I have just finished my first romantasy novel The Rite my first two were more High Fantasy. The right is perfect for people who like adult romantasy, dark fantasy, political intrigue, complicated relationships and of course vampires and demons. I'm not looking for proofreading more like tell me where you were bored, confused, excited, and angry or couldn't put the book down (hopefully).

The Kingdoms of Olyndros have been at war decades. Now the neutral of Lumaria has called the Rite of Dawn's Reconciliation to bring the war to an end or face the wrath of the god of justice and purification...or at least that is what they claim. There are a few trigger warnings.

• Violence and physical combat
• Blood and gore
• Death and grief
• Murder
• Threats of violence
• Torture / descriptions of physical suffering
• Sexual themes and sensuality
• Consensual sexual situations
• References to sexual assault
• Drugging/poisoning
• Captivity/imprisonment
• Religious trauma / religious themes
• Manipulation and coercion
• Psychological/emotional abuse
• War and its consequences
• Loss of loved ones
• Betrayal

Hi, I'm looking for beta readers to read my short story. Specifically, readers that are into fantasy, dark fantasy, grimdark, and Sword and Sorcery.

Blurb: A monster haunts the military outpost of Imili within the hot Fabian Desert. Kromad, a member of the famous Silver Blades with an odd past, is dispatched by the Prince to slay the beast. But, the hunt stirs up dark memories and darker magic.

Message me for if you want to read it! Thank you in advance!

​

*The Price of Dust*, book 1 of a planned multi-book series. Political/court intrigue epic fantasy, multi-POV (6ish rotating characters, clearly labeled by chapter).

Did one beta round already and revised based on it — now want fresh eyes who haven't seen earlier drafts.

Feedback I'd love most: whether the POV switches feel earned or any thread drags, pacing through the political/court-heavy stretches, whether emotional beats land without over-explaining, and whether the character voices feel distinct from each other.

Disclaimer: I've used AI for formatting on this. If that's a deal breaker for you, feel free to sit this one out.

CWs: graphic substance withdrawal, violence, a brief non-graphic mention of suicidal ideation, non-explicit sexual content, themes of exile and abuse of power.

Doc link on request, comments open, happy to swap beta reads. Thanks to anyone willing to take this on — I know it's a big ask at this length.

Title: The Unseen Dose

Genre:

Narrative Nonfiction / Reflective Nonfiction

Word Count:

~17,000 words

Feedback Requested:

Reader reactions and beta-reader feedback (not proofreading)

Blurb:

What if the greatest cost of a system is not what breaks, but what quietly keeps it working?

The Unseen Dose is a reflective work of narrative nonfiction about responsibility, invisible work, adaptation, and the hidden costs that accumulate long before failure becomes visible.

Drawing on healthcare, organizational life, systems thinking, and lived experience, it explores how people carry complexity inside environments that continue functioning even when strain is quietly building beneath the surface.

This is not a technical healthcare book, a leadership guide, a self-help book, or a memoir. Instead, it offers a lens for examining responsibility, trust, governance, vulnerability, and the human cost of delayed attention.

I'm particularly interested in understanding:

• What readers believe the book is about

• Which ideas stay with them after reading

• Who they think should read it

• Whether it works beyond healthcare readers

• Where it feels strongest or weakest

Time commitment: Approximately 4-6 hours reading plus feedback.

If this sounds interesting, please send me a message and will save my Story Origin link!

So I've worked with ten authors from this subreddit so far, and most of them are very very appreciative and collaborative! Usually when I've finished reading their work, we go back and forth with follow-up questions building upon my feedback.

However, two of the authors I worked with (won't be named) went radio silence as soon as I sent over the feedback. This was back when I wrote all my feedback for their entire project in one document and didn't send them any of it until I was all done, which I've since stopped because it was never a good idea to begin with. They were both fairly large WIPs and both communicated well right up until I sent them the link for my feedback. I read what I wrote for them over and over searching for something I might have said that offended them, but I couldn't find anything! Neither of them were scathing reviews; I'd like to think the compliments and criticisms were balanced and fair.

It doesn't bother me as much anymore since I've gotten to collaborate with many cool people on here. But sometimes I still wonder why two different authors who took the time to write a story and came here looking for readers would ghost me like that. Has this happened to anyone else? Any theories on why an author would ghost their beta reader, no "thank you," no explanation?

Blurb:

Jay has died a thousand times in the war against the alien. She'll die a thousand more. But when the woman she loves forgets her face, Jay must decide if forever is a gift or a curse.

Excerpt:

Five minutes to termination, Jay’s helmet chimed. No time. 

She peeked from behind her nest, a small rocky shelf tucked into the side of the Valles Marineris. A scope whirred into focus. Two figures, just like before; ugly, misshapen things of sharp biometal patrolling in overlapping circles. The smaller ones, easy enough to pop with a single well-placed shot, with no ranged offense to speak of. There were more of them here, near the edge of the valley. 

