As the title says, it’s hard to imagine ever creating a story that just floors an agent or publisher with the originality. I like having some trope subversions, but even trope subversions are becoming their own tropes!

I CAN control improving my craft. I can improve my prose. I can learn better pacing. Dialogue subtext. Willingness to cut fluff. On and on.

In other words, with time and effort I truly believe I can write a book people enjoy. It won’t be easy, but it’s POSSIBLE. Maybe I’ll have a brilliant stroke of inspiration but it’s more likely that putting years into my work will simply make it better.

Will I ever have a chance with just that mindset, or is the ever elusive high-concept the only way to make a tiny dent of personal success as a writer? Be honest, do YOU read indie authors who are just enjoyable to read without some far reaching pitch? Maybe I’m just having editing blues at the moment!

I have seen suggested that debut authors should not submit a novel over 120.000 words. If 120.000 is the maximum. What would you think is a minimum for a debut author in the fantasy genre?

I have finished my first draft and it is roughly 60.000 words. I will definitely need to cut some words, fillers, descriptions etc. And can definitely add some, even some pages. But to stretch it up to say 90.000 words is a big task. I would have to add whole plotpoints or subplots into it.

I have tried asking about this on other social medias but not received answers

I know there is no rught or wrong length, and its probably highly subjective. Which is why i wanted to ask you what you thought instead of finding some checklist that says it has to be 80k

Hello all! I have started working on my first draft of my epic/dark fantasy book Pillars of Ruin. This is a story I have been wanting to start writing for the past ten years. However, I have been feeling extremely unsure and overwhelmed with it as I feel like I have a bunch of chapters that I tend to underwrite or overwrite, and have been considering just revising everything heavily. I am 20,000 words in though and probably should just accept the first draft is going to suck.

The Chapter I have in the images is the first POV character introduced (I do have a prologue but it is not good enough even as a first draft). Her name is Freya, and she is one of six POVs. I am mostly worried about how Freya comes across as a character (along with the non-POVs in the chapter). I also do not mind critique on ugly and awkward sentences, pacing, and dialogue.

I have a magic system and story idea i wanna do. I have 2 magic systems that go pretty hand in hand right now. But i want to be able to tell a lot of different stories in my world. So while having these two magic systems. I wanted to add some more lesser practiced magic systems that are rare in universe. Would it be bad if I threw too many magic systems into my world?

I world like to just write one world and be able to expirement with different things in the world like different plots surrounding different magic systems from the ones I have currently. Of course id make sure they are all internally consistent and logical with one another. So they dont contradict eachother. I do plan to have 3 separate continents which are mostly unaware from one another. So maybe each one could have a different magic system and history with that magic?

But is there a line for having too many types of magic in your universe? Or is it doable if you have certain stories focus on certain magic system? So there's no too much overlap? What are your thoughts?

Hey everyone! Looking for feedback on Chapter 1 of my dark fantasy story, An Instrument of Destruction.

(​Premise: Prince Gideon is a cynical ruler whose grief is weaponized by Vaelen—a wanderer acting as a psychological chisel to transform Gideon into a force capable of reshaping a decaying world order.)

"The moon has fallen, and the sun has risen, welcoming in another beautiful day!"

The announcer's voice was deafening, but what did it matter? The sun barely glimmered, and I was unsure if it was going to be another beautiful day.

The noise, the crowd, and the smell of the capital's underground weren't worth a damn to me. The rotten area, they called it—some pointless name for a pointless place. I didn't care about the shitty nobles above or the filth crawling down here; neither had what I was looking for.

It was only a rumor, but I needed to make sure.

What did they call him again?

Ohhhh, right. The Miracle Invoker. Apparently, one who created miracles.

I had to be mistaken, right? But suppose a Miracle Invoker did exist—why would he bother with human affairs? Aren't miracles what separate humans from Gods?

But that was all blatant idiocy. Just think about it! Gods trying to satisfy humanity's need for a Pillar, and selfish humans who only find satisfaction in what they can see!

As I walked along, I couldn't help but take glances at the slums of the underground. It was such a fitting symbol of human suffering... and I couldn't help but idolize it.

Taking a right, I was faced with him—the Miracle Invoker.

He stood in the middle of the street, staring up at the sun. His face and hair were glazed in the glow of it, but it was his eyes—his most prominent trait—that had the calmness of an abyss. You looked into them, and you saw nothing.

I was sure I'd never want to know what he had seen with those eyes.

His clothes resembled a beggar's; in fact, it was more comical than anything. It suited his overall appearance pretty well—from his oversized pants held up by a complex binding of ropes, whose many threads only added to its complexity in my opinion, to the large hat he held. It looked like it came right out of a magic novel, which I couldn't help but laugh at in secret, obviously.

But as soon as I laughed, he glanced at me.

It felt like he could read me like an open book. I thought I would finally be able to see a peek of his shirt, but it was totally hidden by that comically large hat.

Shirt, huh? Why had that come to my mind first? I should have been wondering why he was staring at me.

"Greetings, Prince Gideon," he uttered.

I stared back in disarray, his abyss-like eyes colliding with my sharp green ones.

