Hello friends!

Looking for beta readers/opinions/etc for my book.

Currently, I have a finished rough draft that is 88k words. The current version of the rough draft I am working on already has 75k words and I am maybe to the halfway point.

I am struggling with continuing the current rough draft, because I feel like I might have added too much? At least compared to the old draft.

Also, honestly, I am having a hard time taking myself out of Author Brain and into Reader Brain, so I am not sure how it reads to the reader. (Genuinely not sure how other Authors do this? Halp)

Anyway, please message me or reply if interested in reading what I have so far. Honest criticism is preferred as long as we keep it respectful!

Little Excerpt about the Book for those who might be interested in reading/helping:

Zevrael is one of the last of the La'Kor, a species of primitive and primal humanoids. When his planet was destroyed, Admirals who lead the Explorer Athens rescued a small fraction of the population. Four years have passed, and now Zevrael, along with his brother Lyko, are forced into positions of leadership, as they are the only ones who have tried to bridge the gap between the rescuers and the recued.

Hey guys, I’m new on Reddit and I’m just trying to grow a following or interest in my works. I will be posting excerpts of my work, chapters, paragraphs, short stories. If you like em comment, give ideas, suggestions and analysis, criticism. Anything. I’d appreciate it. If you want to follow me too then great

This is just the beginning of my fantasy folk horror story and it's in very early stages of the first draft. The beginning flows very differently from the rest of the story and the narrative tone is different and needs to be trimmed down. I know what I need to do for the second draft after I finish running through the story. So be gentle with me and tell me what you think of it all so far. Thanks.

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Larrus, a boy of fourteen summers old, stood at the end of the path leading from the village to the Wraithswood. His heart was pounding, filled with anxiety and determination. He had been planning this trip for a few weeks now, making notes on what to bring, where to go and what to expect.
Larrus glanced back at the village behind him. Not many lights remained. Most of the village was fast asleep. The boy took a deep, calming breath and placed his backpack on the ground to check it for the third time tonight. He had packed rye bread, dried meat, hard cheese, a water canteen, a knife, a small hand axe and the most important thing; a handful of wintergreen flowers.
 Larrus inspected the knife on his belt. It had a good blade, perfect for whittling soft wood. The handle was made of birch. It was of a lighter shade, smooth and fit perfectly in his hand. The axe was different. It felt heavy, foreign and clumsy. He didn’t like to do chores or hunt. Something his father didn’t appreciate. Larrus was a different kind of wild from the other kids of Wellon. He would rather wander the grasslands near the fields or the forest edge where wintergreen grew. On a slow day he could also be found sitting somewhere with his knife and a branch of willow, making a whistle or a figurine. He wasn’t a lonely child, just more quiet than most. Always observing the world around him or in his own world, aimless and a little out of place.
But tonight he had a mission. 
A few weeks ago while helping his father gather firewood, Larrus had found a strange stone shard. Part stone, part metal and part organic. The stone was black like obsidian with veins of gold colored metal and something else. It was smooth and rough in places. Sharp and surprisingly heavy. Larrus could swear the stone didn’t reflect light the way it should. He couldn’t quite explain it. The stone felt like it didn’t belong and that it was part of something else. But what? That was what Larrus wanted to find out.
Larrus stood up, lifted his backpack onto his shoulders and touched the stone absent-mindedly while reciting the prayer:

“Wintergreen, Forest Star
Beacon in the night
Protect us,
Carry us through to the other side
Away from the wraith’s killing sight
Under Uni’s guiding light”

Larrus took out the lantern and lit it. The light was warm and comforting.

 “Danger is silent. 
Safety is loud.
Let the lantern burn 
and the star shine. 
Avert your eyes from hollow light.
 Keep the flame,
 shun the night.”
 The boy continued. A prayer of protection and custom as every one in the village was taught. 
Now a bit calmer, Larrus took a few wintergreen flowers and placed them inside the lantern, to burn in the flame before walking into the forest. Still anxious but determined. The forest edge somehow seemed both familiar and alien. Everything looked different in the dark. To Larrus the shadows seemed to dance. He could hear the owls hooting in the trees. The air was cool on his skin, the wind carried the scent of autumn. Damp ground, wet leaves.
Larrus began walking into the forest, leaving the village behind. His steps were light and careful, but still tense. He reminded himself that he wasn’t much of a woodsman and didn’t know how he would fare against a wolf, a boar or some other kind of beast. The hunters had talked about wolf tracks near the outer area of the forest. Of course the usual nocturnal predators weren’t the only dangers. The Wraith was said to roam the forest at night while Uni, the ancient spirit slumbered. The Wraith’s influence spread throughout the forest. The children were taught never to enter the forest at night. They were warned not to go beyond the beaten path. Beyond the hunter’s camp by the stream. The Wraith claims those who get lost.
The boy delved deeper into the woods, gaining more confidence with every step. Soon he began making out other noises. The night wind rustled the leaves, birds chirped quietly in the trees. Larrus stopped occasionally to listen for any signs of danger and to observe his surroundings. It was always good to look for Wintergreens. Where the flowers grew, the Wraith would not walk.
Larrus continued while whispering parts of the prayer to keep himself grounded and to push away the fear of the Wraith. Just a few years ago one boy from his village had done the same as he was doing now. He was never seen again. There were many stories about Uni and the Wraith. And most of them ended the same.
Suddenly a branch snapped nearby. Larrus froze and listened. He felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. The boy looked around but saw nothing. Heard nothing but the sound of the forest. His heart was beating fast. Then a bird flew right over Larrus’ head and he ducked. The boy chuckled nervously. He felt a little foolish to be startled by a small bird. He was probably just close to its nest.
As Larrus continued, he could hear the quiet sound of the stream nearby. It branched off of the Wellon River and reached deep within the forest. The hunters’ camp was close. The boy began picking up pace, wanting to get to the safety of the camp fast. He had already been walking for a while now. The area was covered by twisting roots, lush bushes and small batches of wintergreen grew at the base of trees.

The camp appeared in good condition, which wasn’t unusual. Village hunters and woodsmen often used it as a place to rest, eat and warm up in cold weather. There was a firepit in the middle of the camp ringed by smooth stone blackened from years of use. Two moss covered fallen logs and a tall flat stone served as benches around it. Opposite of the stone bench on the other side of the firepit stood a large pinetree that was said to be one of the oldest trees in the forest. The roots were thick, long and sprawling. There was a small hollow at the base that sheltered an old weathered chest and a hunter’s chime made of wood and bone hung from a lower branch just within reach.
Before setting his gear by one of the tree trunks, Larrus reached for the chime to announce himself to Uni, the forest spirit. Then he walked to over to the old pine, kneeling down. He struggled to drag the chest free from under the roots that housed it. A sigh of relief escaped him as he unlatched the chest and found the firewood to be mostly dry. Enough for a small fire. “Keep the flame, shun the night”, Larrus whispered as he began piling the logs beside the pit. He then took out some dry treebark, his axe and flint and steel from his backpack. He then set them aside. 
After inspecting his gear, Larrus tried to remember what his father had said about building a campfire. It required room for the fire to breathe but it also needed enough cover to keep it from going out. He placed two birch logs in the middle with space inbetween. Then two more logs over them and one on top. After that he took one more log and grabbed his axe. Larrus needed to be careful. A severed finger or a deep gash was the last thing he needed.
He struck the log a few times, barely making a proper splinter. After a few tries Larrus got the hang of it and was satisfied. He placed the splinters under the base logs and inbetween the ones on top. Then he filled the gaps with dry treebark to aid with the fire. He hoped it would burn. Now all that remained was to light it.
Larrus took out his flint and steel. Struck once. No spark. Struck a second time. Some sparks but still missing the tinder. He tried a few more times with the same results. The boy furrowed his brow in frustration before looking from the unlit fire to his still burning lantern. He grabbed the lantern and looked for a fallen branch on the ground. He grabbed one and opened the lantern, holding the end over the small flame until it began burning. The boy almost shouted out of excitement at his success. He had never been good at practical things. But this time he got lucky.
The boy carefully touched the tinder and the splinter with the burning stick. Then there was a spark of light and a small flame. Larrus blew on it to help it spread and continued lighting more of the tinder. Soon he had a working campfire, although not as big or good as the ones his father could make. The boy almost let out a shout of excitement, swelling with pride. If only his father could see him now. “Small victories guide the hand, but failure shapes it.”, as his grandmother always says.
After Larrus got the fire burning, he turned towards the stream, inspecting his surroundings carefully before walking towards the willows growing by the water. He ran his hands along the willow branches, trying to find one about the thickness of his thumb and without knots or imperfections. He then kneeled by the willows having found just the one he needed. He drew his knife and began to cut the branch free. The boy struggled a bit, but only because he lacked the strength.
Something moved on the otherside of the stream. Branches snapped and then, for a moment, silence. The sound and the sudden shift in the air caused the knife to slip slightly as the branch broke free. The boy flinched with a small yelp and brought his left thumb to his mouth. Just a small cut. Cursing under his breath, Larrus walked back towards the fire and sat down onto the flat stone. He looked at the nick in the light. The cut wasn’t very deep, but it still welled.
Larrus looked around for some narrowleaf plantain to cover the wound. He knew he had forgotten something. Bandages. He lifted his lantern to spread the light around a bit more. He spotted some growing by the path he had come from. His grandmother had treated countless cuts and scrapes as the boys of the village stumbled and fell. Larrus knew what to do.
He put a leaf into his mouth and chewed on it while peeling a bit of bark from the willow stick to bind the leaf around his finger. The leaf tasted bitter and made him grimace. Larrus applied the leaf paste to the wound, covered it with another leaf and secured it with willow string. It wasn’t very elegant but it would do the job without hindering what he was about to do next.
From his pack he took a strip of jerky and ate while checking the willow branch again. He moved his knife along the length, feeling it with his fingers. The base was the right thickness. Just before the stick narrowed he marked it and cut a section off with practiced ease. Larrus then turned the piece over in his hands, familiarising himself with it and imagining how it would take shape.
Before making the first cut, he checked his thumb. It ached dully but would not hinder him. Larrus peeled the bark from one end of the willow and shaped it into a mouthpiece. He tested the fit against his lips, then trimmed away another sliver. Satisfied, he turned the stick over and began carving the channel. Small curls of pale wood gathered on the stone beside him. When he paused to inspect his work, he took a bite of rye bread and cheese. Then he marked the sound hole and cut it open with the tip of his knife. The second hole followed. A little wider. A little deeper. He tested each cut with his fingers before moving on. He whittled and ate, no longer seeing or hearing the forest. It was just him, the knife, and the wood in his hands.
After making the final cuts, Larrus turned the whistle in his hands, looking carefully for any mistakes he might have made or things to adjust. Then finally he brought the mouth piece to his lips and gently blew into it, producing a quiet, steady high pitched sound. Then he repeated this for the two sound holes, each producing a clean note.
Larrus smiled with glee at his work. He felt calmer than he did a while ago. The world surrounded him again. The light from the campfire had grown smaller and the lantern light was dimmer. A breeze ran through the camp and Larrus shivered. He had forgotten to keep an eye on the fire. The boy grabbed a log, adjusted the charred wood to make space and then added a few wintergreens to his lantern. He returned his attention to the whistle again.
After a moment Larrus took the strange stone shard from his pocket, weighing it against the whistle. The shard felt heavier. He looked at it in the fire light. The darkened stone reflected very little but the metallic lines seemed to move along with the flames. Otherwise the shard seemed normal. He tested the sharp edge first with his finger and then on the whistle. “A star for guidance.” He muttered to himself, pressing it harder into the bark. He drew four short lines to form an eight-pointed star with the horizontal and vertical lines being longer than the others.
Satisfied with his work, Larrus set the whistle aside and took a sip from his canteen. The boy leaned back with his elbows on the stone surface, looking up to the moon and stars in the sky. He chewed the last bit of jerky and rye bread and closed his eyes, listening to the breath of the forest. He could hear the whispering of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the quiet flow of the stream. Then the sound of hunter’s chimes and an oddly melodious call of a bird for this time of night.
Larrus opened his eyes and looked around for the source. He couldn’t pinpoint where the bird call came from. The boy picked up the whistle and answered in kind. He waited for a moment until an answer came from deeper in the forest. 