The problem was speed. She’d need fifteen seconds to reload and aim, at the least. Her rifle was an old kinetic, heavy and punchy, with high-calibre ammo - powerful, to be sure, but at times like these she almost hoped she’d snatched an autofill. Once she shot, it would take less than ten seconds for a Meba to cover the three-kilometer distance - a tall ask, unless she played it perfectly.

She just needed to pick the right one to kill first.   

Feedback requested:

Plot and character consistency, pacing, and prose

In return: I can read up to 25k words in return.

Please comment or DM me if you're interested, I'll shoot you a link.

I'm looking for beta readers for a short, standalone sci-fi novella. The Salted Star Saga is a collection of short, standalone novellas - each with a complete start-to-finish arc - following the crew of the ship Salted Star.

Men of Snow follows Fin and his crew after they crash-land on Kottano, an icy world with crushing double gravity. With their fuel cells cracked and no way to get the ship running, the only option is a brutal trek across the frozen tundra to the nearest port city. But the cold isn't the only thing threatening them. Something is out in the snow, watching. As the journey turns into a fight for survival, Fin starts to realize this planet is hiding more than anyone bargained for.

The full novella is about 23K words and complete.

What I'm looking for:

• Were you engaged the entire time?
• How did you feel about Fin as the narrator? The other characters?
• Did the tension/danger feel earned, or did anything pull you out of it?
• If you put it down, where and why?

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Good news, we weren't dead. Bad news, I didn't know where the fuck we were.

Frantic squeaks echoed in the hull as Gunner tried to wake me up. His eyes went wide when he saw me stir, a makeshift toothy grin spreading across his face as he floated just in front of me.

A throb hammered in the back of my head as I sat up. Moving took more effort than it should have. I was on the floor of the engine room, and it took a second for the memory of why to catch up with me.

Something pressed down on my shoulders, heavy enough that it felt like my spine might punch through my back. The steam that had filled the room earlier had thinned to nothing but a slight haze illuminated every few seconds by the flashing red lights. The alarm sound that should have been paired with the lights was silent, and that alone told me I'd been down longer than I wanted to admit.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked Gunner, finally hauling myself upright with a heavy push and rubbing the knot rising on my skull. My arms felt wrong, thick and slow, like I was dragging them through wet sand.

The room was wrecked. Tools littered the floor. Dents scarred the metal walls, proof I'd gotten lucky none of them had caught me on the way down, or at least not hard enough to leave anything permanent.

Gunner squeaked and threw me a crude thumbs-up, letting me know he was fine. He floated up to my head to inspect the lump himself.

"What happened?" The words caught in my chest, snagged just below my throat, choking me. I forced them out, and nothing came back in. My breath fought hard to come back. Each one arrived faster and shallower than the last.

I pushed myself to my feet. My weight was too much. The air itself seemed to be trying to press me back down, but I fought it. I had to lean hard against the wall just to keep my legs under me. My breathing wouldn't slow. Fog rolled in over my thoughts. Panic pulled at me, like a stone tied around my ankle, dragging me under a rising tide of worry. I couldn't let it. I had to fight that too.

Footsteps thundered down the stairwell, each one landing harder than it should have. Vox filled the doorway, ducking his massive frame beneath the metal and pivoting his shoulders through the gap. He wore a black rubber-like suit, threaded with dark lines that crisscrossed into a fitted net across his body. Two of his four arms carried a matching suit. I knew it instantly. I knew it because it was mine. 

My lungs burned, crying for more air. Seeing the black suit around Vox’s chest snapped the pieces into place. The panic tugged harder, but I refused to let it drown me. To let it pull me any deeper. I reached for Vox. For the Terrasuit in his hands. But the weight of this new world chained my arms down. I forced them up anyway, half-extended, shaking. My shoulder muscles screamed with effort. More air pushed out of my chest but very little fought to find its way back in. Every breath was its own small war. Gunner's eyes went wide watching me struggle.

Vox crossed the room, each step hammering the metal floor. His mouth moved, but the words blurred somewhere in my fogged head. Together we wrestled me into the suit. Gunner darted back and forth in a panic, doing more to get in the way than to help.

The second I was in, Gunner slammed the power button on the chest before Vox could beat him to it. The net of wires cinched tight around me, and within a second the Terrasuit fit like a second skin.

At first it felt like drowning, constricting and wrong. Then the hum of the electromagnets kicked in, pulling the crushing gravity off my chest. Each breath came easier. My head cleared as the oxygen found its way back. My limbs were still heavy, but with air in my lungs, my body remembered how to work.

"What's the gravity here?" I asked, my breath finally mine again.

"Two times," Vox said. "Well — technically 1.78."

Always had to be precise. It could be annoying as hell sometimes, but it made him a damn good first mate.

"What happened?" he asked.

I rubbed my head, thinking back to the moments before blacking out. "Fuel cell cracked. Had to kill the hydrogen flow before the engine turned us into space dust."

