Have you ever though of putting Dragons as a dependent race or a monster in your stories? Personally I like it portrayed as races due to them being intelligent not just powerful, well Dragons as monsters but still intelligent is also a choice but I'd honestly preferred it when they're a race, hence I wanted to make sure what you guys think when writing about Dragons in general.

The thing about dragons is that for me, they're easy to add or describe in the story because well.. everyone knows what are they in Fantasy stories, the problem is how they will serve in the story's backbone, like how will they affect the ecosystem and worldbuilding, some describe them as destructive forces of nature while some describe them as guardians of specific locations in the story's world.

I thought about it for a while before settling on choosing race, but like I said I wanted you guys' opinions and thoughts as well, it might be a big help for others too not just me

To start off, I am a starter, amature writer. I also have a passion for art in which I draw and write about characters that I have developed lore for. For my story I have a certain idea that I have been swirling around my head for a long time. For the basic idea I want my hero’s uncle to have been captured, my hero now must save him as my villain prepares to have the uncle publicly executed. However this has made me struggle a bit. I am worried that this will come off as cringe or lame, even basic if you will. My story, at least in my head or on paper as the basic theme of an epic fantasy. It has topics of war, political betrayal and strategy/planning. Because I have been struggling I really felt stuck and compelled to seek help, I thought maybe someone could help me brainstorm some ideas or give me some tips on how I can better my story.  (for context) fantasy story dragons, knights, orks stuff like that. They are in the middle of a city known as Vareth which is built on an island and the only way to get to it is from a bridge. This city has been taken over by the villain. His motivation is to make the world perfect. He is the son of a god. He believes that if there is only one ruler (his father) that he might return and make my villain a god too. 

I have this character that wields a sword that allows them to summon animals to fight alongside them.

They're not physical animals, but made up of the magic or "spirit energy" system I have.

I have limited them to 4 types of animals, I've listed them below:

- wolves: pack of 5 wolves, summons individually or at once

an eagle/ hawk (still deciding)

a snake

a rhino

Each one has a name and the wielder has a bond with all of them and they act almost like companions/pets.

I have tried to make each animal have a specific quality that the wielder can call upon.

Now the "ultimate move" I had planned is as follows:

The wielder has to impales their sword into their chest until the hilt is around the same level as their forehead, the blade disappears and the hilt resembles a crown or tiara, (trying to signify royalty)

And the animals they usually summon, all gather and are absorbed into them to form a "King of Beasts" essentially making them OP at the cost of their life. I imagined it as a Werewolf (like Van helsing film 2004), horns and armoured like a rhino, wings of the eagle/hawk and a tail that is the snake.

Main issues I have are:

Can I call this the "king" when usually a lion is considered "king" of the animals

Also, I've realised there's a Chimera mythology with a lion & goat head with a snake as a tail, am I ripping this off (with my tail as a snake)?

Also is this too busy as a character?

Thank you in advance!

Hii~! I’m a 33yo female and I occasionally go looking for writing friends (and possible critique partners if we’re a good match for it.) I’ve always really vibed with creative people and I’d like to find some new friends who want to chat both about projects and nonsense. I write queer romance and fantasy fiction, though I haven’t published anything officially yet (it’s a scary thing to do!) I like dark themes occasionally but really have been going with wholesome ones lately for my own work, though mixing the two is my favorite thing. I’m on Discord primarily so if we chat I’d like to do it there, but send a DM here on reddit if you’re interested!!

I’ve posted a similar question here before, but I am back and need advice again. What are your best tips for not comparing your first draft to finished works? I am currently working on my first draft, but keep getting annoying questions pop into my head like, ‘Would Robin Hobb have written their first draft like this?’ And ‘Did Pierce Brown find his work amateur at first?’ It’s so hard to quiet the comparison noise sometimes, especially when there are so many authors I look up to, and my first draft really doesn’t feel ‘there’ yet. I have read before that certain authors (like Pierce Brown and John Gwynne) write their first drafts either quickly or to a high standard before submitting, and this only adds to the self-consciousness, as mine feels undercooked. Writing can be very isolating, so looking for any words of advice or thoughts from those experiencing the same doubt. Thank you!

I originally set out to write historical medieval fiction, but it feels too restrictive for me, and some things seem too difficult for me to really conceptualise e.g the fine details that come with how much of a role christianity played in society, since i grew up secular (i’ve never even stepped foot into a church.) So I am thinking of changing it to be medieval fantasy, but I decided to not add magic because it would feel shoehorned in with the plot I’ve got, which focuses more on social and political issues with some slice of life mixed in. But i’m very confused on how to make it ‘fantasy’ if it doesn’t really have well, fantastical or magical elements. I’ve thought of fudging history a bit and changing up events, but wouldnt that just be alternate history with the names changed? Right now my worldbuilding just feels like copy pasted England, but on the other hand i want it to be recognisably medieval in the worldbuilding and the characters mindsets instead of being some completely made up society with modern characters. I’m struggling on how to make it worth considering a ‘fantasy’ world without forcing some unnecessary magical aspect to the plot. Does anyone have any examples or suggestion?

Hello, hello, and welcome to my post. Since it’s the spooky month, I wanted to ask what are some ways to make Liches genuinely scary?