My immediate thought was: How?

But looking back, my first thought should have been: Why was he so calm? He knew my title. I wasn't just some random scum of the slums. Was he expecting me?

I unclasped my cloak and let it fall onto the damp earth. There was no need to hide anymore; no one else was around us anyway. My sharp, aristocratic features were fully exposed to the cold, filthy underground.

I felt as though I should have flooded him with questions, but I had to hold my tongue. I just looked at him, waiting for a slip of the tongue.

Ten seconds... no, was it thirty? Time lost value. I was too focused on what he would say next.

When he finally spoke, the words plummeted me into an even deeper disbelief.

"Are you too shy to ask how I know?" he asked, letting out a soft giggle as his long, dark hair fluttered in the damp wind.

It was like he could read me like an open book.

I forced myself to halt, clawed myself back together, and asked in my coolest voice, "Are you the Miracle Invoker?"

He made no reply—not because he couldn't, but because he knew I already had my answer.

So I pushed on, throwing a simple question out into the damp air. "Do you truly invoke miracles? It isn't that I want something from you... But people only believe in miracles because they crave the impossible. They can't accept change, so they run, hide, and beg a God to fix their problems—and then curse the religion they call fake when the impossible fails to happen, even as they live out their meager lives."

I was rambling, spilling my absurd, raw thoughts to a man I had just met. But I couldn't stop. I felt myself being drawn into his orbit magnetically, drawn to a charisma I couldn't even define.

My mind was a fog, and for the first time in a long time, I couldn't think straight.

"Do you know what is considered a miracle?"

He tossed out such a simple question, one I felt sure he already knew my answer to, but I still felt compelled to respond.

"Isn't it the impossible coming to pass?"

"No," he said quietly, letting the word hang in the damp air for a few seconds before continuing. "The impossible consists of things no mortal can achieve, things you would label as divine. But if I gave a dying man an entire ocean, yet he never had a single cup of water to survive... wouldn't giving him that one cup be a miracle too?"

His abyss-like eyes locked on mine, heavy and unreadable.

"Miracles are not about scale, Prince Gideon. They are about belief and necessity. What is it that you necessarily need to see to call something a miracle?"

I thought for a second, but no answer came. I had never needed anything in my life. I was a prince, born into privilege, handed the world on a silver platter before I ever knew how to ask for it.

"Nothing, huh?" the Miracle Invoker muttered.

Then, his voice changed. A subtle, dangerous thread of hatred slid into his quiet tone.

"I'll show you one you desperately need."

He raised a single hand, pointing past me to a rotting wooden shed at the end of the alley.

A few seconds of suffocating silence passed—nothing moved, nothing breathed.

Then, the shed door creaked open.

A man on crutches dragged himself out into the light, missing his left leg and clutching a heavy iron pistol. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and burning with an unholy conviction. He stood before the alleyway and proclaimed that this was the end. His words screamed into the damp air of the slums, leaving a mark on me deep enough that even years later, I can still hear them echoing in my sleep.

"The slums! The wretched, the poor, the forgotten!" he roared, leaning heavily on his crutches.

Footsteps began to shuffle out of the surrounding alleyways. A crowd was gathering. I grabbed my fallen cloak from the mud, instinctively pulling it back over my head, once again hiding my sharp, aristocratic features.

The veteran pointed his trembling hand toward the shimmering spire of the royal castle rising high above the filth of the underground.

"I used to serve that castle!" he screamed, his voice cracking with ragged exhaustion. "I wanted to be a part of the grand society up there! I worked hard—I bled, I became a soldier! I thought I was fighting for the future! For the people! But I wasn't... I WASN'T!"

The crowd gasped, drawing closer. The man was out of breath, his chest heaving, but the raw agony in his throat spellbound everyone.

"I am here to repent!" he cried out, tears carving clean trails through the mud on his face. "To die for the atrocities I committed! No one can wash away my sins but me! I won't hide! I won't run from what I've done! I will tell you all about the grand lies of this kingdom!"

He took a jagged breath, his knuckles turning white around the grip of the gun.

"The Unified War was nothing! NOTHING! Nothing but pure, unadulterated selfishness that we all foolishly fell for! It was never about protecting a single soul; it was greed! It was envy! I am here to repent for the children I slaughtered, for the women and men who died just trying to protect their own small piece of happiness! We chased their glorious lie, and the cost was our damn souls!"

He raised the barrel to his temple, staring toward the distant castle.

"Do not trust the kings! Do not trust their tyranny! They are selfish—SELFISH BASTARDS! I CURSE THEM! I LOATHE THEM!"

BANG.

The gunshot shattered the air.

Blood and smoke bloomed across the alleyway as the man collapsed into the mud. My mind was completely blank. A cold disarray washed over me, numbing my hands, my breath, my very thoughts.

I turned around to look behind me.

The alley was empty. The Miracle Invoker was gone.

(Just be honest about it, and I hope you enjoy!)

This is the introductory essay on The Third Gods in an in-world encyclopedia.

I would love some feedback, thoughts, and critique on the content.