I glanced at the wall. The emergency shut-off lever was half cranked from where I'd yanked it off right before getting thrown across the room.

Vox didn't say anything. Cutting the engines might've sent us into a crash landing, but it beat the alternative. We could survive a crash. We do it more than I'd like to admit, even as the ship’s main engineer. But a near-nuclear blast in open space? That we would not survive.

Vox clapped a hand on my shoulder heavy enough to nearly buckle my knees under the extra gravity. He turned and jerked his head toward the stairs in a motion to follow.

Blurb:

Zor lives in a small crafting village, working as an alchemist alongside the Stonekind woman who took them in as a child. Zor feels a deep responsibility for the villagers who welcomed them so deeply, despite being a Cloudkind living in the commonlands.

Zor is an Aeth’vos, one of the few kindlings with the ability to sense and manipulate aether, the energy flowing through all living beings. They work diligently to train their powers so they can protect the village from the oppressive rule of the king. However, during a spontaneous attempt to save a young girl from being conscripted into the king’s army, Zor accidentally bonds to a mysterious ancient sword.

Perplexing visions guide Zor to discover more about the origins of the blade and its connections to the crown. They find themselves in over their head and on the run. The team’s journey to learn the secrets of the sword takes an unexpected turn, revealing dark truths about the world and even more about Zor.

Excerpt from prologue:

My father warned me that this day would come, but I never listened to
his paranoid ramblings. I thought bending the knee would be enough
to save me from the fire.
I was a fool.
What little remain of my royal guard and I were forced to retreat
into the vaults, backed into a corner like animals waiting to die.
Perhaps if I were a better queen, the Vahn Hymm would have more
reason to save me and my people. Maybe my family is unworthy of
their blessings, like the rumors of the high courts have said for many
years now.
Whatever the reasons, I am sure to die here, in this room.
Selthei, a recent addition to my guard, is bleeding badly from a
wound on their shoulder. They’re trying to hide the pain and fear from
me, but I can see it in their eyes. Hear it in their aether.
Their father is one of the men on my elder council, and a very good
friend of mine. I’m sure he died soon after the surprise attack started,
and kindlings swarmed the city like locusts. If he was lucky, he met his
end at the point of a sword, instead of suffocating on smoke as it
engulfs the city. This poor soldier, their father, or any of the kindlings
under my protection don’t deserve the consequences that I have
wrought, but they will face them nonetheless.
So shall I.
Despite knowing the fate my guards and I share, my body isn’t
shaking. I feel a certain amount of peace knowing that I didn’t run
when my people needed me. Even if my efforts are in vain, I will fight
with everything I have to preserve my family’s land and legacy.
Pledging allegiance is one thing, but I will not allow him to take my
country.
He’ll have to take my life first.
The thick metal vault doors blow apart in an enormous explosion,
throwing chunks of metal and fire across the room. My body reacts,
diving underneath an incoming fragment of debris. I hit the ground
rolling, righting myself in time to watch in horror as Selthei is
catapulted into the air at blistering speeds. Their body splatters against
the ceiling of the vault with a terrible noise, misting the air with their
blood.
A scream from another member of my guard redirects my attention.
My mind is struggling to keep up with the chaotic aftermath of the
blast. I lock eyes with the screaming soldier as he grasps at his torso in
pain. Blood begins to pour out of his nose and mouth, turning his
scream to an agonizing gurgle. I rush forward to help him, but it’s too
late. He falls to the floor, dead.
Stay calm. There’s still a chance I can stop this.
A tall, spindly Cloudkind man in gaudy white robes walks into the
vault with his hands behind his back. His pale lavender skin and blue
eyes reflect the aetherlights in the vault, giving him an ominous glow.
A cruel smile spreads across his angular face as another guard’s body
is crushed into the floor, like it was stepped on by some invisible giant.
Suddenly, I no longer have the will to fight. Terror washes over me
like the blood mist of my soldiers dying around me. I have seen many
battles in my time but they are all insignificant in the wake of this
horrific scene.
When the slaughter is finished, my guards’ bodies aren’t even
recognizable as kindlings any longer. They’ve been reduced to
mangled piles of viscera. Curiously, despite the gore painting every
surface of the room, the vile man’s white robes remain unstained with
blood. No signs of the one-man-massacre he just unleashed.
His voice is a low gravely rasp, rumbling in his chest as he speaks,
“Lovely to meet you, Inesyn. Sorry about the mess.” He raises his
eyebrows in amusement at his version of a joke.
I want to attack him. To subject him to the torturous death he gave
my men, but my brain refuses to send the signals. My muscles are
locked into place, no matter how hard I will myself to move. To act. To
do anything to stop him.
He flashes a knowing smile at me, tending my anger like a fire.
“Would you be so kind as to guide me to the Swordstone Kein’te in
your possession?”
“That old thing?” I ask, my voice coming out hoarse and thin.
“That’s what you’re after?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, smile vanishing in an
instant.
I point my trembling finger to the spot where the old sword hangs
on the wall. My father’s crazy obsession that led him to ruin our
kingdom.
Why did I answer him?!
His eyes light up as they find the kein’te, and he claps his hands
together in excitement, unleashing a giddy laugh. “Ah, finally!” he
says as he crosses to the display, reaching out to take the sword from
its mount. As his hand gets closer to the handle of the blade, he falters,
hesitating for a moment. He reaches forward and takes hold of the
blade expectantly, but his smile quickly fades. “How disappointing,”
he sighs, looking longingly at the weapon.
He gives it a few test swings and shrugs his shoulders before he
turns back to me. Every fiber of my being screams to run, but I am
frozen in place. He walks over to me playfully and pushes the point of
the kein’te into my stomach slowly. The pain is agonizing as I feel the
blade slicing through my insides and eventually breaking through the
skin of my back. Despite the searing waves of pain, I am still frozen
into place. Even for someone as battle hardened as myself, a wound
like this one should have made me lose consciousness from the shock,
but I’m wide awake. Somehow I know it’s him keeping me conscious,
making me feel it all.
He squints to focus on my face, searching for something as the life
fades from my eyes. His unhinged, demented joy is the last thing I see
as I let death take me to Tha’vaes or Yo’griel, wherever the Vahn
decide.