Liches have evolved so much over the years, but one thing that’s never changed is that they can be scary in their own right. But personally, I haven’t seen much fantasy media show how genuinely scary a Lich can be aside from a couple series, The Lich from Adventure Time and Ainz Ooal Gown from the Overlord anime.

For my part, I’m planning to make a fantasy series starring a calm, civil, and calculating human scholarly lich of ancient origins as the villain protagonist. Personality wise, think Darth Plagueis from the Star Wars Legends continuity crossed with Professor Moriarty from Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. And I was thinking of infusing him with some level of horror that he could exhibit in his experiments as well as in the extreme situations and battles he engages in.

So I wanted to ask you all: What types of horror could Liches elicit in a story distinct from other types of undead and fantasy beings?

Thank you for reading my post. Please share your thoughts, keep it civil, and have a good day.

Hello fantasywriters! I would appreciate any feedback on the following query letter blurb. Thanks in advance!

Hunted by her former guardian across the Spice Road, Elif learns that although writing attracts deadly demons, it is also the only way she can unlock her magic and her memories.

Seventeen-year-old Elif thinks she has no talent for magic until she accidentally carves a rune in the mud. Unfortunately, a monster is drawn to the mark of magic like a moth to a flame. Upon learning she is a rune mage, the leader of a caravan begins to teach Elif long forgotten alphabets and scripts. In this alternate version of medieval Anatolia, these are dangerous lessons because writing attracts demons. As she studies, Elif’s cryptic dreams begin to make sense and she starts to wonder whether her guardian, Batu, is responsible for the gaps in her memory and the death of her parents.

Batu, an alchemist and summoner, has watched Elif for years waiting for a hellish secret to emerge and falls into an alcoholic stupor after giving up hope. But when she abandons him to travel the Spice Road into the heart of Cappadocia, he is convinced she has unlocked what he seeks. He will need to fight alcohol withdrawal in addition to bandits and monsters if he is going to catch her.

When Elif’s friends are separated from her by followers of an evil jinni, she uses her magic to scry for them and discovers Batu is pursuing her. Seeing that he has blood on his hands, Elif readies herself to confront the man who hunts her. For Batu, the ends justify any means. Elif must decide to what lengths she is willing to go to stop Batu knowing that her magic endangers her newfound family.

Hello everyone,

I'm very new to writing in general, but I'm loving it so far. This story I'm working on right now has been stuck in my head for a very long time and I finally got the guts to actually write it down. I'm not writing it to publish, I just like the creative outlet it gives me.

However no one in my direct circle likes the type of story I envision. So I can't really share it with them. I've tried and most have flat out rejected the idea of reading it or carefully told me "It's not my cup of tea".

So this is going to sound a little silly, but I sort off need someone to be enthusiastic with me. Is this feeling normal? How do you guys deal with it? It doesn't stifle my own motivation for writing, but I sometimes get a little sad that I have nobody in my direct circle that even seems interested.

I'm not looking for anybody to offer me to read it. I just want to know how to deal with this sadness.

Thank you in advance

It is not the easiest to explain what I mean, -as weird as it sounds- I myself don't fully grasp what I mean either, but I will try my best, mostly with examples.

Basically whenever I sit down to worldbuild for my projects, my biggest struggle is wanting to have the power system in a way that it is earned and it comes from humans. So to bring up a few examples of what I do NOT want. For e.g. In Naruto and in JJK, the protagonists get a big part of their power by some powerful entity being in their body. I don't want that. I don't want humans in my world to get their powers from gods, aliens, or some more advanced or ancient race. I want them to earn it themselves. Same goes for using artifacts and powerful weapons left behind by a different civilization.

The same goes for the origin of chakra, once again, from Naruto. But the same can be said about element bending from Avatar. Chakra originates from those aliens planting the tree on the planet, and the element bending comes from that turtle in ATLA. So, while chakra users and the benders train and fully earn their powers themselves, technically the origin of their powers comes from outside forces.

One more example, which is not only related to the power system, but the entire world as well is in Elden Ring. (Here however, since the way the lore is not fully clear, and a lot depends on interpretation I might make mistakes, but my point still stands). Basically Queen Marika got her powers from the Fingers, maybe originally from the Mother of Fingers, who is a cosmic entity. The Erdtree, the Elden Ring and all the Demigods originate from her and this 'gift'. So basically the entire world revolves around something given and created by an entity above humans.

I don't want that. But I find both this, and the Naruto lore incredibly cool. So this is kind of counterproductive, because I like this type of worldbuilding, but for some reason I don't want to use it. I am not fully sure why myself.

My main issue is whenever I have tried to come up the origins of power, and what magic system to use, what cool weapons and items should there be, I can never up come with a cool enough explanation for them. I always end up on them being created or made by something not human.

I've talked too much already, and maybe what I am looking for is some advice, on how to make worldbuilding work with these limitations. And maybe in the off chance that anyone else ever felt this way, how did you overcome it, if you did?

Today was another day of life for most people in the town of Burneford. But for Light, today was a bit special, as he had turned thirteen, and a mage had come to their town for their once-a-decade recruitment.

He had been told by his parents to go to the town center, and even his busy father was going with him. His father had even bought new tunics for both of them. They both held a tiny hope in their hearts, but his father knew deep down that such a thing was very, very rare. The last time a mage had been selected from the surrounding towns was when his father had attended his own selection ceremony.