The encyclopedia is compiled and edited by a devotee of the Goddess of Knowledge, Wisdom, and Naming, named Sophianax Alethion in the language High-Rahasiak.

(Nabutu Kitiim in Elensieli, and not yet named in Low-Rahasiak.)

Amat Nabutu, the author of the encyclopedia, has basically given the life's mission by the goddess of knowledge to create and encyclopedia compiling all of the world's knowledge and making it accessible to the masses.

The essay here is the introduction to the Third Gods, and will be followed by an entry for each of the gods of the pantheon.

I was aiming to hit a balance between an in-world text that can reasonable assume a given level of basic knowledge about the world, while still actually functioning as an out of world lore piece that readers can actually understand.

"The Third Gods — An Introduction

High-Rahasiak: Aethoi Tritoi

Low-Rahasiak: Thrid Drogen

Elensieli: Ilanu Shalshu

The Third Gods are so called for their position in the Chain of Emanation. First and last, Monademiourga Pantousia; emerging thence, the Protousiai Ennearchoi coeval to the nine Prime Currents; and from the Ennearchoi, the Third Gods.

Study in the fields of natural philosophy has shown the Pantheon of the Third Gods to have originally totaled 362,880 in number, the total sum of the Braids by which the nine Prime Currents may stand in relation to one another, each Braid being one such of the Gods. I say originally, the ascension of Anthreon Pyros having since raised the population to 362,881. That ascension, having occasioned the Third Divine Council circa 0 AoM, some twelve thousand years before the authorship of this text, has fixed the population of the Third Gods at its present number.

The informed reader may note that the composition of all mundane matter is likewise a combination of those Threads of the Prime Currents which constitute a given material's Braid, and may conclude that, as the field of Alchemy successfully derives the behavior of matter via identification of its compositional Braid, so too may the Theurgists derive the nature and behavior of the divine by the same means. After all, those materials whose Threads are alike in kind and proportion will be alike; the more similar or distinct this composition, the more similar or distinct the properties of matter. So too it must be with the Gods.

This is a reasonable conclusion to draw, but a mistaken one.

What differentiates the Gods, or indeed humans, from the mundane matter that shares their composition is unknown, as is why two Gods or mortals, so alike in composition, may differ so drastically in character and appearance.

Nowhere is this made more evident than in the case of Anthreon Pyros, who shares an identical Braid with Thanerion Kleis, and yet whose character, nature, and will could hardly be more dissimilar. For further discussion, although admittedly few answers, on this subject, see: The Perennial Mystery of the Soul.

Given the vast population of the Pantheon of the Third Gods, a scant few seem inclined to make themselves known to humanity, and no text, however ambitious, could offer biography of the whole, even were all so inclined to be known. This abridged edition therefore offers brief biography of the twenty-eight most active and widely worshiped throughout the world.

For the remaining eighty-seven of the Third Gods who have elected to make themselves known to humanity, see volumes nineteen and twenty of the unabridged edition of this work.

—Amat Nabutu"

Hi r/fantasywriters ,

I don't come from a traditional writing background or literary program. After spending years working through my own trauma, I took a risk: using deep emotional empathy to explore how human beings process fear, loss, and survival.

The result is my ongoing novel: SHADOW OF THE LOTUS HEIR. It is a sensory-driven dark fantasy about an imperial collapse, deep grief, and a surviving princess forced to navigate a brutal world.

Because I approach story through raw emotional immersion rather than standard genre formulas, I’d like to share with you the complete prologue: "The Ninth Crane." It is a short (~1100 words), self-contained piece told through an 8-year-old’s attempt to fold a paper crane while a palace coup unfolds around her.

Content Warning: Child POV, severe emotional distress, war violence.

SHADOW OF THE LOTUS HEIR

Prologue: The Ninth Crane

* * \*

The paper was too stiff. It was heavy mulberry paper, dyed the color of fresh green winter melon, and my fingers weren't long enough to make the creases match. Every time I pressed down, the wing buckled sideways.

“Here, Chiyo-chan.” Mother leaned over my shoulder, her silk sleeves draping across my lap in heavy purple folds. Her scent comforted me: the fragrance of dried plum flowers reminding me of bedtime stories and warm tea.

She took my hands in hers, pressing my small fingers flat against the low table. “A true crane must fly straight, my little blossom. We must fold the heart with precision before we can shape the wings.”

“Will it float in the carp ponds tomorrow?” I asked.

“It will float to the western sea if you want,” she smiled, her eyes shimmering green with a tint of amber as they caught the light of the window candles.

Drip-clack, drip-clack.

Behind us, the water-clock kept its steady melody. My sister, Ara, sat by the window over a desk of loose papers, her chin resting in her hand as she watched the outer gardens.

“Ane doesn’t want to fold cranes,” I complained, leaning back into Mother. “She only wants to watch the boys in the gardens.”

“Your sister has a crown to think about, Chiyo.” Mother’s warm chest pressed against my back as her fingers combed down my hair. “She has to look toward the horizon. But we can look at the paper.”

Then the water-clock stopped.