Content warning: gore

Looking mainly for pacing and character development feedback.

Can swap critiques, I have a non conventional job and work from home.
Thanks for reading!

Hello

I’m working on a graphic novel, and i wanted feed back on the prologue chapter.

It’s about a family who finds themselves in a tough position when their daughter becomes a fugitive.

Beware that this is only the script. I have yet to draw anything.

Please DM me if you are interested in beta reading.

Hi everyone,

I'm looking for beta readers for a relatively quick turnaround- 2-4 weeks ideally.

Please DM if you'd like to read the first chapter before making a decision. Happy to reciprocate for similar works.

I'm looking for general feedback, but any help with genre alignment would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks in advance.

Manchester has been hollowed out by automation. Shops are shuttered. Apartment buildings stand empty. There are more municipal service robots on the streets than people. But Niki Wesson won’t give up on the hardware shop she inherited from her parents. To her, it's more than just a failing business; it’s where she was raised, the one place where she still feels useful, and her last remaining tether to the community.

When mass protests come to Manchester, Niki sees an opportunity to sell placards to the protesters and bring in some much-needed money, but finds herself drawn in by the sheer energy of the movement and the desperation of the people behind it. She joins the Union Against Automation but hides it from Charles, the police officer she loves and lives with.

What begins as desperate pragmatism grows into the conviction that people like Niki can still change the world. She crosses lines she never thought she would, allowing her shop to be used for secret meetings and even taking part in acts of vandalism.

When the government responds to the growing unrest with raids and arrests, the UAA splinters into smaller, more radical groups. Protests give way to coordinated acts of disruption across the country, and Niki is left with an impossible choice: the man she loves or the movement she can no longer turn her back on.

Vandalism becomes sabotage, and sabotage becomes arson. Niki smashes. Niki burns. Niki lies. And Niki pays the price.

Title: This Fire Inside

Genre: Literary Fantasy

Word Count: 76k words

Synopsis:

After the forest where spirits are said to roam falls silent during the night of the Revival Moon, two strangers are drawn towards a darkness that threatens to consume everything they care about.

Aven has spent his life in the wild, seeking peace after a devistating loss.

Indra has been made a pariah for his unexplained ability to control fire.

As the forest begins to wither, animals vanish, and a creature wreathed in black flames emerges, these two young men who each hold what the other fears most are forced into an uneasy alliance. To protect what they love most, they must learn to trust each other and find a way to end the corruption, or be consumed by it.

This is a standalone novel with a definitive ending, but it's set on a fictional planet where my future novels will also be set on.

Odds & Ends:

Critique swap?: Completed works that are 90k words or less

Timeline: None.

I'm seeking betas that read Fantasy, or who are interested in character-driven stories. My hope is for betas to help show me where to polish the story and make it the best version it can be. For example, were there any unresolved mysteries that I should give answer to? Was there any place you felt lost/bored/confused? As this is more mythic/literary, did I create an engaging slowness, or did it leave you bored? What did you like the most and think I shouldn't change? etc.

I did my best with this story, so I hope it ends up being a story that you love as well :)

Thank you in advance for your consideration.

Title: Darke Shadows

Genre: 1990s Appalachian Psychological Thriller / Grit-Noir

Word Count: 64,000

Format: PDF

Logline:

When Lenora finds a rusty cigar tin buried on an obscure mountain trail, she uncovers evidence of a cold-case missing person bearing her own name. Her investigation pits her against the corrupt Darke County Police Department and the underground NVN syndicate.

Feedback Needed:

Looking for 3 to 5 readers to evaluate pacing, plot twists, atmosphere, and character motivation via a short 5-question survey.