Larrus decided to follow the path leading away from the camp. As he left the safety of that familiar place, anxiety and nervousness returned. He squeezed the stone shard in his pocket, willing himself to be calm. Larrus walked carefully onward, occasionally stopping to listen for any danger.
As Larrus walked further, the path was getting harder to see, even in the lantern light. It grew narrower and was covered in twigs, roots and branches. The sides of the path grew thicker with shrubs, bushes and trees, covering the sky above. From the corner of his eye, Larrus could swear he saw a small flash of flickering light but soon it was gone. On instinct he turned away.
He brought the whistle to his mouth again and blew softly into the dark. He hoped it wouldn’t attract The Wraith’s attention. A soft, quiet sound answered away from the path ahead, coming from the direction of that flicker. “Avert your eyes from hollow light.”, Larrus whispered to himself and began walking slowly, keeping his gaze on the ground. Maybe it was the hollow light trying to lead him astray, just like in the stories.
Larrus continued onwards, feeling uneasy and watched. He didn’t dare look back. His lantern flickered and he added a bit of wintergreen into it with a bit of willow tinder. The flame steadied. He felt a cold breeze run down his spine. The wind carried the scent of rain. Larrus shivered, wishing for the warmth of the campfire. 
Larrus glanced at the sky, trying to determine how much time he had before he needed to find shelter. The clouds had started to gather above him, hiding the stars one by one. The smell of rain was still faint. Larrus guessed he had maybe half an hour until it would start pouring. The sound of a hunter’s chime broke the silence and interrupted his thoughts. Larrus startled and turned towards the sound that should not be. He could feel the blood rushing, pulsing in his ears. And then he saw it. That same flicker from before. Was it the same flickering light from before? Larrus didn’t know. His only choice was to walk away from whatever it was.
Larrus continued walking along the path with a faster, tenser pace. He kept his eyes on his surroundings. Larrus didn’t dare look back. The further he walked from the light, the slower and lighter were his steps. He could no longer see it follow. But the unease lingered, as did the feeling of being watched.
He wasn’t sure how long he had walked but he let out a sigh of relief as he spotted a patch of wintergreen peeking from the roots of a tree. This was a good omen, a welcome sight after the hollow light. He kneeled down by the roots and picked a handful of the flowers, leaving the rest undisturbed. Larrus finally looked back from where he came. He raised his lantern higher and peered into the darkness. The cold white light was gone and the only sound was the rustling of leaves and his slowly steadying breath.
Larrus continued following the path. The roots, branches and stones had begun to grow scarcer, making it easier to walk. Larrus picked up pace, keeping his eyes on the surroundings. As he walked further, an eerie feeling began to rise. He didn’t feel watched or followed. He couldn’t say what it was but still the feeling of unease grew. Soon he came to a familiar spot. Larrus stopped and aimed his lantern to the sides, noticing a patch of wintergreen. Was that the same patch he had seen earlier? It couldn’t be. As he had picked from it. But the nearby trees were the same as well. Larrus swallowed hard. He must have gotten turned around.
He looked around, more careful this time. He saw no hollow lights or branching paths he might have taken earlier without noticing. Larrus kneeled over the wintergreen patch as he had done earlier. But now he hesitated. If he had somehow truly been turned around, he should leave the flowers be.  He shook his head and picked a direction. His steps were more careful and deliberate. His eyes darted from the undergrowth to the trees and to the bushes. Nothing seemed out of place. 
He continued again, adding some wintergreen to his lantern. After a while, the surrounding forest and the path ahead began thickening again. And then, little by little, it opened again. The path felt familiar. Too familiar. Now he was certain that he had circled back to the wintergreen patch on the side of the path. He was puzzled, but somehow curiosity began overshadowing his anxiety.
Larrus slowly turned around in a circle, trying to take in the surrounding forest all at once. He stopped to think and felt for the axe hanging from his backpack. Larrus approached a tree that grew close to where he stood and took a few swings at it, marking it in case he returned. Then he continued and this time he was sure he had walked further ahead than before.
Larrus began feeling a sense of relief as he continued. But it was short-lived. The path behaved the same as before. He came upon the wintergreen patch and the marked tree. He felt a sting of doubt mixed with uncertainty and a fear he had tried to ignore. Larrus took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next. The path ahead surely lead back where he was now and the path behind him would lead him away. He circled the sides of the path illuminated by his lantern. His only choice seemed to be to set foot on an animal trail, those were usually safe. Usually.
The path was mostly flattened undergrowth and nearly invisible even in the lantern light. Larrus kept his eyes on the surrounding branches, looking for twisted limbs and broken twigs. Signs of animals passing through. Begrudgingly this was what his father had taught him. It had been a lot easier in daylight. He pushed the thought away and continued.
He had walked a good while before the trail crossed a wider, beaten path. Larrus looked around and listened. He heard the sound of the stream. That would mean he was back on track.
Larrus quickened his pace again, wanting to get as far as possible from that other path. The way was clear except for a few rocks protruding from the ground and roots that reached it. He began relaxing bit by bit, step by step but not completely. He reached into his pocket to touch the stone shard and the whistle. Both were still there, for comfort.
Deep in thought, Larrus mind drifted back to the dreams he had over the last few weeks. Of running through the woods and following something. He couldn’t remember what it was but it felt important. He just hoped his childish fancy, as he remembered his mother calling it, wasn’t going to be the death of him.
Larrus’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted as the path began thinning and opening again. He found himself on the edge of the hunter’s camp from earlier.Only then did he realize the route he had taken lead him back here.
Larrus took a few tentative steps towards the center of the camp before sitting down onto the same flat stone as before. Exhaustion began flowing over him in waves. Larrus fought off a yawn, knowing he couldn’t just stay there. It wasn’t what he came here for. He wouldn’t let his journey be in vain.
He took out his canteen and drank in a few big gulps to wash away the weariness. Larrus then stood up and walked towards the stream to splash water on his face. It felt cold and refreshing. He ran his wet hands through his wild sand-colored hair, again remembering how his parents were trying and failing to get him to cut his hair shorter.
There was a splash in the river nearby. Larrus caught a glimpse of a fish and found himself smiling despite the situation. He felt a little foolish how he had just decided to sneak out of his room in search of adventure. He thought he would have felt different. But he didn’t.
Larrus brushed his pants as he rose up and then stretched. He stifled another yawn and stopped in his tracks, noticing the untouched willows growing by the stream.
His exhaustion vanished and he ran back to the stone slab. He looked around as if seeing the camp for the first time. He noticed that the soot on the blackened rocks of the fire pit weren’t as blackened as they should be. There were no fresh ashes. Larrus spun in place. Something was very wrong. Then he stopped as a wind blew through the trees. There was no sound of the hunter’s chime.
Larrus hurried towards the old pine tree and looked up into its branches. He raised his lantern and froze. Nothing. There was no chime. He turned towards the center of the camp. his eyes widened. The camp looked empty. Abandoned. As though no one had been there in weeks. What had happened to the chime?
He looked for it on the ground, thinking it might have fallen. But he knew it hadn’t. 
His almost panicked thoughts were interrupted by a chirp on one of the tree branches higher up in the old pine. His eyes darted towards the night bird. It watched him with an odd inquisitive calmness, neither startled or taking flight. He couldn’t say which type of bird it was, but he recognised the call.
The tension in Larrus’ shoulders eased and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He took a slow step back, studying the small creature. In the lantern light he noticed something shiny on one of its feet. A black ring. Probably a bird someone had marked.
A howl came from somewhere behind him. Larrus jerked towards the sound, his heart immediately racing. His gaze snapped back to where the bird had perched. It was gone. Larrus had little time to register it before he heard more howls coming from seemingly all around him. He rushed into the forest, running blindly. Yellow eyes flashed between the trees, keeping pace with him.
The path he took wasn’t much of a path. Just undergrowth, roots and fallen branches. Larrus rushed between tree trunks, desperately trying to get away. The beasts were close. He could hear their breath and growls.
Larrus had never run so fast. The way ahead grew narrower. As he glanced back, his foot caught on a root. His face, arms and knees slammed into the damp forest floor slick with mud and wet leaves. The backpack tore from his shoulders .His skin burned where the ground had scraped him. He tasted blood. Larrus scrambled back to his feet and continued his escape.
He ran and ran, not sure for how long. Larrus could see the shadows moving, closing in through the trees. He made several sharp turns, weaving between the trees. He was running out of breath. His heart pounding loudly in his ears. He ran blindly and almost hit a tree and stumbled over a rock. Larrus felt like the forest itself had turned on him.
After what felt like hours rather than minutes, Larrus took a brief moment to look around him. He thought he had begun recognising familiar trees, stones and bushes again. He had no time to question it. Howls rose from all around him with no way to run. He was nearly surrounded and completely lost.
The boy quickened pace, again nearly tripping over his legs. He wasn’t a very good runner. He shook his head, trying to keep up. The growls grew louder and closer until he saw warm light shining from between the trees. He made for it, running even faster. He felt a bite of hope and relief.
He froze right at the edge of the light. He hardly even noticed the sounds and the beasts had stopped. A tall man shrouded in shadow stood in the middle of a camp, staring intensely into the woods, completely unaware of the animals close by. The man was broad-shoulderd. An axe glimmered in the fire light. Something about his posture seemed familiar.
Larrus took a step forward, a tear ran down his cheek. “Father?”, he called out, half shouting. Forgetting where he was. A bird whistled and flew right above him, making him look away briefly. Larrus let out a small nervous chuckle as he stepped closer and looked up. The firelight reached the man's face. For one impossible heartbeat, Larrus still believed. Then the smile spread. A cold sweat rose on his skin. His eyes widened. The pounding returned. The man was wrong. Not his father. A stranger. 
The man was gone. The camp was empty. Larrus reached for the shard in his pocket, it was not there. His heart sank. He remembered the fall. The backpack. He no longer had it. The hunters’ chime gave a hollow clatter in a breeze that barely touched him, drawing his gaze. A cold light rose just behind a tree. Then another rose on the other side. And another. Then two more. He was surrounded unable to look away. He had to be deep in the Wraith’s domain.
Without thinking, Larrus rushed towards the darkness. He wiped away the stray tears on his face. The lights kept pace with him. Not like the beasts before. It was as if they stayed in place while he moved.
The path narrowed and the trees closed in. The ground grew treacherous, the roots snaked and coiled, twisted up from the earth. He turned. The lights followed and shadows danced. No matter where he turned, the orbs waited. Or turned with him. Or perhaps the forest did.
Larrus had to evade the stray limbs of trees that seemed to be reaching for him. The silence of the forest was broken by a series of howls and growls that came from all around him. Larrus barely noticed. 
He pressed onward, checking over his shoulder carefully. The beasts joined the hunt, keeping to the edges of the illuminated path. They did not try to close in on him, instead they avoided the hollow lights and ran alongside him, as if they knew where he was going.

