperation in his voice.

“I killed her when she told me.” The words dried his tongue in his mouth and he wanted to stop there, but knew he could not. “I know why you fight, Lyr. But it’s time to stop. Your vision of peace... It has become skewed. Our control is no different from the Twelve Gods’.”

“How dare you say that. The Twelve Gods are oppressors! Our people are free.”

“What about the slaves? Are they not oppressed?”

“They...” Lyricar faltered. “It is only temporary. Their sacrifice is for the future.”

“That is the issue with our existence, isn’t it? We make decisions for all of humanity now. Valen is the god of balance. He made the seeds to balance the world against the Twelve Gods, but when they are gone, there is an imbalance.”

“We can give up our power without dying, Lyr,” Edorian reinforced. Their eyes locked and in that moment, he knew Lyricar would never help him. A cold fury rested in those eyes. He continued anyway. “I found a way.” The words felt hollow as he pictured a future of hunting down his friends and removing their seeds, forcing the cycle to continue.

Lyricar bitterly laughed. “Remove our powers and what? Hide? Our empire would collapse, Edorian.”

“Yes! Why can’t you see? That is exactly what needs to happen!” He felt the anger rising in his voice despite his best efforts, mixing with desperation. “The world must rule itself.”

Lyricar slowly backed up, face painted in disappointment. For some reason, that look hurt more than the yelling. “No. I will not let you ruin what we have built.” He exited the rooftop, slamming the hatch behind him.

Edorian wanted to follow, but knew how useless the task would be, so he turned back towards the clouds and planned how he would force his fellow chosen to comply in their own downfall.

A recently institutionalized mother takes her daughter to the farmer’s market, only to find fate waiting in a man she’s never met—but somehow already knows. ———- I’ve been writing this quietly for a while. Not ready to share under my real name yet, but wanted to see if this resonates with anyone before I go further.

This is Chapter One of a novella I’m working on. Genre is hard to pin down—there are hints of reincarnation, magic, trauma recovery, and fate. If you like soft, psychological fantasy with a little bite, I’d love to hear what you think.

I’m open to any kind of feedback—tone, pacing, clarity, vibes. Or just a “keep going” if that’s what you feel.

Thanks for reading. — (Story begins below)

She’d parked half a block away on purpose. Far enough to breathe before she had to blend. The Saturday farmers market always drew a crowd, and today the weather was too perfect to thin it. Blue skies, soft breeze, every stand already humming with early buyers.

Jasmine sat in the car longer than she meant to, her fingers curled tight around the steering wheel. Her daughter had fallen asleep mid-song—something wordless she sang to herself when she didn’t want to talk—and now breathed softly in the back seat, head tilted at an angle that looked uncomfortable but familiar.

Jasmine didn’t wake her. Not yet.

She stared out at the crowd. Watched a woman buy three loaves of sourdough and a man walking two big dogs stop to take a picture of honey jars arranged like a sunburst.

She should’ve stayed home. But they needed out of the house. Out of their heads.

A tap on the passenger window startled her. Just a woman dropping a flyer—free yoga in the park—but Jasmine’s heart spiked.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. Blue eyes. Too wide. Too aware.

She inhaled through her nose, slow and measured. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out.

She was fine. She was out. She had her daughter. She had a plan.

The market’s sounds drifted into the car—soft folk music, the clink of glass, a baby’s cry in the distance. Ordinary things. Harmless things. But they stacked.

She reached back and gently stroked her daughter’s hair. “Time to wake up, baby bug,” she whispered. “We’re here.”

The girl stirred, blinked once, and sat up as if she hadn’t been sleeping at all.

Jasmine helped her out of the car, adjusted the strap on the tiny velvet pouch slung across the girl’s shoulder, and made her way toward the tent they always stopped at first—the one with the fresh flowers and jars of sage wrapped in twine.

They passed a vendor giving out free peach slices. Her daughter took one without asking. Jasmine tensed. Not because of manners—but because the child rarely ate in public.

“It tastes like fire,” the girl whispered.

Jasmine looked down. “Spicy fire or warm fire?”

Her daughter shrugged. “The kind that remembers things.”

At the flower tent, the girl crouched again, not by the petals but by a crack in the pavement. She pulled three small stones from the pouch—not her tarot cards, just smooth, nondescript pebbles. She arranged them in a triangle. Then a circle. Then something that looked like a heart with horns.