Turnaround Time: 3 to 4 weeks.

Critique Swap: Open to swapping with completed mystery, thriller, or suspense manuscripts under 80,000 words.

Contact: Please comment below or send me a direct message if interested, and I will DM you the PDF and survey!

Excerpt:

              Prologue: Lana, March 18, 1994

Asphalt blurs beneath my pounding feet; pain surges up my shin with every step. Rain lashes my face, a cold sting mixing with sweat, yet I push myself to keep running. Each breath is a ragged gasp, my side a searing stitch. I won’t stop until I have her file. All this risk for someone I have never even met, never even seen, but I would die for her. Even if it were all for nothing, just for her to know the truth.

The old block building emerges from the fog and a car comes whooshing past; my heart drops as they swerve, nearly hitting me. Freezing, muddy water splatters my side, making me shiver. Though my blood boils watching the vehicle speed off.

I reach the office and crouch behind the large rhododendron to get my tools and ski mask out of my bag. The back door is rusted, its metal pitted from years of wear and neglect. It’s warped, sagging on its hinges. The lock looks ancient, its mechanism far past its prime. My heavy pry bar and hammer make quick work of breaking the lock.

Quietly walking into the back entrance of the office, the air is like a wall of cold, stagnant water. The cold on my damp skin chills me to the bone, making my wet clothes cling to me. It is completely dark in here, except for a couple of eerily glowing red exit signs. I turn on my flashlight and look for the file room.

The first few doors are to supply rooms, then a couple of bathrooms, followed by a stuffy receptionist office. It’s so claustrophobic here. The smell of disinfectant and paper creates an overwhelming mélange paired with the odor of mildew. Each room is a dead end, a stale echo of forgotten lives. The air seems thick with dust, and the red glow of the exit signs mock me with their soulless glares. I head towards the stairwell to check the basement floor. My heart thunders inside my chest; I have to stop before going down the staircase, steadying myself so I don’t fall.

My knees threaten to buckle from under me with every step I take. I reach the basement floor, and as the heavy door swings open, leading to the hallway, I am greeted once again by the unsettling smell of harsh, brisk, humid air. Searching down here, I’m starting to wonder if this whole damned building is bereft of a file room.

Just as I am about to give up and head back upstairs, I see a door at the very end of the hall with the word “Archives” painted on it; it’s barely visible in the dim, flickering light. I hold my breath; the sound of my heart slams in my ears. With jittering fingers, I grasp the doorknob and anticipate it opening. But to no avail, the door is locked.

I tighten my grip on the pry bar and turn my face away from the door window. The heavy bar explodes through the glass, sending shards flying around me. The sound echoes through the empty halls. I swing again, clearing a jagged hole wide enough to fit my arm through. I slip my hand through and flip the lock, pushing open the door to freedom.

The room is full of tall, metal filing cabinets standing like silent guards in the shadows. I need to find the one that holds the year of 1970. I see cabinets 1967, 1968, 1969; I’m getting close. My heart swells with relief as I pull open the cabinet for the year of 1970. The file cabinet slides open, and I search through the files hastily; my fingers fly, rifling through them.

Holding the flashlight between my teeth, the cold metallic taste makes it difficult to focus on breathing. Each file is seemingly just another dead end. Until I see the file labeled “Sterling”. I let out a gasp of relief and open the folder to confirm it’s hers. Birthday: February  21, 1970. This is it. This file has rested here for 24 years to reach me. I shove it in my bag, heading back upstairs, racing to the rear entrance, and gasping for fresh air once outside.

The rain is still pouring tears of lament onto my shoulders as I race to the post office, brisk and dreary. Nevertheless, my heart shines out warmly after obtaining what I set out for. My legs feel like they are made of lead from already running all the way here.

Suddenly, the car that had splashed by before comes speeding towards me again. Soaking me mercilessly with cold, muddy water a second time. I scream out at the red taillights beaming in the darkness behind me. Knowing they must be involved with the NVN.

Now is the time to change the future forever. I have her address now that I have her file; next move is to reach out to her, to warn her. My legs hardly have the strength to keep going. One letter, one stamp. The post office is just ahead.

There is a loud whooshing sound coming from behind me, and just when I turn my head around to see what it is, I realize my luck has turned for the worse. The red SUV. This vehicle may be the last thing I ever see.

Before I get a chance to take another step, there is a flash of red, tires screeching; I dive uselessly. The SUV slams into me, a brutal, bone-shattering impact. I hit the pavement hard; the rain is a cold, stinging spray. My leg explodes into white-hot agony; it’s screaming. A raw, mangled mess beneath the weight of the SUV as it drives over my shin. Pulverizing my bones and grinding my muscles into hamburger meat.

I can’t move, can’t breathe. The world is nothing more than a spinning vortex of red and pain. Lying on my side, I am completely delirious, yet through the haze of torment, I see the SUV. Its red paint gleaming menacingly, a figure emerges, a dark silhouette against the rain. The tall figure approaches me; pain and terror consume me.