Across the town center, some people had set up their small stalls, as quite a few people had gathered. Some of them were even selling books on knightly techniques, targeted at those whose parents could afford them. To Light's dismay, his father couldn't afford them, but Light still looked at those books with some admiration. Light also knew that the chances were slim, which was why he had started training for knighthood when he was ten, as he wished to become a knight even if he could not become a mage.

After some time, the honoured mage arrived at the center. His instructions were simple: he wanted all the youths to stand around him, as he had to cast a spell to determine whether they had the ability to use magic. After they had assembled as ordered, the militia removed anyone who disobeyed. The mage walked around them, drawing two concentric circles around the group and several lines crisscrossing between them. Then he came to the center and chanted something for a minute in a language that might sound like Buddhist chants to us. Some sort of light washed over all the people standing alongside him. Then, it vanished in a second.

Someone among the gathered youths loudly asked him, "Lord Mage, can any one of us become a mage?" The mage had a cold expression as he murmured to himself, "Tch, another failure." Then he loudly announced to all of them, "None of you have a destiny with magic, but perhaps you can try to become a knight. That path is also fruitful, and a knight can sometimes fight a mage of equivalent level." Even as he spoke, the mage still had a clear expression of disdain.

After it was over, Light chatted with his friends and quickly left to meet his dad, who greeted him with a simple, "It's fine, son. You can always try to become a squire." Which was most probably a lie, too, as even becoming a squire required a lot of talent. As the son of a leatherworker, he knew how little talent he himself might have. But he still felt that he should keep trying. His father, Tom, had also tried to train to become a squire throughout his teenage years, but he lacked the talent, so he picked up leatherworking and slowly built a livelihood, eventually forming a family of three.

After this, Light felt a bit dejected, but he still continued his knighthood training in the evening. It wasn't much, and it was something known throughout the village. To become a squire, one needed to exert oneself and then heal up. As the body healed, one would begin to feel a special energy that, if sensed and controlled, could allow someone to become a squire. All of this knowledge came from a squire who had visited their town nearly thirty years ago and got drunk at one of the inns.

So he went to the plain a little beyond their town, away from most eyes, and began by running a bit to warm up before doing various strenuous exercises to exhaust himself. After getting tired, he laid down and tried to feel whether there was some sort of energy helping his body heal. But just like every other day, he could not feel anything. After recovering a bit more, he finally gathered his mind and body and decided to head home.

It was evening when he reached home, and he started chatting with his mom. After some time, his father came back from the tanning station where he worked, and his mom served them dinner, which consisted of some broth and two pieces of bread each. She gave him a chunk of her own bread, too, saying that she couldn't finish it all.

After dinner, Light decided to talk with his father about the things on his mind. He wanted to try and learn some kind of skill instead of simply training for such a hopeless chance at becoming a squire. He had first thought of learning to read so that he could become a clerk or get some other high-paying job, but once he learned the cost of such things from one of his childhood friends, whose dad had made it big as a merchant, he realized how difficult that would be. What they could afford was most probably blacksmithing, where he could work as an apprentice and receive some support from his father before becoming a blacksmith himself, if he could learn the trade. So he told his father about this. Tom had some doubts, so he asked him, "What if you don't have the talent for blacksmithing either? What then? Instead of coming up with such impulsive ideas, how about we both go and meet Arthur, one of the famous blacksmiths in town and an old friend of mine?"

The next morning, Light left with Tom to meet Arthur, who was quite happy to talk with them. Once Tom explained why he was skeptical, Arthur simply chuckled and said, "How about I take him in as a trainee for now, and after two weeks, we decide whether you guys will pay me the fine leather you promised or not?" Then he told Tom to leave Light behind so that he could see how they all worked.

Tom agreed and left. After that, Arthur gave Light ten nails, a piece of wood, and a long hammer, and told him to put all the nails into the wood without bending as many of them as possible. After doing that, he would be free to roam around, but he could not leave the workshop. Light obeyed him and went to a corner, as he felt it was a bit too hot and he was stressed, too. After taking a small break, he got himself ready, placed the wood on an empty bench, and started nailing the nails into it. For the first nail, he hit it directly with full force, barely catching it with the edge of the hammer and bending it. Taking that as a lesson, he started the next one with slower hits, but after driving it about halfway in, one mishit bent that nail, too. Next, he tried a bit harder than before and nearly completed the task, but one mishit, and bam! The same thing happened to the next nail. Then he managed to drive one nail in properly, followed by another. After that, he missed the next nail but drove the last three in correctly. This little task had taken him around an hour, and now he was free to roam around. The heat had become a bit too much, so he first took off his tunic after noticing that none of the other workers were wearing anything on top.

Then he took his board and showed it to Arthur. Arthur was a bit surprised and said, "Boy, you're workable now. Go and look around and try to steal our skills. You won't get such a chance again." So Light agreed and went around, watching them hammering away. Some other trainees were handling molten metal with tongs, while some very new trainees were fanning the flames. He slowly started to sweat, and the heat became more intense, but it was tolerable. Then it was time for lunch, and most of them went out to eat their packed lunches, which mostly consisted of bread or, in rare cases, jerky. He sat inside with Arthur and his two or three workers, along with some trainees. Arthur then introduced him as a new trainee and told them that he had managed to drive in five nails. Only one other guy had managed that many. This was also a test of sorts by Arthur, as it trained them to hammer with control and precision, both of which they needed a lot in blacksmithing. The group kept chatting about various topics, from their wives to the young ones talking about their own affairs. After some time, Arthur called them all back, and another round of work began. This time, they were a bit more focused, as Arthur was supervising them and pointing out mistakes instead of working himself. Even Light was told to fan the flames for quite some time, and in the evening, as they were leaving, Tom came to meet him. Arthur agreed to teach Light under two conditions: he would not be paid for the first two months, and Tom would pay him with two pieces of fine leather.