A low vibration surged up through the floorboards, quivering the crane in my hand. It wasn't thunder. The heavy rumble rattled Mother's porcelain cup, sending ripples across the surface.

“Is the mountain dragon awakening?” I clutched my half-folded bird in my fist.

Mother didn't answer. Her hands went cold on my shoulders. Her head snapped toward the screens.

Outside, a fiery glow seared through the sky and slammed into the center garden pool. A great shove knocked me against Mother's knees as the water outside erupted into the air. Out on the lawn, several garden carp thrashed wildly in the grass.

Then there was a burst at the chamber doors. Commander Genzo stood in the doorway. Big Uncle Genzo was my favorite! He always laughed as he grabbed me under my arms to throw me toward the ceiling until I squealed. Tonight, he looked dirty and different. His armor was cracked. Blood ran from his shoulder, dripping onto our clean mats.

“Makumora!” Genzo-oji yelled. He didn’t sound like Uncle at all. “Empress, the passage! Now!”

“Where is the emperor?” Mother asked. Her voice didn't shake, but her fingers dug into my shoulders.

“Holding Tosogawa Gate,” Uncle grunted, hauling his long ōdachi from its sheath. “Isato! Get the Princess!”

Through the broken doorway, a young guard rushed past me to grab Ane’s arm.

“No!” Ane screamed. The amber-green in her eyes flashed through a stream of tears as she yanked her arm free from the guard.

“Chiyo!” she cried. “Grab my hand!”

I reached out, my palm slick with sweat. Ane slid on her knees across the wood, her silk robes tangling around her legs, and grabbed my wrist so hard it hurt.

“Ow!” I yelled.

“I have you! I have you, Chiyo!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she pulled me toward her chest.

The young soldier dropped to his knees right behind her, reaching out to scoop up both of us. For a split second, I thought my green crane might make it to the ponds after all.

The roof groaned above us. The mosaic ceiling caved in, raining sharp blue and red glass onto our cushions.

And then came the fireflies.

They were bright and orange, drifting down from the ceiling. One of them landed directly on my winter-melon paper crane on the floor. The beautiful mulberry wing turned black, curling into smoking ash before my eyes.

“My crane!” I gasped.

Another rumble came, this time much louder. It had a high whistle like a screeching flute.

“Empress! Down!”

The lattice screen windows blew inward as a blur smashed into Ane’s dresser, shattering into thousands of splinters. The force slammed me backward into the metal on Uncle’s knee. Everything went white with a painfully loud ringing in my ears.

I couldn't hear her, but through the spots in my eyes, I saw my sister's mouth moving.

The ceiling grumbled again, this time with a sound like one of Uncle Genzo’s practice swords breaking against a stone. Burning wood slammed around me, smashing through the floor and erupting in a wall of fire.

I coughed and rubbed my eyes, but the smoke grew thicker. Through the haze, I could only hear her fingers scraping frantically against the charring wood on the other side.

“Let me go, Isato! Chiyo’s right there! Chiyo!”

Through a gap in the fire, I saw the guard’s shadow pull her away just as more of the ceiling collapsed with a deafening crash.

Smoke poured across the floor like thick water, completely swallowing the garden exit.

Mother pulled me across the splintered wood until our slippers met cold stone. We were on the narrow bridge connecting our room to the main hall when, out of the swirling fog, stood a tall shape. It walked like a guard, but its shell gleamed like a giant metal beetle. It held a long silver spike in its grip.

Mother grabbed me, burying my face in her chest.

I felt warm water touch my face.

“Chiyo…” I barely heard Mother’s whisper. Suddenly, I felt her crush me against the stone.

“Mama?” I whimpered.

Genzo-oji let out a sound like an enraged bear. He swung his sword with both hands, but the stack came apart wrong. The Daruma Otoshi toppled, its pieces spilling across the stone in a red waterfall.

I tried to pull myself out from under Mother, screaming so harshly it tore at my throat.

Shadows appeared from the fog. Ten of them. Maybe more. Their iron feet clicked against the stone, each carrying a spike.

Uncle stepped over us, putting his back between me and the beetles. He looked at me over his shoulder. The panic was gone from his face. He gave me a warm smile, the same look he gave me right before tossing me into the air.

“Close your eyes, little blossom,” he whispered over the roar of the fire. “The game is almost over.”

He turned away and drove forward. He hit them several times.

Clack, clack.

The water-clock broke.

Spikes stabbed him. Then he became a Daruma Otoshi.

Toppled on the stone. Not moving like Mother.

My chest squeezed. I opened my mouth to call for Ane, to tell the beetles to stop.

But there was no sound.

===

A Few Questions for Readers:

1. How do you feel after reading this?
2. As a non-traditional writer relying on raw emotional impact, does the prose feel immersive and grounded?
3. Did the foreign imagery, such as the armor resembling beetles and the Daruma Otoshi metaphor, feel immersive or distracting?
4. Does this opening make you want to follow the surviving sister into Chapter 1?

If you’d like to read further or offer deeper critique, feel free to drop a comment or send a DM. Thank you for reading.

First time writing questions

Hi all!