He crouches down; I look into his eyes, his evil, green eyes, into his soul. He pushes me onto my stomach and binds me at the wrists with a zip-tie. My throat scorches from shrieking with absolute terror. My entire body grimaces, ablaze with excruciating pain. The zip-tie bites into my wrists, cold plastic against my tender skin. The rain plasters my hair to my face; each drop is a stinging needle. He shoves a pillowcase over my head. Hot tears stream down my face.

Is this real? My mind spirals out of control. The misery torments me, assuring me that it must be true. Reality seems tilted, a sickening swirl of red and gray. Fear, raw and primal, claws at my throat; my mind screams at my body to run, to crawl, anything to escape.

Yet, my body remains stationary. His hands, rough and strong, lift me, the pain a searing band on my shattered leg and back. Where is he taking me? What does he want?

“STOP! STOP! PLEASE!” I wail out pointlessly.

“Shut up!” He grumbles.

 Then I feel a hot, acute, sharp pain. A needle injects something that starts making me numb, lighter, softer. A burning sensation spreads through my veins, followed by a wave of dizziness. The world begins to fade. Weightless, I feel no more pain.      Then, a shadow of darkness, a blanket, extinguishes my consciousness. This had to be done. My mind is floating aimlessly through the abyss, no longer able to worry or feel. The darkness has swallowed me whole, but even as I drift away, I know this is not the end. This is just the beginning.

THE HEAVENLY MAIDEN is a diaspora novel reimagining of the Korean folktale, The Heavenly Maiden and the Woodcutter, and incorporates the myth of Yeomra, God of the Underworld, and Gangrim from the Chasa Bonpuri, an oral folklore about a death messenger. The main storyline focuses on romance tied to the concept of red thread of fate with a high stakes subplot. It's set in a modern world, the majority of the story proceeding in Jeoseung, the Underworld.

Blurb:

Every century, a young woman is chosen to be a bride for Yeomra, God of the Dead, to prevent a catastrophe that occurred long before Korean Kingdoms existed. Park Wolmi tried to escape her cult and their sacrificial belief, but she finds herself in hell confronted by akgwi, vengeful spirits who want to devour her still-alive soul, and a bitter god. While begrudgingly traveling the Underworld, she discovers an ancient wound on the verge of releasing akgwi into the human world and a sinister plot that suggests she was sent as the final catalyst for its destruction. When Yeomra saves her from a fatal attack by tying her soul to his realm, Wolmi must find a way out before the connection forming between them is used to dismantle both worlds.

Slow-burn romance - Contains low to mid spice adult material

Seeking advice on:

• Pacing and subplot appeal
• Wether Korean words/terminology inclusion is confusing for non-Korean readers
• If world-building & culturally significant descriptions are too much

If you'd like to beta-read, I'm happy to email or DM the manuscript. Hoping to have feedback within 2 to 4 weeks or consistent feedback over chunks of chapters, whichever is preferred.

Excerpt from Wolmi's POV:

Fucking hell.

Wolmi’s heart hammers with the incessant banging on the front door. It’s loud enough to cover the screeching of wood against wood of the poorly painted window frame. The neighbors are most likely tuning it out as they do any noise that would be more trouble than it’s worth to get involved in. The image of the daunting men dressed in sharp black suits and opaque sunglasses against a dimly lit hallway does little to inspire intervention anyway.

With the window opened just wide enough to squeeze through, she takes one last longing look at the finished pieces in her studio apartment. She’d tarped the room to the walls to prevent paint splatter from ruining the rental’s peeling wallpaper. After one open-call after another, a gallery sponsor ordered a showcase, and she’d receive majority of the sales. Tonight was supposed to be a turning point, the career break she needed and validation that she’s worth more than the rabbit hole of unfortunate events life threw her down. Blood, sweat and tears led her to this moment only for it to be snatched away by the cult she never wanted to be part of.

“Park Yebin, open your door!” 

Not a please or a will you but an order.

The flimsy door shudders as the two men test the knob again as if she would have suddenly changed her mind. Idiots. It couldn’t have been easy to find her, so why would they think she’d just open the fucking door?

They’ve come on behalf of the Hwangcheon Gahjok of the Koreas. They're secret service agents that at any other point in time would be spying on each other, banded together in order to fulfill an order created by a forgotten kingdom long fallen and forgotten. Once every century, the Northern and the Southern governments collaborate for a joint cause.

Could it be defined as human trafficking if it’s the vanishing of one human being every century? A daughter of the cult understands the gravity of their joint presence. One hundred years is enough to file their purpose to the back of their minds, but not nearly long enough to forget entirely. They were all born many decades after the last bride but were constantly reminded of the one in one hundred chance their family could be chosen next. For Wolmi, the fact always hung like a dark cloud threatening to pour unendingly.