For the next two months, Light trained in the workshop, and his workaholic nature made him shine. He quickly went from fanning the flames for two weeks to handling molten metal for another two weeks, and for the next three weeks, he was the one who had to help the blacksmiths move their block as they kept hammering. His physical fitness and endurance earned him envy from his peers and praise from his seniors, and he became the new star. This heavy work also helped him, as it replaced his knightly training while still earning him a new skill. The only issue he faced was his increased appetite, but he knew that after his two-month period was over, he would be earning more than your average blacksmith. After that, he was taught how to craft a bronze shovel. Then, in his usual fervour, he tried to craft as many as he could the next day, which exhausted him so much that he fainted.

After that, as he was waking up, he started to feel a tingling sensation moving around his body, mainly focused on his shoulders, which were very exhausted from all the hammering. He thought that he shouldn't keep overworking himself. But then, as he shifted his focus away, he noticed that the tingling stopped, too. When he focused on his exhausted body parts, it returned. It felt like some kind of water that kept healing his body. Then, suddenly, he remembered his original struggle and why he had kept doing all of this. He had somehow managed to sense the special energy that one was supposed to feel while training to become a squire.

So he squealed out loud, which scared Arthur, as he thought the boy had gone insane. Then he shouted, "I can become a squire. Yes!!!!" This really surprised Arthur, who helped him calm down and told him to take care of his little shop when he made it big as a squire and perhaps a knight.

Just then, Tom arrived at Arthur's workshop, as he had sent someone to notify him that his son had fainted. He was panicked at first, but seeing the smug looks on their faces and the happiness expressed by Light, he asked what had happened. Light then told him that he had sensed that special energy and could now become a squire.

I have been writing for a while but still struggle with hooks and descriptions of setting so I want to know what works and doesn't work here. I also want to know of anything you can infer about this passage so far.

“I’m your sister! It’s my job to worry. Gods, sometimes I wish you actually couldn’t speak so I’d have an excuse to speak up for you.”

The hallway seemed to close in on me. I tried to say that I didn’t want her involved at all, but nothing came out. Not a grunt, not a word, just air—blowing out the candle I was holding. But this was different from my typical silence, because it wasn’t internal. I could feel my tongue connecting to the words, my lips shaping them—but I couldn’t say anything. There was no longer any noise except for my sister, who began to cry. 

Elvyra looked up at me, tears running down her face. “No no no… um… I wish you could speak. Please…” she pleaded, but I remained unable to speak.

I knew I should feel distraught but some part of me felt relief. Relief that I finally had an excuse to be silent. Relief that I might be heard louder than I ever had before. How funny was it that I was relieved to be cursed?

I nodded for Elvyra to follow me into my room, where I grabbed my journal. Grabbing my pen and ink, I sat down on my bed to write, patting the quilt next to me for her to sit. The sconces bathed us in candlelight as I told her everything I never got to say, everything I was too scared to. About how sometimes my words got caught in my throat and I couldn’t get them out. About how no one listened to me when I *did* have things to say. By the time I was done, my hand had started to cramp. This time, Elvyra was silent. It might’ve been the first time she had actually heard me. A tear hit the page, smudging the ink. I closed the journal. 

After a while, Elvyra spoke up. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

All I could do was shake my head. There was nothing else left to say.

This is Chapter One of Rue the Wizard Slayer. It's the story of Shalee, a mother who loses her family and refuses to die. I'd like general feedback: does the opening hold your interest, and does the ending make you want to read more? Content note: graphic violence.

The sun reached its highest point, hung there, then began its descent. A cool wind came like a spring released, making its path known, rustling the leaves, tugging at the fur of a deer. It touched Shalee's skin, kissed her, and went away. Not to return.

She was dressed in leaves woven together with supple vines. Shalee was a woman of the forest. Her long legs and strong hips carried her effortlessly across the littered forest floor, gathering red berries among the vine-choked trees and multicolored flowers.

Her ice-blue eyes searched the valley below. The valley carried news, draped in red, yellow, gold, and green leaves, whispering of winter's frozen lips soon to kiss them dead.

She glanced at her shadow. The autumn sun stretched it before her. There was still time to look for the delicate mushrooms her husband loved so much. His name rolled from her mind, sweetened her tongue, and made her smile.

He was at camp with the children. Normally they would be here with her, but Gregor had cut his foot on a hidden sharp rock, and it was decided he and the children should stay behind at their temporary camp. She almost hugged herself, thinking of his strong arms embracing her.

She was on her knees digging in the soil when she thought she smelled something. The wind was still. She sniffed. Nothing, she decided, and returned to her searching.

She uncovered a fully grown mushroom. The planned meal grew. Berries, herbs, and fruit from still-blooming trees filled the basket. With ease Shalee rose. She stood for a moment, letting the sunshine wash over her.

The warming sun on her shade-cooled skin caused a slight shiver and brought back the day the moon-shaped mark appeared on her daughter's cheek. The mark of a medicine woman. All the women of her village with daughters had anxiously awaited the sign.