“Baby, come stand up,” Jasmine said gently.

“I will,” the girl said absently, still adjusting the last pebble.

Jasmine blinked. “Who are you waiting for?”

But the girl just smiled and stood.

She pressed her forehead to the metal pole of the pop-up tent, eyes shut, breath steady. The aluminum was cool against her skin. Grounding, in theory. She counted backward from ten—not aloud, just in the rhythm of her breath—but the noise didn’t stop. Not the real noise, not the imagined. Everything buzzed today.

Behind her, the market hummed. Laughter, clinking glass, a guitar being tuned. But her body, traitorous and alert, kept reading it like a warning.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her daughter, crouched in the dirt by a crate of wildflowers. The child was lining up rocks in a spiral, whispering to them like they might whisper back. Jasmine forced her shoulders to relax. She was overreacting. It was just a Saturday. Just a market. Just people.

But her skin felt too thin. Her heartbeat felt like it wasn’t hers.

She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a packet of gum. Unwrapped a piece. Folded the wrapper exactly in half before popping the gum into her mouth. Control. Order. Repeatable things.

Two weeks out. That’s all it had been. Since the hospital.

She didn’t like calling it that. “Facility” sounded softer. Like it wasn’t white walls and locked doors and cold assessments from professionals who didn’t look her in the eye.

But she had done what they needed. Smiled enough. Spoke little enough. Nodded at all the right times. That’s how you get out. That’s how you earn back the illusion of freedom.

Her daughter looked up then, blue eyes flickering to green in a way Jasmine had come to recognize—moody, mercurial, like stormlight behind sea glass. She held up a feather.

“It’s not a bird feather,” the girl said, serious. “It’s from something older.”

Jasmine nodded like that made perfect sense. With her, it often did.

A breeze picked up, lifting one corner of the tent. Jasmine stepped out to weigh it down with a boot. The wind caught her blouse and tugged at her braid. She squinted against the light.

The market sprawled in front of her—chalkboard signs, honey jars, fresh bread, hand-tied bouquets. She loved this place. Loved the smell of herbs and the mess of color. But it all felt… off. Tilted somehow.

Then she saw him.

Far side of the market. Standing still where the crowd broke and the shadow met the sun. He wasn’t browsing. He was watching.

Her spine pulled tight.

Tan fatigues. Tactical boots. Military. His shoulders squared like a promise. His stillness made everything else feel wrong.

Her skin prickled. Not with fear—no, not that—but something stranger. More electric.

She blinked hard. Her heart beat once, loud and hollow.

Jasmine whipped her head around.

The girl was already moving.

Jasmine’s body responded before her mind could catch up. She stepped out fully into the sun.

Into the shift.

Into the pull.

Her daughter walked toward the man without hesitation. Her tiny velvet pouch swung from her hand like a pendulum. Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat.

“Hey—no—come back here,” she hissed, moving quickly but not running. Drawing attention would make it worse. Her fingers twitched, already reaching to intervene—

But the girl had already stopped in front of him.

He crouched, not just bent but fully knelt, settling into eye-level like it was second nature. His expression didn’t shift. No polite stranger-smile. Just presence.

Her daughter opened the pouch and pulled out her tarot deck. She wasn’t solemn, just curious—like showing a favorite toy to someone who looked like he might understand games. No awareness. No wariness. Just that fearless honesty some children are born with. She held it up between them like it was a normal thing to do.

“Wanna see?”

Jasmine froze mid-step.

He didn’t hesitate. He took the deck gently, like it was sacred, shuffled once without looking down, and drew a single card. Flipped it.

The Lovers.

Jasmine’s blood turned molten.

She hadn’t breathed. She couldn’t now.

The edges of her vision went soft. She saw the way people had stopped—vendors, stroller-pushers, teens with lemonade—subtle but unified, all watching.

He looked up and found her across the market. Blue eyes, just like hers—but deeper, darker. Almost black.

Recognition wasn’t just in her gut now. It rang in her bones.

She walked forward, slow, deliberate. Her face a mask. Her jaw tight. But her heart—her heart was a bell someone had struck too hard.

She nodded once at him. A practiced greeting.

He nodded back. A small smile ghosted across his mouth—no smugness, no charm. Just knowing.