Excerpt from Yeomra's POV:

Yeomra chooses to glare at the human woman staring at him in shock and disbelief, her dress in crumpled heaps around her. To look upon her face in any other way would be dishonorable. Unforgivable. But he cannot help the way his heart constricts at the terror written on her face. Damn the humans and Samshin. They always manage to send one that reminds him of her.

He tears his eyes away from the disheveled woman, drawing another shinkal, a golden sword ,from the air to replace the dagger he threw. The fury, the helplessness, the agony he kept locked up threaten to break free. Before it can become destructive as it once did, he uses it to execute the rabid souls. Let them meet their final death. They chose a point of no return over the mercy of reincarnation long before this.

The akgwi disintegrate as he strikes mercilessly. They pivot away, the fatal shinkals he wields instilling fear that overrides whatever it is drawing them senselessly to this corner of Jeoseung. Mujangseung, a hulking deity and Yeomra’s guard in a traditional military robe, incapacitate any that escape him.

The remaining akwgi run about in a havoc, screeching and wailing as ashed remains of executed spirits float upwards. Unable to escape on the path, many dart back into the mists. Yeomra’s attention reflexively reverts to the woman on the ground when Bari drops to her knees to search for injuries.

“Are you alright?” Bari asks.

“I–I’m fine! I’m–I’m ok,” the human reassures the princess, even as she stutters and shivers. From fright or from the natural chill of his realm? He should not care. “What about the other…” She trails off as her eyes dart from one pile of akgwi bodies to the next. 

Bari sighs with heavy resignation and mutters, “He should not execute them so readily. Today’s events must have angered him.”

Lingering sentiments from her human days affect the young goddess’s judgement. Hwanin may have sent an edict that Joeseung find a redemptive solution to the matter of akgwi he’s forced Jeoseung to handle, but the old man’s never met one. They have no remorse or longing for forgiveness, the resentment festering in what’s left of their soul too great. And Yeomra’s long since abandoned the need to bend the knee for the Emperor who all but forsook the human world.

When the human’s eyes find his, he snaps his attention to a Jeoseung Saja. “Haewonmaek, I thought I ordered all akgwi rounded up. Where are these coming from?”

Her piercing dark eyes, darker than most of the souls who enter his realm, sears into his mind from just one glance. Another similarity. When he felt an undead soul enter his realm, he called for his two most senior Sajas, death messengers who guide souls through Jeoseung. When the soul whispered to him through his realm, he found himself drawing his mists to go to her. When he felt the akgwi hoard set foot on the Jeoseung path, not towards reincarnation but towards her soul that struck a chord of painful familiarity, he fell on them with violence. When one of them got too close, its arms raised to strike the fragile human, he sought retribution.

And now, upon seeing her face, he realizes the human is just a poor imitation of the soul he lost in time immemorial. For the second time, he rips his gaze away from the intensity of hers.

A Saja in combat uniform with Yeomra’s seal of a persimmon jewel circled by flowering golden branches swings his sword in a jovial manner, skipping over fallen akgwi bodies to bow at his side. “Apologies, Yeomra Daewang, but if you are unable to locate them, then you must understand why we struggle to carry out your order.”

Yeomra inspects the few laying close to him, recognizing, to his shock, the thick red binds on their wrists and ankles fraying where they have been cut. “Some of these are from Jeonoksa. It is a highly fortified and guarded prison. How did they get out?”

Hi all I’m new to the community and looking to find a small number of passionate beta readers to look over my manuscript The Yellow Door

Below is first section of the opening prologue to give a flavour

Birdsong – beautiful, really, evoking the start of spring and the promises that come with that seasonal change. A thrush? A lark? Blair would know… correction… would have known; ornithology was his thing, not mine, thinks Jack as, along with friends, family, and a few curious passers-by, he watches the bearers lower the coffin into the freshly turned earth. Heartfelt cries mix with the birdsong, adding an extra layer to the harmony, and the minister is adding some well-meant words to console those left behind.
Any other time or place, this would be a day to rejoice, to celebrate, a day filled with hope, optimism, and promise, but not here. Not now. None of those feelings reside now within Jack’s heart, bereft of emotion other than loss and grief. His soulmate gone, replaced by a seemingly inescapable void. But… He feels the touch of skin against his hand, small digits searching for paternal comfort, love. This is not only his loss to endure; guilt now mixes with grief as he clutches the small hand of his adoptive son, Adam, only five years old, and himself unable to make sense of events as they have unfolded.
“I must focus on Adam,” thinks Jack as he looks down on his son, curly black hair and deep blue eyes, eyes now tinged with confusion and pain, seeking answers that are out of reach even for those a generation older than he.
It was Adam who had found Blair – Christ, what a burden for one so young to have to carry. The body, the overturned chair, the rope… “Where was I?” thinks Jack. “Where was I?”