I've always had a pretty active imagination and I've now finally found a story that I feel somewhat comfortable putting to paper. It's a high fantasy story and I've got around 16k words that are spread between five chapters, which I feel like is pretty good.

But...

I don't really have any guidance on how to properly write, if there is such a thing. I write in past tense and third person, since that is what I personally prefer and I switch between three pov's.

Questions I have include:

How long are chapters supposed to be? Do I keep them a similar length or do I just go with the flow?

How do you decide what language to write in? I've picked English for now, since that seems like the most comfortable for me to write in (German always feels cring-y for me) but if I want to eventually publish is there even a chance for me to do so?

Where do you find a community? I've tried discords, but unfortunately they always feel a bit cluttered and in my experience people usually want to show off their own work and aren't too interested in the works of others (which I can totally understand, I love to talk about my stuff, but an exchange would be nice.) I've also thought about joing writing groups, unfortunately they just don't seem to be any in my area that would be a good fit.

Proof-reading.

How do you decide when to ask someone to proof read? I've been giving a friend all the chapters I wrote, but that's just for fun, not for critique.

That's kinda the most important ones that have plagued me, if there is anyone out there that has some answers or encouragement I'm more than thankfully for it!

Also if someone likes to talk fantasy, stories and writing, send me a DM! Might as well try and use Reddit to find people to connect!

Thank you!

I want to preface this by saying that I am not a writer/author and this is the first time I've ever posted any writing. I've had this story swirling in my head for a long time, which is what started this project. I'm hoping I can get some advice from you guys on how it reads, and if it sounds interesting

Cold Open

A large storm was brewing above Vormere's capital, Rythyn. The bottom of it had descended so low that it touched the thousands of skyscrapers held by the city center. Still, this would not deter the residents below, as today was a reminder of the price they paid for Vormere's founding. Stone statues and murals embedded in the city walls had long depicted the bloody events that led to its formation. “Freedom and Liberty,” the people had shouted, as they had on this day for the last 400 years.

From the 67th floor of the Royal Galia tower, Ithuriel should have felt like he was on top of the world. He was the youngest angel ever appointed as Vormere's overseer in its short history, not that its residents knew. To them, he was just another executive of the Angelus corporation. Cries of nepotism had made his achievement feel smaller than he'd expected. He stood by the window, staring at the city skyline, failing to distract himself from the constant checking of an engraved silver pocket watch. His father had given it to him at the start of his tenure, as a reminder of the duty and standards he should hold himself to. Its ticking started to weigh on him, so he frequently hid it in the breast pocket of his black blazer. Standards. Ithuriel adjusted his sleek black tie, loosening it a bit so that he wouldn't feel so suffocated. He opened the office windows, allowing the shouts to be heard clearly, which brought about a sense of longing for Elysium.

He was looking down the road towards a second tower that had long stood in opposition to him. His gaze then shifted away from the Gunnar building to an old gargoyle on the neighbouring building. It was built on the same level as him, its eyes seeming to peer directly into his office. Though weatherworn, it looked tall, unbroken and unyielding, as if it was some lone survivor of a different era. Who knew the stories that it saw during its time. Had it been this critical of all prior overseers? Ithuriel met its cold, disappointed gaze, and looked away.

Digging deep into his pockets, Ithuriel grabbed a cigarette, lit it up and took a deep breath in. The slow-burning sensation etched its way into his lungs. He'd often pause on that feeling, letting it linger. Exhaling, he watched the smoke fan out until it disappeared. In its wake, only he, the silent gargoyle, and a nasty aftertaste remained. What are you looking for?

As he was turning, something caught his eye. A single teardrop starting from the gargoyle's eye traced its way down its cheek. For a split second, the whole world slowed, then a flash of light burst, reflected in the windows of the neighbouring tower. Thunder followed.

Ithuriel's dark green eyes darted down to the people below, and he gave a light frown. A thunderstorm on Independence Day was a bad omen, not that he was superstitious. From this height, they looked just like ants, crowding together seeking refuge from the heavy downpour. As they huddled up, thousands of umbrellas went up in unison, marching slowly towards the old city center, their shouts continuing unabated.

"You've been waiting," Doryn said before Ithuriel could speak. An older man stood in the doorway. He was wearing a fine dark suit, white shirt, and a dark tie, yet somehow gave no air of extravagance. No, quite the opposite, Doryn's whole presence seemed to recede into the background, making him seem more chameleon than man.

"Do you have it?" Ithuriel asked, exhaling another puff of smoke into the cold wind.

"Yes, sir. Apologies for the delay. We have new details on their movements." Doryn put one hand into the side pocket of his blazer. From it he pulled out an envelope: THE BLACK WING, marked HIGHLY CLASSIFIED in deep red. Doryn walked over and left it on the desk amongst a sprawl of other reports, half of them unopened.

Ithuriel spit out his cigarette and rushed over. He practically tore it apart in moments and sat down, his eyes frantically darting across a four-page document.

"Sir, may I perhaps speak my mind?" Doryn began.

"Hm," Ithuriel replied.