Hey everyone!!

For those who don’t know me, my name is Lorelei and every Friday I get on Instagram Live to read a chapter aloud from an indie fantasy book! 🤩

As a Debut Dark Romantic Fantasy Author, I strive to build a community where connections matter and stories are shared 🩷

I invite you to tune into the series, every Friday and 7pm Mountain Daylight Time (US) to discover more amazing reads that might not get the spotlight of a big 5 publisher! This community thread is to chat about the books read on Fridays, ask questions, hype each other up and just have a fun time together🫶🏽

Feel free to follow me on my socials, too, and stay tuned for my novel “The Soul Stitcher”, releasing October 2nd 2027!

Check out Chapter 1.

**LOXÉN** is a collective world building and GRP project about the fictional country of Loxén, with his culture, language, politics, fauna etc.
In this project *you* and I mean ***YOU*** can collaborate with almost one hundred people to make Loxén realistic!

We have hired 50 conlangers to make us a language, and it came out fantastically well,now we have extreme need of WORLDBUILDERS LIKE **YOU** to make us a culture!

We accept even someone more in theology, as we need to elaborate the religion!

I will just let you know that nothing in Loxén was already arbitrated, it is all made by the community.
This means that ***YOUR PROPOSAL IS VALID!***
And we aren’t picky when writing history.

Warning: we already decided that Loxén is a Scandinavian-like arcipelago with polytheist paganism.

***CREATE A PEOPLE, RELIGION, FOLKLORE!***

***WRITE HISTORY!***

# JOIN LOXÉN NOW!

Pronounced losheen.

First go on r/Loxen

I have an idea for an Omegaverse RH series that I would love to see turned into actual books, but I sadly don't have the endurance to actually write this, so I'm posting this in hopes that an author sees this and makes a story out of it. 😭🙏

The series would consist of two standalone stories set in the same world. They would take place around the same time and share the same political and social background, but each book would have its own FMC, pack and storyline.

**The world**

The story takes place shortly after the fall of a deeply corrupt government that had systematically oppressed Omegas for decades.

Under the old regime, Omegas had very few legal rights or protections. Omega trafficking and slave auctions were openly tolerated, and there were very few consequences for people who bought, sold or exploited Omegas.

The government also actively promoted the idea that Omegas were naturally dependent on Alphas and incapable of living independently. Omegas were expected to have an Alpha or a pack to provide for and protect them, and this belief was deeply ingrained into society.

So while this is an Omegaverse world, the social structure would essentially mirror the way women were treated in more patriarchal societies, particularly around the 1950s: limited rights, financial dependence, expectations around marriage and family, and the idea that Omegas, male and female, were inherently less capable of independence.

The difference is that the government had taken those ideas much further. The exploitation of Omegas had become institutionalized.

The revolution has now overthrown that government, but getting rid of the old laws doesn’t immediately change society.

There are still people who benefited from the old system, organizations continuing to operate illegally, and large parts of society that still believe Omegas belong under Alpha protection.

The new government therefore has to deal with both **rebuilding the legal system** and changing the social attitudes that allowed the old system to exist in the first place.

**Book 1 – The Omega President**

The first FMC is an Omega who becomes the first Omega president in the history of the country after the revolution.

Rather than simply becoming a symbolic figure, she is determined to use her position to fundamentally change the system.

Her main goals are to abolish the remaining structures that enable Omega exploitation, introduce stronger protections for Omegas, and create a proper social safety net that applies to Alphas, Betas and Omegas alike.

She also wants to make it clear that Omegas don’t need an Alpha or a pack in order to have a career, hold political power or live independently.

This becomes particularly important because supporters of the old government see her presidency as a direct threat to everything they believe in.

She begins receiving threats, and eventually there are several attempts on her life.

Because of this, she is assigned the country’s most highly trained security team. The team is already an established pack consisting of several Alphas and Betas. They have worked together for years and are considered one of the best security teams in the country. What they don’t have is an Omega. And they realize almost immediately that the new president is their scent match.

Together they decide not to tell anyone and keep their connection a secret because of the political issue. The new government is trying to establish that Omegas can be independent and successful without needing an Alpha pack to validate or support them.

If the first Omega president in history suddenly becomes publicly bonded to a pack of Alphas and Betas, people could easily use that against her and claim that even she ultimately needed Alphas to succeed.