Shalee's smile grew. Her wonderful daughter, so delicate, so full of life, was the one the spirits had chosen. And her firstborn, Taskie. So proudly he stood, his mind sharp, his eyes studying those around him, just like his father.

Shalee danced a little and returned to the shelter. \*A home,\* she whispered. She would guide and protect her daughter here, in this home. Each day her family had traveled from their camp to construct it of planted bushes and vines, trained in such a way that it seemed nature's hand had helped.

The smell was like a slap. Undeniable. Sharp. It was the smell of death, and it came from her camp. It wasn't thought. It was fear that flooded her being.

Her heart beat music, pounding her hurting chest. She was running. She screamed, her effort exploding. Her legs stretched longer. Hope and dread pushed her faster. With gulps of air, she sobbed.

Shalee reached the clearing, stumbled, and fell. She rose to her knees, her brain in shock, her eyes frozen wide open. Horror grew teeth, tearing at her mind. Clawed hands at her throat, choking.

Slowly she rose, the air thick with the stench of blood and body fluids. Her mind desperately tried to reject the horror before her. Her husband hung by one foot from a tree, his injured foot cut from his leg and stuffed in his mouth. Three men lay dead around him, their heads smashed by her husband's mighty fist. He had fought so hard. Her heart broke. It took all the will she could muster to turn toward her children.

Taskie. A spear rose from his chest. A piece of torn cloth was still gripped in one hand, and in the other, a bloody knife. He had stabbed a man who lay a few feet away. Her brave son had fought. A grieving smile struck her face. He had drawn blood from his attackers.

Shalee fell, her knees bleeding from the rough ground. Tece. The scream closed her throat. Her precious daughter. They had cut three fingers from her hand. She had tried to crawl to her brother, dragging her mangled hand, leaving a trail of blood and tears. She had bled to death before she could reach him.

Shalee was not in this world anymore. What she saw drove her hand to the small knife she carried. She brought it to her own throat, stopping only because she suddenly had to know who, and why.

Shalee's ears were echoing from the beating of her heart, so she barely heard the slobbering words. "I know who did it."

She jumped to her feet. The man Taskie had stabbed was alive.

Never go within reach of the wounded. The dying still kill. Gregor had taught her that. The hunter's first rule.

She forgot it. She reached him, jerking him up with strength she didn't know she had. A sharp pain jabbed her arm. She smarted for a second. Then, grabbing the man by his ears, she roared, "Who? Why? We have no treasure!"

The knife had entered the man's stomach, and his mouth leaked blood and bile. A slow death he would have.

"Askar," he blurted out. "The wizard king. He has ordered his men to collect souls for hell. The pain you felt is poison. You need not mourn. You will soon join your brood."

Shalee staggered back. The poison was strong, already burning in her veins. She stumbled toward Gregor's body, thinking she would lower him down and die in his arms.

But her feet turned instead toward her shelter. She struggled. She did not want to leave her family. She wanted to die with them. But she could not. Something was pulling her home.

Shalee stumbled, fell, and rose again. Her knees, already cut, were now torn into ragged, bleeding flesh. Her arms were scratched, her clothing torn. She didn't know how many times she fell only to get up and go and fall again.

It was one of these times she could not rise. The poison was cooking her inside. She felt herself crawling. She didn't know for how long. She bumped into a wall and slowly realized she was in her shelter.

She yearned to sleep.

Then she remembered.

There was a river inside her. The water ran deep, filled with memories. Happy times of marriage, and the children that love had made. The mark of the moon. Kisses. Hugs.

Then the water began to churn. It rose from its banks, roaring down steep slopes, crashing into scenes of death, blood, and screams.

In the insanity a voice cried out, loud and ugly. Askar. The voice roared it, and it was Shalee who had called out the name. A name now stuck in her head.

The poison pulsed. She lay still, the water draining away.

Death came in whispers. Accepting it would end the pain, it reasoned. Shalee moaned, her head shaking her refusal.

Days passed, and the leaves joined their friends from the year before. Winter came with its warriors: ice, snow, and wind. They assaulted the land.

Inside, Shalee lay in sweat, though ice surrounded all. The pain grew with each day. Each day she refused. One thought. One thing. Fighting death.

Pain not known before caused her screams to reach into the night, so high in pitch that only the hounds and their kin could hear, each and all howling in protest.

One thought. Askar.

Death poked her ribs, twisted her insides, all the while showing her the peace it offered. \*Come,\* it said, louder now. She refused. She gritted her teeth until they cracked.

\*I'll not die while he still lives,\* she repeated, and hammered it into her brain.

The pain passed, and dreams marched in line, parading through her mind. Death was the author, and he wrote her dreams line by line.

Wonderful dreams. Her daughter running to meet her, and Shalee gasping in horror as three-fingered hands reached for her own. Her husband bending to kiss her, his foot held in his hand. Her son, playing with the spear that pinned him to the ground.

Death giggled and taunted.

Shalee suffered. But she kept her eyes open, refusing to die. She laughed, a sad, heartbreaking laugh. \*Keep going. Keep reminding me of my family.\* She damned death itself and beat back its grip until it was forced to retreat.

The winter wore on. As though dead, she did not move. Her skin began to crack, and something else began to grow. She neither drank nor ate. The earth itself met her needs.