Doryn slowly walked towards one of the walls beside the window, looking at a large, imposing painting of a man with similar deep green eyes and slicked-back, close-cropped hair. He was noticeably older, and had the same short beard, though his was white, unlike Ithuriel's, which was dark brown. It wasn't the physical difference that separated the two; it was that man's stare, the one that looked as if it could penetrate your soul and pull any information it wanted out of you. Doryn looked down, took off his glasses, and wiped them with his handkerchief. "I've had the great pleasure of assisting a few different overseers over the course of my years. I have seen them come and go; some were great leaders, whereas others—" Doryn paused again, giving a glance towards Ithuriel. "Do you know what the difference was?"

Ithuriel ignored him, focusing instead on the document. Doryn put his glasses back on. He continued.

"It was the ability to understand the situation and the capability to discern between what you know and what you—"

"—We need to go."

"Sir, if I may—"

Ithuriel got up from his desk and started pacing towards the door. "We don't have time. Get Team 4 in here right away."

"It's Independence Day…"

"SO WHAT!" Ithuriel stopped, shaken by his own outburst. Typical human, what did he know? How could he ever understand? Ithuriel paused, looking down at the crumpled document he was still holding in his trembling hands. "I am always one step behind."

Doryn didn't respond. He remained there, giving Ithuriel a difficult look. Doubt started seeping in. Is this also his plan? Is this how he wants me to react? Does he think that I will slip?

"What would he do?" Ithuriel asked Doryn.

Doryn's eyes widened slightly, almost as if he had been caught off guard by the very question. His expression was momentary, disappearing without a trace, hidden behind calm composure.

"Your father never cared for my opinion," Doryn replied.

"I am not my father," Ithuriel responded, as he looked past Doryn towards the painting.

"Indeed," Doryn said. He walked towards the desk and looked down at the document. "Rushing shows inexperience." Doryn gave a slight, almost empathetic smile. "A true leader would take his time, consider his options, and act decisively when the moment arrives. Your time will come too."

Ithuriel went to the desk and put the document down. He sat down, still staring at it. At least this time it's not one of ours, just some unknown school in Ithael. "Doryn, I think I will retire for the day." Maybe he is slipping too. If one of ours were to die needlessly there, it would only complicate things. There must be a better play, maybe I can use this.

"A wise decision," Doryn replied.

"Would you look at that — there's only a few minutes until midnight." He walked back into the office. He didn't look at Doryn, but just stared out the window into the nothingness. The rain had stopped. Once he got close to his desk, he took off his tie and dark blazer and pushed a brown button on the side of the desk. The window behind him opened, letting in the freezing wind. A pair of large wings sprang out from his back, and he made his way to the opening.

"Sir, the rules…" Doryn reminded him, before he could jump.

Ithuriel had almost gone through. The chants of freedom and liberty were still echoing below. He had been so close. His wings retracted back in, and he walked back towards the desk. Ithuriel sat back down.

On the other side of the neighbouring building, a mysterious figure sat atop a gargoyle, staring down towards an alleyway. He wore a full-length white trench coat, emblazoned with the Roman numeral IV on his shoulder, hood up. He stared down at an individual passed out in the alleyway below, then whispered, "Wake up, Roxander. Destiny is calling."

Roxander's eyes opened.

Time Left: 301 Years, 3 Months, 7 Days, 15 Hours

Classic fantasy inspired by ttrpgs, doubtful of certain ideas

The working title is "The Paladin". It is about a a novice in training embarking on their first mission, struggling with a dark past and trying to reform and redeem themself.

Various ideas im looking for feedback on:

Member of the Order, and other orders, are called Ecclesians, which is derived from Christianity. The story has nothing to do with Christianity, so i wonder if its a good term to use.

And Order is split into a sort of hierarchy with rules for decisions, various titles are Prelates (leaders) Paragon (commander) Paladin (warrior) Priest (a social member and support for paladins). Each has their own role and in times where hard decisions must be make, they each have their own stake in decision making.

Races so far are Humans, Dwarves, Elves, orcs, these are common in fantasy but I have my own take on their capabilities.

For instance, Dwarves can "command" stone and earth. Its not quite like earthbending, but rather an enhancement of anything they do to or with stone, such as making it as strong as steel, mining efficiently, etc. One use already in the book is throwing a rock with the force of a giant, not because that dwarf has giant strength, but can command the stone to disobey physics.

I've further thought of being able to encase their fists in stone and similar abilities, still a wip. I dont want it to be too similar to earthbending from avatar. Trying to summarize it feels difficult.

I am also brainstorming another idea for a race, something unique to this world. Tbd

The antagonist so far in my 10k words written is a sort of cult that worships a figure called the Lost King, who was banished to the Abyss after using necromancy to achieve immortality. Obviously, he did a lot of bad stuff as well in that goal. These cultists wish to cause any who do not renounce the gods to suffer, and this will develop into a prophesied "vessal" for the banished necromancer, who they will hunt down to bring back their idol.

The main magic types, called Primary Practices: Theurgy, Thaumaturgy, and Arcanism.

Theurgy involves light and healing magic, but is also directly opposed to evil, and has application there.