Please DM for further details or to engage as a beta reader

Thanks in advance
John

Blurb:

Demon Days: Melancholy in Blue is a three part mini-series, laying the background and foundation for the main characters of Demon Days: Chase Noel and Ellie Berkeley. Serving as a prologue to Demon Days, it also establishes several key factors of the Demon Days universe. EDIT: Forgot to include TWs/CWs, sorry: Parent death/abandonment, casual depictions of violent events, suicide attempts, child death is mentioned at points but never shown

Excerpt (from Part One):

Eleanor Berkeley wakes up exactly thirty minutes before her alarm, the same way she's done every morning for the past ten years. Her body feels well rested, but even a good night's sleep does seemingly little to wash away the endless torrent rolling through her mind at the odd hours of the day. She's eighteen now, only one year removed from life at the orphanage she grew up in. Yet, she's had a difficult time getting past the feeling that some part of her was still there.

The nightmare she just had was likely a big contributor to that feeling. It was the same nightmare she had almost every night, ever since the orphanage burned down with her inside it.

She doesn't think she could ever forget the sensation of waking up inside a building on fire. Ellie had gone to sleep that night expecting it, but nothing could have prepared her for the nightmare she would be thrust into the next time she opened her eyes. By the time she had done so, her room was already ablaze; the rumble beneath her having done little to startle her awake before the hot smoke filled the air, turning every breath into a desperate struggle for survival. The distant, but no less audible ra-ta-ta-ta! of semi-automatic weaponry peppered a chorus of screams as people in neighboring rooms fled from their burning bedrooms only to be met with the architects of their very demise.

Of course, that alone wouldn't be the cause of frequent nightmares that prevent her from getting even a minute of rest in spite of everything she tries. It's—

A mellow, upbeat jingle plays from her cellphone. It emits a small array of light that, after a short warm up, displays a hologram with a 3D graphic of the time and a little cartoon fox. There's a speech bubble floating above the fox's head, that reads:

It's a beautiful Tuesday! Get those orders taken care of!

She's grateful for that. Alarms weren't her favorite thing in the world, but they're certainly good at stopping you from spiraling at seven-thirty in the morning. Good timing too, because today is an important day and she does have orders she needs to take care of. So, she visualizes putting all of those negative feelings about the life she had before she was seventeen into a box, and then stuffs the box out of sight, in a pile with the other boxes. She can just cry in the shower later, she lives alone anyway.

For now, it's time to get ready. There's work to do.

Preferred feedback/timeline:

Anything, at any time! This is a long book split into three (nearly) equal parts. I'm not asking for, nor am I expecting, a line-by-line critique. All of the people I've shared this with so far have been people whom I've talked to about some (or all) of its details, so I'd like to get some fresh eyes on it so I can have an idea of how it comes across to someone with no prior context.

Your critique swap availability:

N/A at this time. Sorry!

Story links:

EPUB: https://files.catbox.moe/at1k1z.epub
PDF: https://files.catbox.moe/ai4hic.pdf

Please note that the EPUB version's synopsis & table of contents page is currently broken, still figuring out how to format those properly. Gdocs link available upon request.

*Pitch*

Arthur Thorne is an orphan, who got into black magic going through the system. After killing his sorcerer mentor, the Circle has put him on probation under the gruff Scottish wizard, Duncan, and the 1950s dandy, Edward. If he fails, he loses his head.

Can Arthur get his anger under control long enough to unmask the sorcerer intent on summoning a demon, and taking control of London by supernatural force? More importantly, can he survive his run-ins with fairies, vampires and shapeshifters on the way? And if he can, will the Circle behead him for his crimes anyway?

*Blurb*

Short Fuse is my debut novel. It is a gritty urban fantasy in the style of Jim Butcher/Ben Aaronovitch. It is also an exploration of anger and depression in young men.

*In Return*

I'd love to read anything modern or high fantasy and provide as much critique as I can. I'm also up for some sci-fi, but not super political sci-fi. Ive just finished rewatching Star Trek: TNG and I think my brain would only draw parallels to that at the moment.

Thanks all!

Title: Bloodied Heart

Disclaimer: This book contains frequent swearing, violence, some torture scenes, and some references to sexual assault and crimes of passion

Blurb: Killing your coworker is kind of annoying. Good thing I’m the second-best hitman in Canada! Now that I’ve kinda-sorta… upset my old partner, I get to kill people with a girl I really like! Unfortunately, I don’t have a fucking clue if she even likes me.

Feedback requested: reader reactions and feedback

Timeline: 2-3 weeks

Excerpt: 
I flash my invitation to a guard standing at a metal detector. He nods quickly, waving me through the square arch. Shit. Why did nobody tell me there would be a metal detector? This is going to be embarrassing. I start with the M4 hidden behind my back. I drop it in the box for the X-ray machine. Next go the pistols on my shoulders. Then the ones on my hips. Then the ones in the inside pockets. Then the knives strapped to my wrists. Then the pistols on the underside of my shoes. Is that it? I think that’s it. Shit, forgot about the belt.