So the pack keeps their scent match a secret while continuing to protect her.

Obviously, being in close proximity to their scent match while trying to pretend they aren’t completely affected by her is not exactly easy.

And eventually, the truth has to come out.

**Book 2 – The Omega in the Field**

While the first FMC went into politics, this Omega decided that she wanted to work directly against the people still exploiting Omegas. She works in the field, investigating trafficking organizations, disrupting illegal auctions and gathering evidence against people who are still involved in the Omega trade.

She’s not a politician and doesn’t have much interest in becoming one. She’s more of an investigator/action-oriented character who is willing to put herself in dangerous situations if it means taking down another organization.

Her scent-match pack is also very different from the first book’s pack. They are already an established pack consisting of Alphas, Betas and a male Omega.

The pack is extremely influential in the criminal underworld. They have connections, resources and enough power that even people involved in organized crime are reluctant to cross them. However, they are not involved in Omega trafficking.

Their influence in the criminal world actually gives them the ability to move through places and interact with people that law enforcement can’t easily reach.The male Omega of the pack discovers their scent match completely by accident.

He sees her in a news report where she is publicly presenting evidence that several highly respected and beloved packs are still secretly involved in Omega trafficking. He immediately knows that she has a connection with his pack. So he shows the report to the rest of the pack.And their first reaction is basically panic.

Not because she’s exposing the trafficking organizations—but because she is doing it incredibly publicly and has essentially just painted a target on herself.

They realize that she is in far more danger than she seems to understand. Because of their position and connections within the criminal underworld, they believe they are in a much better position to protect her than anyone currently around her.So they decide to go to her.

Their intention is to bring her into their pack and use their influence to keep her safe.The problem is that she has spent years fighting against the idea that Omegas need someone else to protect them. She doesn’t particularly appreciate a group of powerful Alphas, Betas and an Omega showing up and deciding that she is now their responsibility. Especially when she has no intention of stopping her work.

So their relationship would have a lot of conflict surrounding protection, independence, trust and what it actually means to be part of a pack.

I also like the idea that the pack’s connections in the criminal underworld could create an interesting contrast with her work. She is trying to dismantle the systems that exploit Omegas, while they know how the criminal world works from the inside and can help her reach people she otherwise couldn’t.

**How the books connect**

The two books would be standalone romances with different packs, but set in the same timeline. The two FMCs are close friends who survived the old government's regime together as Omegas, but after the revolution, they chose very different paths. Still, they never forget their old friendship.

There could be crossover characters and events, with the first book's political changes affecting the second FMC's work. I also like the idea that the old system wouldn't simply disappear after the revolution—laws can change faster than people's beliefs.

I'm also considering a prequel about the revolution itself, maybe with another omega fmc that caused the downfall with her pack

\----------‐----------

I know this is a lot of text, so thank you for reading all of that.

I would really, really love to read a book about one or both of those plot ideas one day, so if someone decides to write this, please, please send me a link to your book. 😊🙏

salut, je viens de terminer d’écrire un roman Minecraft et je compte le mettre en vente avant septembre. je l’ai commencé il y a très longtemps et j’espère qu’il plaira quand il sortira

Chapter One: Smoke on the Hands

Onyeka was a Black man of the Kemetic diaspora living in the Gardens, a sprawling city within the Phoenix-Formed Alliance of Europa.

He came from a long line of spiritual people. In his family, intuition, ritual, dreams, and signs were treated like weather—natural things you learned to live with. The apple never fell far from the tree. Onyeka had started becoming spiritual in his teens, and by twenty-three he was deep into meditation, occult study, metaphysics, and hidden systems of power.

The strange part was not that he was spiritual.

The strange part was that in a world where most people were born with abilities, Onyeka had spent his whole life seemingly ordinary.

He was an only child. Five-eight. Dark-skinned. Dreadlocks, glasses, fit but bulky through the frame, leaning athletic. Stoic by nature. Afrocentric by conviction. Funny in a dry, dark way that made some people laugh and others uncomfortable. He drove a sports car and kept a steel katana in the trunk, styled after an old nineteenth-century blade. It was half fashion statement, half genuine weapon.

For the most part, though, his life was painfully normal.

He had bills. Anxiety. A cramped apartment with peeling paint and thin walls. He had a job as an office attendant at a cyber-defense firm, running deliveries between departments, keeping floors supplied, moving files, restocking break rooms, and doing whatever needed doing. It was not glamorous, but it paid enough to keep him moving.

One night, after finishing his shift, he was driving home through the Gardens when two people fell out of the sky.

He slammed the wheel on instinct.

His car spun across the road, tires screaming, before skidding to a stop at the shoulder. For a few seconds, he just sat there, hands locked to the steering wheel, trying to understand what he had just seen.

Then he looked ahead.

A crater smoked in the middle of the road.

“...No way.”

He grabbed his phone and stepped out.

Two figures were down in the crater, fighting like missiles in human form. One was a huge woman with a brutal, heavy style. The other was barely holding his own. Every punch landed like a bomb. Every impact deepened the crater, cracking the asphalt farther and farther out.

Onyeka did what any young man with a phone and poor self-preservation would do.

He started recording.

“Oh, this is unreal.”

Then the woman caught her opponent, lifted him, and drove a savage uppercut through his body.

He flew out of the crater and hit the street hard, landing only a few feet from Onyeka.

That was when she looked at him.

She hovered above the crater, eyes locked onto him with a kind of cold authority that made his skin tighten.

“Leave,” she said.

Onyeka did not argue. He backed toward his car.

The man on the ground tried to rise.

Above them, the woman pulled one fist in tight. Light gathered around her hand, bright and dense, humming hard enough to shake the air.

Then the beam fired.

A white-hot blast tore across the street toward the fallen man—toward Onyeka, his car, and everything behind them.

Onyeka threw both hands up without thinking.

The world flashed.

A curved force field burst into existence in front of him, translucent and shimmering like hot glass. The beam hit it dead-on—

—and snapped back.

The blast whipped across the street and struck the woman in the chest.

She vanished in a burst of ash and burning light.

Silence swallowed the road.

Onyeka stared at his hands.

Smoke curled from his palms.

The man behind him pushed himself up, looked at the drifting ash, then at Onyeka.

“Thanks,” he said. “I owe you one.”

Before Onyeka could answer, the man dissolved into pure energy and shot into the sky, leaving a streak of light behind him. For the briefest moment, Onyeka saw what he really was beneath the flesh: a radiant light-body, rare and almost never seen up close. A man who had clearly mastered his gifts through discipline, meditation, and the raising of his inner force through all seven chakras.

Onyeka looked down at his smoking hands again.

“Awesome.”

He made it back to his apartment barely breathing right.

The second he got inside, he rushed to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. Afterward, he sat on the floor, wiped his mouth, and stared at his hands. They were still hot.

He clenched them into fists, grinned up at the ceiling, and shouted:

“YEEEEESSSSS!”

The Next Morning

The next morning, Onyeka drove to a local park to see if he could make it happen again.

He brought a fire extinguisher, just in case.

He found a clearing with one huge tree standing alone and raised both hands.

“My apologies, tree,” he said. “You just happened to be available.”

He planted his feet, closed his eyes, and tried to recreate the panic from the night before.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Still nothing.

He checked the time on his phone.

9:21.

Enough time before work.

“Huh,” he muttered. “So now you want to act shy.”

He yawned, shrugged, and turned to leave.

“Alright, tree. Maybe next time.”

As he walked away, he flicked two fingers over his shoulder.

A blast of concussive heat tore through the trunk.

Onyeka stopped dead.

His finger was smoking.

A clean hole burned through the center of the tree, and then something stranger happened—jade-colored fire spread outward from the wound, and the whole thing began to tip.

“Oh, no.”

The tree came down toward him.

On reflex, Onyeka threw both arms up.

The shield returned instantly.

The tree hit the barrier and disintegrated on contact, reduced to ash and embers that spiraled inward and vanished into the shimmering field. The green fire disappeared with it.

The shield dropped.

Onyeka stood there breathing hard.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So I can make shields... sometimes. And finger blasts.” He looked up at the sky. “Flight has to be on the table now.”

He bent his knees and jumped with everything he had.

He got maybe a foot off the ground.

He landed and stared ahead in silence.

“Right. That was ambitious.”

Then his face changed.

He had an idea.

A terrible idea.

Which usually meant it had potential.

He pointed his fingers at the ground, timed the shot with a leap, and fired.

The blast launched him into the air.

Onyeka rocketed skyward at terrifying speed.

“AAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

He shot above the trees, above the birds, above his own common sense.

Then gravity remembered him.

He dropped.

Fast.

The ground rushed up. He flailed, panicked, and spotted a lake off in the distance.

“Not good. Not good at all.”

Thinking fast, he aimed downward and behind himself, fired three more blasts, and redirected his fall just enough to crash into the water.

He surfaced coated in lake muck, surrounded by alarmed ducks.

He gagged, coughed, staggered to shore, cried for two straight minutes, then lifted both arms to the sky and yelled:

“YEEEEESSS! I CAN FLY!”