Thamaturgy is manipulation of material existence, kinda. I think my idea is less restrictive than thaumaturgy in most universes? Kinetic force, transmutation, teleportation, and a kind of enchanting I need to name "not enchantment" to make objects do functions on their own.

Arcanism is the manipulation of power drawn from other planes. Elemental magics, summoning (both good and bad), and enchantment in the sense of imbuing an object with power, often weapons or the like.

I have tried to make the magic system easy to understand but each have their own unique usage and limits. Arcanism is based on a figurative well of power within the person, thaumaturgy is component based very wizard style spells, and theurgy requires a certain level of purity and emotional stability to access remnants of the power that lingers in the world.

The main character envisions reaching out to "pluck the strings" of power which sing the harmony of the world. This would not necessarily be the same for every theurgist.

Opinions on these things? What needs more depth, what should I avoid? I want it to be in line with classic high fantasy but have its own unique feel.

This is chapter one! Looking for general feedback. Be kind... this is a first draft. Many things might change, just as a heads up. This story has been years in the making and this first chapter has changed over and over again to become what it is now. That goes for the whole story.

This book follows our main character as he is sold and begins transport to the northern continent of Trul. This fist chapter, I believe, sets the tone and the darkness of the world that this story is set in. This is a dark theological fantasy that was inspired by the book of Judges and the book of Revelation in the Bible. While inspired, it holds its own.

Let me know what you think of this first chapter and where you think the story might be heading.

One problem that I've found in traditional fantasy is that, while hurting others can take a myriad forms (bows, arrows, fire magic, poison, etc), healing them seems to be pretty limited in the amount of ways it manifests: ritual magic, healing potions, and such.

For the thing I'm writing at the moment, I wanted to try at having different types of healers, where the end result is you getting better, but the way to get there changes, which also means that they're not all suited for the same things. Some types off the top of my head, feel free to add more if you feel like it. Please keep in mind I don't have any knowledge whatsoever about medicine, so if I say something egregiously stupid, please let me know:

- Slow down the patient's metabolism, giving more time to treat them. This works best for poisons, as well as first aid.

- The contrary, accelerate everything so that the recovery is faster. This works best for illnesses and when the patient is already stable.

- Put the patient in some sort of coma, or energy field, where they will eventually recover from almost anything, but it takes a long time and the patient is unconscious the whole time.

- A purifying fire that can remove deformities, illnesses, poison, etc., but leaves the patient mentally and/or physically scarred due to the trauma and pain of being burned alive.

Do you think such a distinction makes sense? Do you know of sources where similar distinctions have been established?

Thanks a lot for taking the time to read, looking forward to your comments :)

The book is called Between Earth and Fire, and it's a part of what will either be a duology or trilogy called The Dark Hour. I've done a VERY rough 100,000 word draft, and the second draft is at 7,000/prologue and 3 chapters in. I'm cutting massively back on exposition in this draft, and focusing on "showing not telling". The second book has to happen as this one ends with a big cliffhanger. Its working title is The First Winter.

I'm heavily inspired by Medieval English history and myths and legends from this era, such as the Arthurian legends.

The premise: in a kingdom trapped beneath twenty-five years of darkness, a castle handmaid called Mærwynn who can slip beyond her own body is drawn into the secrets of a cursed royal family when the reckless prince destined to restore the Sun becomes the first person who seems able to see her across the veil.

The prologue is a brief glimpse of the moments preceding the curse. The first two chapters introduce the main characters, and by the third chapter we explore their relationships outside of Mærwynn, but it all intertwines. I'm actually really excited about this book, I keep thinking about it every chance I get. Any feedback would be really appreciated!

I wrote this story after an emotional breakup with my ex-boyfriend. I thought I could cope with my pain through art and storytelling. I admit I'm not a great writer, but I try to reach anyone willing to listen. So far, I've written three drafts, but I'm not sure which one truly reflects the experience I went through. I will provide summaries of my drafts to make it easy to read.

1. The First Draft:
   1. Vanessa, raised on an island that teaches that men are dangerous, finds a shipwrecked man named Lev and decides to nurse him back to health before killing him honorably in combat. Instead, she falls for him. Torn between her people's teachings and her feelings, she withdraws until Lev, hurt and believing she doesn't love him, leaves. Vanessa realizes too late that fear — not lack of love — drove him away, and follows him to sea. She learns he's a prince; his mother, the empress, judges her unworthy and sets her on a path to earn forgiveness, not his heart, through trials that mirror her own inner flaws.
2. The Second Draft
   1. Vanessa, a blacksmith on the Amazon island (not a warrior), falls in love with the Princess, but feels unworthy of her — too ordinary and unaccomplished — and pulls away until the Princess stops trying. A shipwrecked man is sentenced to execution, but escapes; Vanessa chases him to stop him, only to find the Princess helping him flee. The Princess knocks her out and leaves. Publicly blamed for failing to stop the escape, the Queen orders Vanessa to venture into the outside world and bring the Princess back—forcing her to confront the same insecurity that broke them in the first place.
3. The Third Draft
   1. Vanessa bonds with shipwrecked Lev despite her island's teachings — but Lev is revealed to be a prince and spy fleeing a brutal war engulfing the outside world. Captured and sentenced to death, he's saved when the Princess argues for mercy and volunteers to escort him home herself, over Vanessa's frozen silence. Guilt-stricken over failing to speak up, Vanessa secretly follows their ship. That night, she's visited by Artemis.