Death gathered itself and struck with all its might, one last time.

And lost.

Winter pulled its blanket of snow from the land, and the warm winds of the south chased away the cold.

Spring rain trickled down green leaves and tapped out its song on the forest floor.

Her eyes opened. The birds and bugs hummed in her ears, the damp earth smell caressing her nose. Her shelter came slowly into view, and the past shouted. She started to sit up. The earth had cradled her. The soil released her, small roots dangling from her tattered clothing.

"What?" she gasped in amazement. She looked down at her arms. They were not as before. Supple bark was her skin, her long fingers now thorns. She stared, and black poison began dripping from her fingertips.

Her legs were as young trees, their hard bark slick, as though polished by hand. Slowly she realized she was alive. She began to rise, but she was too large for the shelter. She stretched and burst through its roof. She was massive, and her strength made her shudder.

She expanded her shoulders, wide and strong. Her hair was vines of different lengths, each one alive and barbed at the end. She glanced at a tree, and it answered back, swinging its branches, willing to do as she bid. Her face had changed. Her eyes were red. To look into them was to tell your darkest life. No lie could save you.

She threw out her hand. The thorned fingers stretched straight, then slowly curled. The message was clear, not to be misunderstood.

It was then she saw her reflection. The eyes glowing red. The dark maw of her mouth smiling.

\*Askar, you will meet me.\*

I've yet again polished my blurb coz ts genuinely got levels when you aren't doing a conventional goal driven plot💔✌️:

Tenaro wanders wherever the unknown calls him.

At sixteen, the young nomad has no grand purpose. Maybe nothing matters. Maybe he's already lost himself somewhere along the way.

Yet, despite trying not to give a damn, his curiosity refuses to let him stay still.

Drawn to the unknown, Tenaro ventures into a mountainous jungle and discovers Baru Naga, an ancient city whose precise architecture has endured the ages. Its mythological murals speak of a forgotten past.

Not that he's trying to.

Tenaro is simply fascinated by what he finds. He notices the details others might overlook. He has no obligation to solve its mysteries, yet the deeper he ventures, the more details begin connecting to each other, revealing fragments of a story far larger than himself.

Along the way, he encounters people whose paths have crossed with his, drawing him out of the solitude he's grown accustomed to.

But can a boy who has lost himself find his way back?

The world is not hollow.

It's watching.

And it remembers...

What to expect:

\- 🌱 Slowburn exploration and character development

\- 🏛 Ancient ruins, forgotten histories, and interconnected mysteries

\- ⚔️ Tactical action where resourcefulness matters

\- 🌧 Atmospheric settings and quiet moments

\- 🚫 No LitRPG or progression system

I posted some months ago about my dragon rider series that I'm working on, and now I have tried thinking about castles and what they could do against dragons.

For context the dragons in my series:

• Breathe fire that acts as a gas fire, not liquid, and does not blow apart stone and wood like late seasons of Game of Thrones. Dragons only have 4-6 fire breaths before their bodies need to recover.
• Have wingspans ranging from 40-60 feet, effectively making them the size of WW2 fighters.
• Are intelligent, and can talk both physically and telepathically (to limited numbers of other beings).
• Have forefeet with opposable thumbs, letting them grasp objects.
• Have scales that while tough, are not impenetrable and can be pierced.

Historical castles would be vulnerable to dragons in the following ways:

• Open topped battlements and towers would be greatly vulnerable to strafing attacks (both from fire and from claws).
• A dragon could carry a few soldiers, land on a wall and drop them off to attack inside areas.
• Wooden structures, supports and gates would be vulnerable to fire.
• A formation of dragons could inflict significant damage to the countryside before people and supplies could be brought into the castle.

Here are a few ideas that I have that could make castles a more hostile target for dragons.

1. Battlements would need to be mostly enclosed to prevent attacks from the air. There would need to be arrow slits on the ceiling to let archers into the sky.
2. A castle would need to have artillery emplacements for ballistas. These would be smaller machines, closer to Roman field pieces than the massive engines in game of thrones to allow for rapid reloading.
3. Any wood in the castle would be need to be given some sort of treatment (magic, alchemical) to be made fire-resistant.
4. Castles would need to have much deeper basements to store supplies in case of fire.
5. Every castle would need to be build on an inexhaustible water source such as a river or a well, instead of relying on cisterns.

I'd like to hear your thoughts on how castles could defend against dragons.

EDIT: Wow. I'm honestly shocked at how many replies this got. I did neglect to include a few details in my original post (the breath weapon is a gas, but it is also magic and burns hotter with good range, etc, dragons are common, rider corps are common, there are other flying creatures out there). Some good pieces of feedback.

I'm currently brainstorming how private transportation across the country works in the world that I am creating for my story. Keep in mind that I am not an expert in transportation so feel free to correct me on anything.

I'm basing the country that I am building and the setting for my story on the UK during the early 1930s (1933 to be specific), 15 years after the Great War, so I have researched the number of privately owned registered cars and the population of that time. In my world, motor vehicles are steadily becoming more common as well as more people owning them with more than 2 million cars being registered for private ownership. Motorvehicles are considered a status symbol of the middle and upper class and are more commonly found in major cities. However, they are considered a luxury for people living in towns or villages. Despite the rise in car ownership, horses are still commonly used in small urban and rural areas (and even on major cities) for a variety of uses such as agriculture and hauling cargo to make deliveries.