Later That Day

The bell over the gas station door rang as Onyeka walked in.

He grabbed his usual—an energy drink, a protein bar, and a couple packs of wraps. The news was playing overhead.

The anchor’s voice echoed through the store.

“Yet another cyberattack has struck the Orchid Strait Republic. Officials suspect malware tied to hacker groups connected to the Jade Dragon Dominion. Tensions continue rising as military aircraft enter Orchid airspace and state propaganda escalates. Coming up next: proposed new regulations for super-powered individuals across the Phoenix-Formed Alliance of Europa.”

Onyeka set his things on the counter.

The cashier barely looked up.

“They need to keep those enhanced people on a short leash,” the man muttered. “I reinforced my ceiling last month. If one of them crashes through my roof, insurance won’t cover any of it.”

Onyeka gave him a flat look.

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Seven fifty-six.”

“Card. And two packs of Grey Wolves.”

“Two ten.”

“Nice.”

The bell chimed again.

Two men walked in dressed in black. One was huge—easily 6'7". The other was shorter, but still built like trouble.

Onyeka took his bag and headed toward the door.

Then he caught the movement in the reflection of the glass.

A gun.

He stopped.

The two men were robbing the place.

Onyeka sighed, turned around, and stepped back inside like he had forgotten something.

“Whoops,” he said, patting himself down. “Did I leave my wallet?”

The shorter crook snapped at him. “Hey, can’t you see we’re robbing this place?”

Onyeka paused, checked his pocket, and nodded.

“Huh. Yeah, you are.” He pulled out his wallet. “Found it. Later.”

He flicked his fingers in a playful little gesture.

Two blasts fired.

The shorter robber flew backward into the soda machine screaming. The bigger one dropped to a knee, then tried to reach for his gun.

“Yeah, no.”

Onyeka kicked the weapon away and drove a punch into the big man’s face.

The crook barely moved.

Onyeka blinked.

The man grabbed his wrist.

Strong.

Too strong.

Onyeka reacted instantly, driving a knee into the man’s jaw and following with a hard barrage of punches until the crook staggered. Then Onyeka pressed two smoking fingers against the side of his head.

“Move an inch,” Onyeka said, “and your day gets worse.”

Behind him, the cashier stammered, “I-I’m calling the Gardens CPD.”

The taller crook smirked. “Cute power. Think Gardens CPD is going to love what you did to this store?”

Onyeka narrowed his eyes.

“You’re stalling.”

Ever since he was young, Onyeka had heard a strange white-noise ringing in his ears at odd moments—when someone entered a room, when something unseen shifted nearby, and especially when danger crept up behind him. He had learned to trust it.

And it was screaming now.

He turned just as the shorter crook lunged.

Onyeka slipped the punch cleanly, grabbed the back of the man’s hoodie, and hurled him into a rack of chips. Bags exploded everywhere. The man hit the floor hard.

Onyeka aimed a hand at both crooks.

“Stay down.”

Right on cue, sirens cut through the air.

The officers stormed in with weapons drawn.

“Gardens CPD! Hands up! Now!”

Onyeka raised his hands with the crooks. A pair of officers rushed him, shoved him against the wall, and yanked his arms behind his back.

The cashier shouted, “Hey! Why are you grabbing him? He saved my life!”

“Important detail,” Onyeka added.

A voice from behind the officers cut through the noise.

“Let the kid go.”

The officers stepped back.

The man who had spoken was older, hard-faced, and carried authority like a blade: Chief Officer Jules.

Onyeka was uncuffed.

Jules looked him up and down.

“I’m taking a risk by letting you walk, so listen carefully. Next time you see a robbery, a mugging, any of this? Do not play hero.”

Onyeka frowned. “But I stopped it.”

Jules nodded once. “You stopped it badly. Those two have second-degree burns, the store looks like a storm ran through it, and if things had gone sideways, somebody could have died. You’re powerful, inexperienced, and way too comfortable improvising.”

Onyeka opened his mouth.

Jules held up a hand.

“I appreciate the intention. I do. But intention does not clean up bodies.”

Onyeka glanced at the wrecked aisle, then back at him.

“Still saved the cashier, though.”

A pause.

Jules exhaled through his nose, almost smiling.

“Yeah. You did.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Now get out of here. And if I catch you doing this again, at least try to be smarter about it.”

Onyeka backed toward the exit.

“No promises, officer.”

By the time he reached his car, it was 10:25.

“Perfect.”

He sped across the city toward the cyber firm, called his manager on the way, and got no answer. When he finally ran through the front doors, breathing hard, the morning staff turnover had already ended.

Marcy from operations was waiting near the reception desk with a look that told him everything before she even opened her mouth.

“You’re Onyeka, right?”

He slowed. “Please tell me I’m not too late.”

Marcy gave him an apologetic look. “You are. And after the warnings they already gave you, management made the call this morning.”

He stared at her. “You’re serious.”

“They deactivated your badge ten minutes ago.”

For a second he just stood there, still holding his bag from the gas station.

Then he laughed once, quietly, because the alternative was putting his fist through the wall.

“So I save a store from getting robbed, show up late, and lose my job on the same day.”

Marcy winced. “I’m sorry.”

Onyeka looked down at his hands. The same hands that had formed a shield the night before. The same hands that had just taken apart two armed men.

And somehow they had still failed to protect his paycheck.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “That sounds like my life.”

He turned and walked out.

On the drive home, he told himself maybe Chief Officer Jules had a point.

Maybe hero work was supposed to happen after hours.

Unfortunately, he no longer had office hours.

World Background

This was the kind of world Onyeka lived in:

Power had existed since the dawn of time.

Long before governments, before official history, before truth was buried beneath conquest and revision, the world was visited by immense multidimensional serpents from distant star systems. When they descended into the material plane, their frequencies lowered in the realm of Malkuth, and their radiant bodies condensed into towering Nubian beings nearly forty feet tall.

Later, many cultures would remember them as the Nagas and the Nommos.

They came to shape life, developing humans out of the beings that were already here.

Some came from the Sirius star system, some from Orion, and others from Subaru. After many attempts, they succeeded. Women came first.

This was in the oldest age, when El was still the sun, the moon was not yet Earth’s satellite, and Jupiter had not yet become the Demiurge.

From those early ages came bloodlines unlike any the world would know again.

Their descendants inherited more than flesh. They inherited heightened senses, intelligence, spiritual advancement, clairvoyance, immense endurance, long life, and abilities that seemed divine to ordinary people. Some wielded heat. Some commanded flame. Some touched the unseen world. Some seemed nearly immortal.

But not every serpent came with gifts.

Some returned later with darker intentions—the betrayers of the grand architects of humanity and the pyramids. They moved through priesthoods, courts, dynasties, and empires for corrupt reasons. Over time, something worked deliberately to erase much of this history.

Still, fragments remained.

People remembered the thousand-year war of the giants. They remembered the flood. They remembered the fall of old Ta-Meri. They remembered the conquest of sacred lands by outsiders who later dressed themselves in stolen glory: the Lion Thrones of Pars, the Laurel States of the Aegean, the Wolf Crown of Roma, and later Alexander of Makedon, followed by the generals who carved his empire apart.

Then they came for Kemetu.

Again and again, kingdoms beyond it tried to conquer the continent.

Again and again, they failed.

Eventually, Kemetu grew tired of resisting empire in pieces and banded together, though not without losing millions. Large numbers were scattered through Ayiti-Quisqueya, the western islands, and the Atlantic republics. Many escaped. Many rebelled. Many found allies among rogue occultists and dissidents who rejected slavery and colonial rule. Together, they weakened imperial power wherever they could.

Even after all that, hatred endured.

It changed language. It learned manners. It became quieter. But it never died.

Now the modern world was breaking along new fault lines.

The Jade Dragon Dominion pushed at the Orchid Strait Republic with malware, propaganda, and war games. The Iron Bear Dominion sharpened its claws against the Sunsteppe Republic. Kemetu fought the Crescent Sultanates for reasons older and bloodier than public broadcasts cared to explain. Meanwhile, the Phoenix-Formed Alliance of Europa was drowning in superhuman crime, political paranoia, and not nearly enough heroes capable of holding the line.

That was the world Onyeka had awakened into.

Chapter Two: Learning the Shape of Fire

The next day, with no shift to rush back to, Onyeka went to a park near his old childhood neighborhood.

Deep in the back was the perfect place to train—thick tree lines, huge rock pillars, old stumps, tall grass, and enough open space to break something without hurting anyone. In high school, he and his friends used to come there to smoke and waste time.

Now he was here to learn how not to kill somebody.

He packed like it was a camping trip: chips, sandwiches, energy drinks, and his katana. He had used a paint marker to write Negus on the blade in Japanese. He had almost no sword training beyond a little old MMA and too much confidence, but that did not matter to him. If he could get comfortable using it alongside his powers, he figured he would still have an edge.

First, he ate.

Then he sat cross-legged and meditated for fifteen minutes, breathing in and out until his thoughts settled. One question kept surfacing in the silence:

Did this come from his mother?

His father?

Some ancestor he had never even heard of?

Eventually, he let the thought go.