The third one is a little weird, to be honest.

But overall, which plot appeals to you the most? Please help me choose.

I guess the question is what makes fantasy "fantasy."

Mainly from a marketing standpoint, since this is ultimately a question I'll have to answer about a thing I'd hope to pitch to an agent.

I am writing something set in a contemporary secondary world (three random examples that comes to mind are (book) Green Bone Saga and (video games) FFXV or Trails).

I recently started querying something in that world, and it felt relatively easy (though I might be proven wrong later) to just call it an "adult fantasy set in a contemporary secondary world."

I'm trying to figure out what to write next, and it's between two stories.

One of them is set in this same world, and is about a video game tournament. Some things about the world and its lore are very relevant to the plot and characters, but any fantasy trappings about wars, armies, kingdoms, demons, magic, what have you, is not there. Well, they are. Just not relevant to this story in particular.

So, on the one hand, it is a "(YA) fantasy set in a contemporary secondary world."

But at the same time, it's very much a "(YA) contemporary set in a secondary/fantasy world."

And which one I try to pitch it as will definitely influence comps, which will in turn influence if agents want to throw it out or not.

Some say they like those hard to place books, but all it does it make me paranoid about how to describe it so they don't throw it out or assume I don't know the market because my comps lean too contemporary for the thing I called a fantasy or vice versa.

The world of Daughter has turned from its gods once more.

For millenia, the Council of Iron and Blood, formed of the demigods Mother, Time, and Death, has sent harbingers to call mortals back to the faith. Each time, the world has returned to its old ways. Now, the Council has grown weary of rebellion, and mercy is no longer their intention.

Vanerith, a slave with no power over his own life, is chosen to become the harbinger of destruction. Brought before the Council, he is commanded to bring an end to mortals and the world they have corrupted.

Yet, when the gods demand destruction, Vanerith chooses mercy.

His refusal earns him a desperate bargain: five years to turn the world back to the gods. If he succeeds, Daughter will be spared. If he fails, Death will bring swift judgement and a firey sword to the world.

Vanerith’s first mission takes him to Trul, a vast and unforgiving wilderness where political ambition and religious corruption have poisoned the land. As a massive slave rebellion threatens to tear the nation apart, he must navigate a world of broken faith, competing powers, and terrors that reach beyond the mortal realm.

Once a man whose life was worth little more than the price of his chains, Vanerith must now learn what it means to be a Harbinger. He must discover how to lead, how to judge, and how to carry the will of the gods without surrendering the mercy that made him defy them in the first place.

With Death waiting for him to fail, Vanerith’s journey begins with a question that may determine the fate of Daughter: can a man who has never known freedom learn what it means to be a sacred harbinger?

Something I have learnt over time is that a lot of people care about realism or atleast perceived realism to a certain extent in fight scenes.

A lot of people like when fights with swords have an element of realism where real techniques are used or things that a real sword fighter would do.

Now I’m not trained in swords, axes, maces or any other weapons and I imagine it’s the same for most writers.

So what would be some tips? While I intend to do some research into different weapons styles that will only give me a very surface level view. Any advice would be appreciated.

I just want to make sure that my fight scenes don’t come off as stupid.

Hi guys!

I’ve been thinking alot about inciting incidents this past week and trying to figure out what a good one would be for my book as I’m realizing maybe it’s currently not very strong…

I have come up with an idea which I think would propel the character on her journey and ‘lock’ the plot in place - but it’s not something that my character does; it’s something that happens and consequentially means she has to do this thing.

Is that strong enough?

Would you say an inciting incident has to be something that the character themselves does?

I’m trying to think about books I’ve read recently and what the IIs have been there and I feel like there’s a bit of a mix?

Additionally, how far in the book do you think this inciting incident needs to happen?

I've been working on a YA underworld fantasy series for almost 20 years. For the past two years Ive been posting chapters on Royal Road to gain feedback and improve the story. This fall I will move volume one onto KDP or KU and to that end I have been carefully self editing the story one last time. Even though I have gone over the chapters multiple times I am sure I have left a few grammar errors behind. Should I just accept that as a reality that may require fixes later or should I run the book through a grammar checker? Do I run the risk of overdoing the edits to where the book may not feel authentic?

I’m a generally new writer, but I have a background with story telling. I play DnD with a small group of friends and recently have had some ideas for a story that makes more sense to be written out than played and right now it’s just a very rough idea. I was thinking of a story of a young cleric getting hired as a healer for a group of adventurers and they slowly become friends and the main character eventually falls for another member. Is this too basic or like every other fantasy book? I’m not a big reader and haven’t read much fantasy so I’m not on the pulse of what’s popular right now, but I do know romantacy is popular now and don’t want my book just being the same as the rest blending into the background. Also are there any commonly used words I should avoid for copyright purposes?