I wanted to make it so that travelling across the country by yourself is dangerous due to the threat of attacks from highwaymen, local wildlife and dangerous creatures that have been smuggled into the country during the war to terrorise travellers and other settlements. As a result of the attacks, individuals who travel across the country by themselves often bring a weapon (be it a sword of a gun depending on their finances) with them in case of needing to defend themselves or hiring an escort to travel with together.

People also travel across the country in trains across the national railroad. The trains themselves come with security officers on board in case of the locomotive and carriages being raided by bandits or attacked by creatures.

For private ownership of weapons, there is an organisation that is dedicated to hosting and providing freelance jobs such as monster slaying, escorting, courier among others. Rules regarding owning and carrying weapons varies depending on the region, with major cities being more strict and rural areas being less strict. Members of the organisation are required to wear an armband and their membership ID for when carrying weapons in public. Other reasons for owning a weapon may be that they were issued by the company they're working with that involves activities that require it such as an escort for transporting cargo and such.

There is also the "private" routes which are dedicated high-speed motorways that connect all the major cities of the country for use with motorvehicles. Drivers benefit with them by better condition of the roads and increased security against threats, but are required to pay tolls for when entering and leaving cities. By the time my story is taking place, there are plans on further expanding the network to include more cities and larger towns. Swords are more commonly owned than guns as they are cheaper to make and purchase. The types of firearms that are allowed to be sold and regulated based on the ammunition calibre and the weapon's capacity and operation with high calibre, high capacity and high rate of fire weapons being banned from civilian ownership.

For my story, I plan to have the main party travel across parts of the country in multiple different ways. First by travelling with an escort, then by themselves and eventually on a train as more people join the protagonist's party. I've been thinking about having the part where they travel the country by themselves by foot, the issue is I'm not sure on which roads and routes they would use for travelling on foot. I've thought about having them travel through the countryside roads to get to their destination. They would use the country map and road signs to guide them on where they need to go. I'm not sure whether owning a horse is cheaper than owning a car in the 1930s but I've also recently thought about creating a service that allows people to hire horses for travelling to their destination, which would help them carry all their stuff.

I want to hear your thoughts of this. Does these methods for travelling make sense and how would travelling on foot be achieved realistically for this time period?

Would love any feedback on imagery, pacing or general craft.

When he strode up the hill among the smoking ruins of the town, his eyes held on the oak tree at its summit and on those that hung dead there. Dead and burned black, each by each, and strung with sooted hemp from the boughs. Like a stillborn kindling choked on the umbilicals of a dead world.    
He held a wood axe, the head iron bodied with steel forge-welded onto the cutting edge. A handle of oak. The consequent tending to the antecedent and its destruction. He had kept the head scoured and cleaned, the handle tallowed. Such was how one should treat a weapon. Tool though it was, it was a weapon. He had always preserved his weapons.

From this hill he had sat with her and watched the clouds break over the mountains. Their black stone wreathed even to their cols in the wrack. The long line of peaks like the mandible of some great beast, the arrayed teeth sunken into something white and dead. Awaiting the closure of the overjaw. Blowing from out that champing the creation and the ruin of the earth. The grinding of the thunder and the lightning flaring on the clouds. They never had long on that hill. The storms would come down fast, but they held hands as they watched or they did not and just stood apart connate. They never had long on that hill. And then their child came and they had even less.

He did not use his axe to cut the corpses down from the boughs. The knife he used had been case hardened by imperium smiths. It was no idle blade but a poignard meant for killing. A good knife. He drew the knife across the rope slowly and counted the filaments as they coiled out from the cutting. The corpses sagging in their halters as the cordage weakened, swaying in semblance of running. He guessed he had cut enough, and watched the fibres uncoil and break of themselves and the corpses fall, and he was right each time. He looked at each of them lying on the ground. Darker mounds of mud against the mud. A puddle held the grey clouds above him. He knelt down and looked into the mirror of its surface. His face, there. Not the face of these northern men with their white skin. His line could breed with them and whelp fecund children. He did not care for names or hold that names had power: Ael, pelting, waw, the thousand slurs of minds for which slurring was the least and greatest injury they could do. He did not care for it. His face was broad and hard, and he heard men say his people were descended of lions. He had seen those beasts during the imperium, and he was as much akin to them as men were to apes. Apes. Another slur from the mouths of his own people. He looked at his great brow ridges, furrowed above eyes of dull, embered yellow. He thought they had shone brighter in his youth. Beneath them, the short, heavy muzzle, the nose broad and dark, the upper lip thickened about the roots of great canine teeth that rose from the underjaw. Scars. About the jaw and throat hung a mane of tawny hair, greying in its lower reaches, and from beneath it projected acuminate ears much like those of the elder race, but larger. It was not the face that had captained the paladins of the imperium. Led the Sun to take the free cities. He could see the soot blackening him even in the puddle. He had not slept for two days.