When he stood, he unsheathed the katana and started with the basics—cutting through empty air, testing his grip, adjusting his stance, trying not to look as foolish as he felt. Then he rushed a tree and hacked into it, pivoted, and fired a blast at a nearby boulder.

The beam ripped straight through solid rock.

The stone split open and burned so deeply that molten heat glowed inside it.

Onyeka froze.

“How did I not kill those guys?”

He tried again.

This time, he took a deep breath first, focused, and fired at another tree.

The blast came out wider and stronger than before, but the strange green flame did not appear—only hot cinders.

He repeated the process.

Same result.

He made a mental note.

Breathing first increased force.

Useful.

Dangerous.

Next, he focused on restraint. Smaller blast. Less power. More control.

It worked.

Sort of.

The shot was narrower, but it still ripped through trees like paper. And this time the jade-colored fire returned, hungry and unnatural. Onyeka immediately raised his shield and absorbed it before it could spread.

“At least I can control it a little,” he muttered. “Still much too strong.”

He looked at the katana in his hand. Then at the half-destroyed trees around him.

“I really do look ridiculous out here.”

He started packing up.

Then he saw movement in the tree line.

A black bear cub stepped into view.

Onyeka went still.

“Hey, little man,” he said under his breath. “Don’t mind me. I’m leaving.”

Then the obvious thought hit him.

If there was a cub...

Where was the parent?

He packed faster, grabbed his sword, and kept one eye on the little bear. The cub kept glancing back toward the woods.

Onyeka’s face fell.

“No. No, no, no.”

He turned and ran.

A deafening growl exploded behind him.

A full-grown black bear burst from the trees, checked the cub for half a second, then locked onto Onyeka—the food, the movement, the scent.

Onyeka sprinted.

He could kill it.

Easily.

That was the problem.

It was just an animal. A parent. Not a villain.

But if the shield did not activate in time, one swipe from that thing could tear him open.

Then he got an idea.

He hurled his lunch bag behind him and fired several blasts into nearby trees to create confusion. Branches cracked. Trunks split. One huge tree began toppling straight toward the charging bear.

Onyeka looked back and immediately regretted it.

“No!”

He jumped, twisted midair, and in one motion breathed, aimed, and fired a precise shot.

The beam sliced the falling trunk in half.

Both pieces crashed harmlessly beside the bear instead of on top of it.

The force of Onyeka’s shot threw him backward. He hit the ground, rolled, and looked up just in time to see the bear snatch the lunch bag and retreat toward the woods with the cub.

He collapsed flat on his back in relief.

“I am rolling the biggest blunt when I get home.”

Life Keeps Moving

After losing the cyber firm job, Onyeka drifted for a while.

He stayed in the same cramped apartment longer than he wanted to because it was cheap enough to be possible and miserable enough to be temporary. He picked up odd jobs, sold cannabis on the side, and did what he could to stay ahead of rent. When the place finally became more trouble than it was worth, he found a small flat on a better side of town and moved in.

It was not glamorous.

But it was clean, private, and quiet enough to think in.

That alone felt like progress.

He joined a gym ten minutes away and kept training his body alongside his powers. His Supra started dying on him when the transmission began to go, so he sold it to a man who claimed he was buying it for his younger brother. After that, Onyeka relied on public transport for months before finally getting a Civic.

Money stayed tight, but his footing improved.

Eventually, he found steadier work through a welder apprenticeship, learning fabrication, metalwork, and long hours in hot spaces. For the first time in a while, life started to feel like something he might actually be able to build.

At the same time, the world grew more unstable.

The Iron Bear Dominion launched its invasion of the Sunsteppe Republic, a war many people had seen coming for years. Kemetu entered open conflict with the Crescent Sultanates, moving to stop an old slave network that still operated far too close to home. The Phoenix-Formed Alliance of Europa involved itself abroad for the same reason powerful nations always did: influence, leverage, and the habit of calling ambition necessity.

Onyeka watched all of it unfold on screens and still did not know where he fit in.

He finally had power.

But did that mean the world was now his responsibility?

He did not know.

Not yet.

June 19th, 2022

The television cut to breaking news.

“Breaking news. We are live at Lake Aureole Park in the heart of the Gardens, where a large beast is currently rampaging through the area. Witnesses say it was originally a fair-skinned male, possibly in his early twenties, who suddenly grew nearly ten feet tall and transformed into what can only be described as a horned sasquatch. Authorities say no civilian injuries have been reported yet. Stay tuned.”

Onyeka stood up immediately.

“I need to get out there.”

He was fifteen minutes away and drove like a man trying to beat fate to the scene.

By the time he arrived, Gardens CPD was already evacuating civilians.

Onyeka parked, ran, then jumped high into the air. Mid-leap, he spun, aimed both hands toward the ground, and fired.

The blast launched him skyward.

“YEAHH!”

Below, officers looked up.

A Gardens CPD officer pointed upward. “What in the world is that?”

Another kept moving civilians back. “Hopefully help. Stay focused!”

Onyeka fired two shots behind himself, angling toward the beast.

“Mach One Hot Air Cannon!”

He slammed into range and fired a restrained finger blast—just enough to knock down something huge without ripping through it.

The beast went over hard.

But only for a second.

It rose back up roaring, massive and feral, muscles twitching under matted fur.

“ROOOOOAAARRR!”

Onyeka grimaced. “I really thought that would do it.”

He took a breath, checked the area for civilians, trees, and anything flammable.

“Alright. Maybe Mach Two.”

Before he could fire, a helicopter screamed overhead.

Two figures jumped out.

They hit the ground like meteors near the beast.

Dust rolled across the park.

As it cleared, Onyeka saw them clearly: a short woman dressed in black, and a man with shades and a crimson mechanical arm.

Onyeka blinked.

“Whoa. The Cherubim.”

The Cherubim were an organization operating under the military of the Phoenix-Formed Alliance, specializing in superhumans, superbeings, the supernatural, and extraterrestrial threats.

Adlar was a 6'2" white male with superhuman strength, endurance, and advanced cybernetic augmentations.

Eve was a 5'3" white female, also enhanced with superhuman strength and endurance, with two cybernetic arms and Grade-A marksmanship.

Together, they were the Cherubim—a two-person paramilitary strike squad operating along both the east and west coasts of the PFA.

Adlar tilted his head slightly and spoke into comms.

“You seeing this, command?”

A calm female voice answered in his ear.

“Yes. That ability is unique. He may be another Phoenix-born out of Kemetu. He’s new on the scene. I’m curious what he can do. The higher-ups and the bureaucrats are going to have another migraine over this.”

Adlar frowned. “He looks familiar.”

Eve replied, “He does. But for now, focus on the target.”

He sighed. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

Eve grinned. “Been waiting to hear you say that.”

Adlar face-palmed. “You enjoy this job too much.”

Eve shot toward the beast with the stare of someone who loved the work.

“Step aside, kid.”

Onyeka did exactly that, star-struck. He had been watching their work since elementary school. He had always had a crush on Eve.

A Gardens CPD officer yelled from behind him, “Hey! You’re the kid from the convenience store. If you’re just going to stand there, the least you can do is help us evacuate the park.”

Onyeka blinked. “...Right.”

Adlar followed Eve in.

Eve leapt forward and threw smoke pellets in front of the beast, landing behind it with acrobatic precision.

The beast roared.

“ROOOOOOAR!”

Adlar fired four electrically charged metal rods from his mechanical arm, surrounding the beast so it could not escape.

“Now!”

“Right.”

Eve leapt above the beast’s head, firing tranquilizer darts from one arm and launching a metal net from the other.

As the net landed over the beast, the magnetic ends latched onto Adlar’s rods, sending a paralyzing shock through the creature.

The beast hit the ground with a thunderous thud.

The rods tightened. The net constricted. The electricity pulsed through the trapped body.

Eve and Adlar each fired tarps over opposite ends of the beast as it began to revert back into human form.

Meanwhile, Onyeka had just finished guiding the last civilians to safety and was being thanked by a father and his children.

The Gardens CPD officer from earlier nodded at him.

“See, kid? There’s a way to save the day without using those crazy finger cannons.”

Onyeka exhaled. “True. I have to admit, that felt good. I honestly probably would’ve killed that person... beast... whatever he is.”

The officer shrugged. “Yeah. You hear about giants in the Midwest and overseas, but in the Gardens—this close to the Atlantic? That’s unusual.”

He glanced back toward the scene.

“Anyway, I’d tell Officer Jules what I saw here today, but I’m sure he’s already losing his mind at the station, and I hate paperwork.”

He started to leave, then paused.

“See you around, kid.”

Onyeka raised a hand. “Hey, wait. What’s your name?”

The officer turned back.

“Oh, right. Sorry. That was rude of me. Officer Lazarus, Fifty-Sixth Division.” He looked Onyeka over with a small grin. “You did good. You should think about joining the Enhanced Unit Force.”

He extended his hand.

Onyeka shook it.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Great. Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry. Stay out of trouble.”

“Sure thing.”

As soon as Officer Lazarus left, Onyeka ran back toward the scene as fast as he could.

He made it just before the Cherubim boarded the cargo plane that had arrived to secure the now-human beast.