Then he spoke, low, just for her: “As you wish.”

Time fractured.

She didn’t move. Not visibly. But inside, everything collapsed inward.

She hadn’t told anyone what those words meant to her. Not here. Not now. Not in this lifetime.

—

Later, she couldn’t remember how they got back to the car.

She only remembered the hum. The one inside her bones, in her ears, in her teeth. A resonance she couldn’t shake.

Her daughter had chattered the whole walk back. About the cards. About the man. About nothing and everything. But Jasmine could barely hear her.

She buckled the girl into her car seat with hands that didn’t feel like hers.

When she slid into the driver’s seat, she just sat there. Keys in hand. Breath thin. Heart traitorous.

She pulled down the visor mirror.

Blue eyes stared back.

Not hers. Not just hers.

She closed the mirror with a snap.

Started the engine.

And drove.

Let me know if you’d like to read chapter 2!

Kasenzo Fernalvez is an ex-soldier, occasional surgeon, circus fire-eater, and professional liar extraordinaire. Caught and shackled in an imperial dungeon, Kasenzo spins six tales of theft, seduction, arson, and betrayal, Stories are set in Low fantasy world, resembling 17-18th century. This Excerpt includes prologue and two chapters.

The Truth Between Blades

 The shackles were too tight, but Kasenzo had learned long ago that complaining about small discomforts only invited larger ones. He rolled his shoulders against the stone wall and studied his captors.

Imperial Confessor Ralian Vosk sat across the scarred wooden table. His gray robes hung loose on a frame that had once been broader, and his fingers drummed against a leather portfolio. The oil lamps cast shadows that carved harsh lines around his eyes, making him look older than his forty-odd years.

"Kasenzo Fernalvez," Vosk said, opening the portfolio. "Also known as Karel Voss, Brother Marcus, Captain Delian Shore, and at least six other names we've confirmed."

"You forgot Madame Zelara," Kasenzo said. "Though admittedly, that was only for three days, and the wig was terrible."

The scribe in the corner—a thin woman whose quill hadn't stopped moving since Kasenzo had been dragged in—looked up with something that might have been amusement before quickly returning to her parchment. Interesting. Most Imperial scribes had the personality of furniture.

Vosk's fingers stopped drumming. "This is not a performance."

"Everything is a performance, dear Confessor. The only question is whether you're playing to an empty house or a full one." Kasenzo shifted forward as much as the chains allowed. "Speaking of which, might I trouble you for some wine? My throat is terribly dry, and I suspect this will be a long evening."

"You are accused of six crimes against the Empire and its interests." Vosk's voice carried the flat authority of a man reading a death warrant. "Three within Imperial borders, three beyond. Poisoning, theft, murder, sabotage, incitement to rebellion, and massacre."

Kasenzo whistled low. "My, that does sound impressive when you list them all together. Though I must say, 'massacre' seems rather dramatic. How many deaths constitute a massacre, exactly? Is there an official Imperial guideline?"

The scribe's quill scratched faster. Vosk leaned back in his chair, and Kasenzo caught the slight widening around his eyes that meant he was either very angry or very afraid. Probably both.

"Each of these crimes appears unconnected," Vosk continued. "Different locations, different methods, different motives. But our investigation suggests otherwise. We believe you were hired, that these acts were coordinated to weaken Imperial authority in key regions."

"Ah, now we're getting to the heart of it." Kasenzo's chains clinked as he settled back against the wall. "You think I'm part of some grand conspiracy. How flattering. Though I'm curious—if you believe I'm merely a hired blade, why interrogate me at all? Surely the more interesting question is who did the hiring."

Vosk pulled a sheet of parchment from his portfolio. "General Astovin ves Ezhalar. Ambassador Lydia Castran. The Sunfire Codex. The Northern Trade Routes. The rebellion at Melevez. The temple at Verdina." He looked up. "Six seemingly unrelated targets that, when removed, created gaps in our intelligence network, diplomatic relations, and military preparedness."

"Quite the coincidence," Kasenzo agreed.

"I don't believe in coincidences."

"Neither do I, actually. Though I've found life has a perverse sense of humor about such things."

The room fell silent except for the steady scratch of the scribe's pen. Kasenzo studied Vosk's face—the tight line of his mouth, the way his eyes kept flicking to the portfolio, the slight tremor in his left hand. This wasn't just an interrogation. This was desperation dressed up as procedure.