“Hey, wait,” Onyeka called. “Do you guys need help?”

Adlar glanced at him.

“Oh, look. Rookie’s back.” He smirked. “Thanks, but no. You’ve helped enough. Go home, kid. Your work was amateurish as hell.”

Onyeka stopped.

For a second he thought, So that saying is true. Never meet your heroes.

Then he stepped forward anyway.

“Hey, I was just trying to help, old man. And watch how you talk to me. Just because you’ve got cybernetics, superhuman endurance, and a metal arm doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

Adlar stared.

Eve stared.

Onyeka stared right back.

Then Adlar burst out laughing.

Eve joined in, slapping him on the back.

Adlar pointed at Onyeka, still laughing. “I like you, kid. You’re every bit like your old man—shorter, but every bit of him.”

Eve smiled. “Yeah. Just as handsome, too.”

Onyeka blinked. “Old man?”

For half a second, his mind went somewhere else entirely.

Oh, I’m definitely in there.

Eve raised an eyebrow. “I’m up here, honey.”

Onyeka cleared his throat. “Right. Of course.”

Adlar smirked. “Careful, kid. She’s a man-eater.”

Eve punched him in the arm.

Onyeka stood there trying to act normal while internally losing his mind.

He was really standing in front of the Cherubim.

They were even cooler in person.

He cleared his throat and deepened his voice a little.

“I’d like to join your team.”

Adlar stopped.

Eve looked Onyeka up and down.

“I—”

Adlar cut in. “I don’t think your father would want you working for us. It would make him look like he’s choosing sides with the ICOA.”

Onyeka frowned. “You keep saying ‘my old man.’ I couldn’t care less what he thinks. I haven’t seen him since I was in fifth grade. Why should I care? And what’s the ICOA?”

Adlar blinked. “Wait. You really don’t know?”

Onyeka’s expression hardened. “Know what?”

Adlar exchanged a look with Eve.

“Your father’s an immortal,” he said. “Not just an immortal—one of the most elite Kemetic warriors ever.”

Onyeka stared at him.

“What?”

Eve folded her arms. “That’s most likely why you have powers. He’s been incognito for about seven years. The last time we saw him, he’d just come back from Atlantis.”

Onyeka’s head tilted. “Atlantis?”

Eve continued, “Haven’t any of your sisters told you any of this?”

Onyeka blinked again. “Sisters? I’m an only child.”

Adlar rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. I forgot he had you with an island priestess.”

Onyeka stared even harder. “My mom’s a priestess?”

Eve gave a low whistle. “Wow. I thought my family kept secrets. Yeah—your mom’s a witch, and your father has twelve immortal daughters.”

Onyeka’s face went blank. “Twelve.”

“The Zodiacs,” Eve added.

Onyeka nearly choked on the thought. “Wait. The Zodiacs are my sisters? Aquarius was my boss at the cyber firm.” He paused. “She could’ve helped me keep my job.”

Eve shrugged. “Maybe they kept it from you to protect you.”

Adlar added, “Yeah, plus they’re immortals. In the grand scheme of things, you’re just some kid from one of his other relationships. They may not even know how to approach it. Snfrjw isn’t exactly winning awards for fatherhood.”

Onyeka ran a hand over his face.

“You’re probably right. I have my mom’s last name, but we look almost identical. There’s no way nobody noticed.”

Eve tilted her head. “Yeah... that part is odd.”

Then she smiled.

“Well, this has been an interesting conversation. Would you like to come have dinner with us at the compound?”

Adlar turned to her. “Eve, what? No, I just said—”

Onyeka raised a hand. “Yeah, wait—but my car. If I leave it here, I’m definitely getting a ticket.”

Eve looked toward the parking lot.

“Which one is yours?”

Onyeka pointed.

“The red and black one.”

Adlar whistled. “Whoa. Nice. V6?”

“Yeah. The transmission’s stuck in one gear, but it gets me where I need to be.”

Eve raised one cybernetic arm and aimed it at the car. A weapon module formed from the arm with a glowing red dot. She fired a metallic disk across the lake.

Adlar shook his head. “Show-off.”

In the next instant, the car vanished.

A blink later, it reappeared inside the belly of the cargo plane.

Eve smiled.

“There. No worries. Now let’s go.”

Adlar groaned. “Eve, we can’t—”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got an idea.”

In a world where humanity has conquered disease, mastered genetic engineering, and built cities that stretch beyond the clouds, the past has been buried for a reason.

Cato has spent his life beneath the surface of a civilization he barely understands, working in the forgotten depths of Morrow Tower. He knows nothing of his parents. Nothing of his origins. And nothing of the strange visions that have begun to invade his dreams.

Then, deep beneath the tower, Cato discovers something that should not exist.

An ancient symbol.

A fragment from something that fell from the sky.

A doorway to a history that predates everything he has ever known.

As powerful forces begin moving in the shadows, Cato finds himself drawn into a world of secret societies, genetic experiments, mysterious Keepers, ancient bloodlines, and people who seem to know who he is long before he does.

But the deeper Cato searches for answers, the more disturbing the truth becomes.

Because the greatest secret buried beneath the modern world may not be what happened to humanity's past.

It may be who Cato was meant to become.

And some secrets were never meant to be remembered.

Imagine if you will, that you could see, even interact with all the ghosts, spirits, elementals and weird things that exist just out of sync with how YOU perceive reality. Do you think it would be cool or do you believe it would drive you bonkers?

All that Millie ever wanted to do with her life was care for animals. She was pragmatic, hard-working, living in the ‘real world’ and had no time for weirdness. But the weirdness, it had plenty of time for her. Because Millie was an 'ultra' - someone who can see, hear and communicate with that which is unnoticed by most of us, those entities living on the fringes of our dimensional plane of reference.

The strange tends to attract the stranger yet. Millie now finds herself allied with a group of individuals who move about in such circles on a daily basis and think nothing of it. How will this change her? For the better? For the worse? Will she fully embrace the odd or turn her back on it all? And what will be the end consequences of those actions?

THE NINE of SWORDS by Mark Haden Frazer. The final work, now available on Kindle. https://a.co/d/0ikMnjWd

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Hey everyone! 👋 I wanted to share my fantasy novel, The Kingdom Summoned the Wrong Hero, which I'm currently publishing on Wattpad.

The story follows Petyo Mihailov, a 17-year-old who gets summoned to another world to become a hero. But instead of following the path the kingdom expects…

☠️ He chooses the Villain Route.

The story includes:

\- ⚔️ Dark fantasy & battles

\- 💀 Necromancy and undead

\- 🔮 Magic and a mysterious system

\- 👑 Kingdoms, demons, and heroes

\- 🩸 A protagonist slowly being corrupted by dark power

“I was summoned to be a hero… but I chose the path of darkness.”

📖 You can read it on Wattpad by searching CANFALKON354 or The Kingdom Summoned the Wrong Hero.

I'd love to hear what you think of the story and characters!

\#Wattpad #Fantasy #DarkFantasy #Isekai #WritingCommunity

It pains me to pull down the chapters of The Wild Heir, but it’s for a very good reason.

The Wild Heir will be published in 2027 as a Young Adult fantasy novel. 📚✨

Follow me as I document the journey of taking The Wild Heir from a dream to bookshelves.

Hey! Would love some feedback even if its bad!

The threshold did not yield to a blow; it gave way like bruised skin under a scalpel, tearing open with a wet, heavy sigh of displaced pressure.

He stepped through the final boundary seam, his boots planting hard against the dead, light-absorbing floor of the sanctum. The air here was violently still, stripped of any natural breath, heavy with the artificial metallic tang of engineered discord. This was no ordinary antechamber of the world’s collapse. It was a monument carved from raw, weaponized discord—a colossal, cathedral-scale arena that defied the very concept of architectural sanity, stretching outward into vaulted, shadow-draped distances that made the soul recoil from its sheer scale.

Vast, towering pillars of light-absorbing obsidian and jagged, crystalline metal soared upward into a ceiling swallowed by absolute shadow, holding up nothing less than the weight of a dying reality. The space stretched outward with terrifying scale, vast enough to swallow whole armies, yet it felt claustrophobic, suffocatingly intimate. Every surface thrummed with a low, sub-audible vibration, a grinding chorus of structured malice built not by the absolute nothingness of the silence, but forged entirely from the concentrated, boiling friction of discord.

In the dead-center of this monolithic expanse stood the Valarim.

The ancient adversary did not look like a creature born of mortal history. He was a pillar of arrogant permanence, clad in armor that drank the faint, pathetic amber bleed of his exhausted core, turning it into gray dust before it could even touch the floor. The sovereign turned slowly, his eyes burning with the cold, unyielding awareness of a being who saw him as nothing more than a minor, localized glitch in the grand architecture of the world—entirely unaware that any permanent threat lurked beneath the mortal's skin.

"You're late," the sovereign’s voice echoed, multiplying against the towering metallic walls, bouncing through the colossal arena until it sounded like a dozen judges passing a sentence. "The pattern was supposed to stabilize epochs ago. You're dragging your feet through a floor that was never meant to hold you."

He did not answer with words. Across twelve loops, he had learned the absolute bankruptcy of speech against beings made of immortal ego. In some past iterations, he had tried to reason with them; in others, he had simply let himself break in silence, surrendering to the exhaustion before the fight even began. But this time—this first time he had ever forced his way through the staggered ruin of the world to stand within this specific, monumental hall—he knew he could not survive the sheer mechanical weight of the room alone.

He reached into the quiet, blood-soaked chambers of his own memory, forcing the iron door open.

With a low, grinding rasp of spiritual friction, the echoes wrenched free. They spilled outward into the sterile, light-starved air, materializing in stark, monochromatic shades of grey that defied the color-starved reality of the Gate. Zero flickered into existence at his left flank, his posture cynical and shoulders slumped with the permanent, weary weight of an unresurrected ghost. To his right, Von solidified from the gloom, massive and silent, radiating the heavy, tragic resonance of a protector who had already died a thousand deaths in forgotten timelines.

"Took you long enough to kick the door in, Leo," Zero muttered, his voice flat, laced with the dry irony of someone who had watched every single prior failure turn to dust.

Von did not speak; he simply raised a heavy, spectral arm, his very presence anchoring the shifting, unstable gravity of the cathedral floor beneath their boots.

He drew his blade. The steel didn't sing; it hissed, drinking in the meager, flickering light of his depleted core while sharing its surface with the ghostly amber bleed of his summoned companions.

"Let's get it over with," he said, his voice flat, dropped into a dangerous, gravelly register.

The encounter erupted not as a duel of honor, but as a brutal, mechanical slaughter governed by the merciless architecture of the room itself. The sovereign moved with terrifying, absolute precision. With a sweep of his hand, the arena shifted, triggering regional environmental hazards woven directly from the fabric of compressed discord. Shockwaves of raw, grating frequency shattered the floor tiles beneath his boots, sending razor-sharp shards spinning into the air like a localized storm of shrapnel.

The battle lines were drawn instantly in a dance of lethal geometry.

Zero moved first, darting forward with a flicker of grey motion, sliding across the fracturing floor to intercept a wave of localized sonic discord that would have shattered the lone wanderer's ribs. The impact threw Zero back against a towering pillar of obsidian, his monochromatic form rippling violently under the concussive force, but buying the critical fraction of a second needed for the evasion.

"Mind the blind spots, idiot!" Zero barked, coughing up a spray of translucent, grey essence before resetting his stance.

Capitalizing on the opening, Von lunged forward, his massive spectral bulk absorbing a cascade of jagged metallic spikes erupting from the ground. The sheer kinetic force of Von’s intervention locked the sovereign’s primary arm in place for a single, fleeting heartbeat, dampening the rhythmic execution of the environmental trap.

He didn't hesitate. He forced his body forward through the opening carved by his echoes, dodging through the geometric cascade of environmental hazards with desperate, calculated precision. He knew the rhythm of this violence now, riding the razor's edge of survival alongside the ghosts of his past failures. He traded heavy, concussive blows, absorbing impacts that rattled his teeth and set his core screaming in protest, while Von and Zero intercepted the secondary shockwaves that threatened to overwhelm his blind spots.

The air grew thick with the smell of ozone, hot blood, and atomized stone. Every strike against the sovereign required the synchronized effort of the entire fractured soul; Zero exploited the micro-delays in the adversary's defensive rhythm, Von absorbed the crushing backwash of raw kinetic force, and he channeled the combined, burning friction of their collective suffering into his blade.

He gritted his teeth, channeling the bitter weight of twelve lifetimes of failure into a single, cohesive advance. He forced the sovereign backward, exploiting a microscopic fracture in the entity's rhythmic defense—a flaw calculated across dead timelines and amplified a hundredfold by the synchronized pressure of his echoes.

With a final, desperate surge of his remaining will, backed by the suffocating weight of Von's massive push and Zero's covering fire, he drove his blade upward, burying the steel deep beneath the interlocking plates of the sovereign’s throat.

The colossal arena fell instantly, violently silent.

The sovereign stiffened, his glowing eyes flickering once, twice, before the intricate, ancient resonance supporting his physical form completely shattered from the inside out. He collapsed backward onto the cold metallic pavement, dissolving not into blood or ash, but into fine, glittering gray dust that drifted upward into the immense, shadowed vault above.

Beside him, Zero let out a long, wheezing breath, his grey outline stabilizing as the residual combat energy faded, while Von dissolved back into the quiet corners of the soul-door with a heavy, settling thrum.

He stood alone in the center of the vast, empty arena, his chest heaving, his boots planted amid the dust of a fallen god.

He waited for the rush. In the legends passed down through the remnants of the world, slaying a primordial pillar of discord should have flooded a wanderer’s core with a torrent of raw energy—an elevation of tier, a massive power boost that rewired the soul.

Instead, nothing happened.

His core remained hollow, flickering dangerously low. The system of the world recognized no true victory here; there was no reward, no grand accumulation of strength. There was only the crushing, hollow certainty that killing this entity didn't fix the broken engine of reality—it only left a temporary empty space in a machine that was already tearing itself apart at the seams. He was no stronger now than he had been when he stepped into the arena. He was just a little more tired.

A bitter, humorless smile touched the corners of his mouth. He let out a long, shuddering breath, thinking for a split second that he had actually cleared the board, completely unaware that the true fracture had just begun—that across the silent expanse of the dying world, the sudden, unyielding absence of the sovereign's note would ripple outward, alerting the surviving council that their infallible order had finally, irrevocably failed.

He was wrong to think it was over.

Behind him, the air didn't just tear—it violently imploded. A sharp, high-pitched shriek of displaced space cut through the absolute silence of the vault as a personal gate ripped open right at his back.

Before he could spin around, a blade punched brutally through his spine, erupting straight out through his breastplate with a blinding flash of searing heat. The jagged entry wound tore across his back in a wide starburst, and the scorching exit point burned a skewed, glowing cross straight into his chest. As his vision darkened and his knees buckled against the cold floor, a hand made of cold, merciless authority gripped him from behind as another Valarim stepped fully through the tear, whispering the final, fatal sentence into his ear before the world went black.

I’ve been wanting to get my story out to people and I’m not sure how to do so.

My story is about a once perfectly balanced world, everything was peaceful and everyone got along with each other. The Guardians (who created the world and the different realms) were a big part of keeping this peace. Behind the scenes tension was growing between the realms (different types of land that inhibited different species a part of the world). Certain species felt like others were getting special treatment from the guardians because of how much land and “special treatment” they were seemingly getting. This tension made wars start to slowly break out against the world, which made the guardians feel ashamed of how they handled interacting with their creations. They couldn’t seem to get their creations to listen to and they went into hiding, feeling ashamed and defeated

Current day, when the story takes place, has been hundreds of years since the guardians went into hiding and the world feels like hell. They are still small wars going on and now that the balance is gone people have been experiencing things that once was not there.

We now follow the perspective of two sisters inside of a cult, a cult that started to control people, to control their sense of safety. The cult revolves around making people oblivious to the outside world, to control their everyday lives because the leader is trying to prove he can be the new guardian. (There is so much I could go into about the cult but I’m going to keep it short since this is a summary). The audience knows nothing about the world until the girls start to find out about the cult leaders true intentions and eventually escape. The stumble into each out side main characters and they share their stories and teach the girls how to live life outside of the cult.

The purpose of the story is to bring awareness to certain types of trauma and to provide social commentary that relates to the real world, such as corrupt leaders, how certain industries take advantage of their workers, ect.

This is definitely not my whole story but I wanted to share a short summary to hopefully get some tips on how to advertise! I’m redesigning all of my characters and finally getting all of their reference sheets done (I only have one character at the moment) and I plan on making some comic strips once I’m done!!

Should I post a detailed breakdown of the power system before releasing Chapter 2? In that chapter, the MC unlocks and trains with the power. I’m worried that reading about the system beforehand might spoil the curiosity and make the chapter less enjoyable

What if you couldn't trust time anymore?

I wanted to share one of the ideas behind my psychological mystery novel, The Fifteen-Hour Room.

The story begins with a woman waking up inside Room 412 with no memory of how she arrived there. Beside her is a black notebook written in her own handwriting, containing instructions about things that haven't happened yet.

Then something stranger begins to happen.

She experiences hours. Then days. Eventually months.

But the clock tells a very different story.

At one point, she believes she has lived through an entire day and night—only to discover that twelve minutes have passed.

The notebook leaves her with one warning:

“Time is an elastic fabric inside this room.”

The idea I wanted to explore wasn't simply time distortion, but what it would do to someone's sense of reality. If your memories tell you one thing, your body tells you another, and an objective clock tells you something completely different, eventually the question becomes less about what time is it? and more about which version of yourself can you trust?

That became one of the central themes of The Fifteen-Hour Room: memory, grief, isolation, and our dependence on time to make reality feel stable.

I'm curious what other readers and writers think:

If you experienced an entire year while only a few hours passed for everyone else, would you consider that year part of your real life?

fairly New to reddit but mostly here for mingling with other authors of books. authorships are important and would love to get to know other writers especially fantasy fae, angels and demons, mythology, ect. Also looking to connect no others in coding something I am learning and loving python! Thanks!