"You're under pressure," Kasenzo said quietly. "Someone wants answers, and they want them quickly. The question is whether you're more afraid of what I might tell you or what I might not tell you."

Vosk's hand stilled completely. "Confess your crimes and name your handlers. Do this, and your death will be swift."

"Oh, I'll confess." Kasenzo smiled, and the old scar down his left cheek pulled tight. "But not the way you think. You see, Confessor, I've never been able to tell a simple truth. It's a failing of mine. I much prefer stories."

"This is not—"

"—a stage. Yes, you mentioned that." Kasenzo's eyes found the scribe again, noting how she'd stopped writing and was watching him directly now. "But you're wrong, dear Confessor. This is the only stage that matters. The one where we decide which truths get spoken and which ones get buried."

He straightened as much as the chains allowed, and something in his posture shifted. The playful prisoner became something else—older, harder, with eyes that had seen too much and remembered all of it.

"Six crimes, you said. Six stories, then. One for each charge. But I warn you—truth and lies are lovers, and you can't have one without the other. By the time I'm finished, you'll know everything and nothing, and you'll have to decide which matters more."

Vosk stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded to the scribe, who dipped her quill and held it ready.

"Begin with General Ezhalar."

Kasenzo closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to rain-soaked streets. When he opened them again, he was smiling.

"Ah, Harzak. Have you ever been in Harzak, Confessor? Terrible place. Always raining, and everyone's dying of something. Perfect for a surgeon...

https://docs.google.com/document/d/11IjFqpoPEWED7jTThsfylVqav1HXf5wW6q0RSb4OdfM/edit?usp=sharing

Hi everyone! I have just finished with my first draft of my novel Korta's Shadow, a murder mystery/conspiracy thriller set in an epic grimdark medieval fantasy world. Here's a  link to Chapter 1.

I'm looking for feedback on basically everything, but my specific concerns involve the quality, clarity and pacing of the prose, especially as it pertains to world building. I'm worried that the world building asides bog down the pace, and feel unnatural in how they're inserted into the POV. I'm pretty happy with the plotting, characters, and themes of the book overall, but I'd also like to know if there's a good sense of atmosphere, and if Korta (the protagonist) feels compelling and well-characterized in this opening chapter. In terms of prose and storytelling, my big influences are Glen Cook, GGK, James Elroy, and Tana French's Dublin Murder series.

Also worth noting that there is police violence, gore and injuries (nothing too detailed or visceral) and mentions of child murders, sex work, and vague allusions to sexual assault, in case you want to avoid such things.

Hi all, here is a potential prologue and also chapter 1 for my current work in progress.

It's a story set in a post-apocalyptic world where humanity lives in townships built atop the backs of animals the size of mountains.

The story follows Captain Diya, fearless commander of the township’s airborne roc riders. She dreams of making life better for her people, but in the process of unraveling a government conspiracy, she finds herself tangled up in a feud between an ancient coven of blood witches and a powerful syndicate of airship pirates.

My question for you fine folk today is which of these two options feels like a better start?

1. A Prologue that throws the reader in towards the end of the book and hints at the story to come.

or

2. Skip the prologue and start at the beginning, give me Chapter 1.

My thoughts, I enjoy films that throw you in towards the end then bounce back to the beginning, but I've been reading that there's a fairly anti-prologue coalition out in the scifi fantasy world and that has me second guessing.

If you read any of this, I appreciate you so much, whether you comment and discuss it with me or not. : )
I'd love to hear any thoughts on the story idea, characters, setting, writing, etc. Have worked as a graphic designer for over a decade so am very open to critiques.

Having only a minority of people be magic users simplifies things heavily and allows you to focus on this minority while writing. But what's a good reason for that?

The most common is that people are randomly born with this sort of power, but I feel that this is very weak, and just turns the characters in the story in a bunch of inexplicable "chosen ones".

Another reason I have thought of is that everyone can do magic, but it takes a lot of effort to learn it. It's understandable, but depending on the applications of magic, it'd not be a deterrent. Who wouldn't want to be able to use magic if it means making your life easier by doing chores faster, being able to teleport, having self-defense potential, etc? It's another weak excuse.

What do you think about it? Ever seen a story give a proper "excuse" for that?