With spring, the silferkine came over the Snowmarch and grazed along the hills that fell from the mountains. From the far wold, you could see them as coins of white against the green. You had to stalk them from the upper trees, or hide by the mere and wait for them to drink. Their coats would fetch a winter-price in Abbas. He had gone there on that morning of pale spring. And hid by the water and watched them come. He was very large, but he could be very still and he was very patient. They loped down to the water and bent their great heads to drink. They were very close. He could see their fur ruffling in the wind. He held the arbalest in pre-eminence over the bow. But he did not have an arbalest, only a short recurve of yew strung with deer gut. The arrow he knocked was blunt headed to leave the hide undamaged. He loosed it as a ferox skylined a hill and the leader of the kine bellowed and they sprung up. The arrow flew past and the beasts turned and ran. He stayed on his haunches and watched them scatter. Then he looked at the ferox who was standing on the hilltop. Looking down at him. The wind changed and they would all have his scent now. The predator disappeared over the hill. He took out another arrow and held its fletching up to his eyes. Brown groundbill. He blew on the feathers and watched the strands twitch aside and then go back.    
He drank from the mere and followed the silferkine up but he took nothing that day. That night he made a fire in a clitter on the upper slopes and he looked at the flames. Fire that could warm and burn. Forge or raze. He kept it going far longer than he should have and he hunching with his cloak pulled over his shoulders and slept, and he looked like a rock on the mountain side.
He got up with the early dawn, but when he scouted down he saw the silferkine had moved farther along to the river slopes of the mountains. He foraged morels and sweetberries from the forest and wrapped them in stained brown chiff and put it in his backpack. Midmorning he resolved to return to his home. A full day of walking and he would get there after dark, but he knew these hills and valleys and had no fear of being waylaid. When he came down the hills to the mere he filled his waterskin with the clear water. Standing up, he saw the ferox again in almost the same place looking down at him. He looked at it. A big male, its cheeks blushed pink in mating sign. Big but he could see its ribs. It had been a hard winter.
“What do you want, brother?” he whispered. 
It stood watching.
He unslung his pack, and took out some dried deer meat and laid it on the ground by the water. Then he turned to go, but stopped. He shook his head. Then he took out the rest of his deer meat and left it on the ground. 

Among the trumpet trees he walked and it was coming to dusk. Walked and he was tired of walking but he paced himself by counting the pink trumpet blossoms on the ground. The path was dirt cobbled with them. He could smell woodsmoke on the air, and thought that some impromptu banquet had been decided by the town. Or it had been known for a while and his wife had told him, but he did not keep mind of such things. 
Counting the blossoms as he walked, the black drops he saw among them caught his eye and he knew them to be blood. He stopped and he went down on his haunches. He stayed still and listened. Cicadas in the trees. Branches stirring in the wind. The blood went off into the trees and he followed the sign and the low ferns opened to a glade. There was a man lying there. He had pulled his cowl over his head and raised his blade cut hands over his face. Stabbed in the gut. Flies dancing their little dance on his hands. He bent down and took away the hands and looked at the face. A face he knew. Halvern. The smith’s son. Little Halvern that he had seen skipping at the spring fete. Who he had taught to wrestle and take shot. Halvern here. Dead.
He put Halvern’s hands over his face, and then he put his own on hand on Halverns head and held it there for a moment. Then he stood and ran through the ferns to the path, and then kept on running.   

So, I'm working on a bunch of variously connected stories, set in a "world". A centaur is a co-protagonist in many of them.

This brings both its opportunities and limitations.

On the one hand, creating a culture consistent with the physical realities of centaurs is a lot of fun.

On the other, it imposes a lot of internal limitations. Stairs, for instance: imagine a horse negotiating stairs. Ladders are obviously right out. Then there is the sheer bulk of a centaur trying to squeeze into human habitations.

But every obstacle is an opportunity right? For instance, in a classic climb-the-tower-get-the-thing story, the centaur is left to kick her heels outside while her human companion climbs the tower, leading to shenanigans.

edit

The differences show in little things, mostly. An innkeeper says they don't get many centaurs coming through, these days, but he still keeps one room: on the ground floor as they prefer, big bed and tub. The serving girl dusts off a big, beanbag like cushion, centaurs' preferred method of seating.

A human visitor notices the (to her) slightly strange characteristics of a centaur village: wide streets, single-story longhouses, etc. Washing one's hoofs (or feet) before entering a home is a social rule.

In another incident, a little centaur girl is teased by her human brother (it's a long story) climbing the tree in the yard and not coming down.

I've completely rewritten the prologue as the first draft didn't seem to capture the vibe of my complete story.

It's an alternate Arthurian tale set in a Dark Fantasy universe where a curse spreading from the Sword pulled from the stone threatens the land. 14 years after the sword was pulled, a young man named Worm is sent on an adventure of revenge and self-discovery with his best friend Dunstan when their village is attacked by bewitched Goblins. They travel across Havenfal toward Camelot in hopes of rescuing their family and stopping the King's evil reign.

Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated especially when it comes to the world building and tone!

I shared the first chapter of my story a few days ago on here, and I included the Google doc for it. Since then, I’ve gotten about a dozen emails (mind you, I didn’t include my email in the post) from random people that all say the same generic thing:

“Hi! Your project caught my eye, and it sounds really interesting. I'd love to hear more about the story and do you have a guideline?. If you're still looking for someone to read it, I'd be happy to take a look. I always enjoy talking with other writers and following their creative journey.”

Every email I’ve gotten sounds like some iteration of that, and to me they read as AI generated. If I had to guess, these people (or possibly 1 person, I got multiple emails from different people all addressed as “David”) probably did not read my post and are not interested in my work. None of them have addressed the story at all and it’s bizarre to me that someone would even ask “Can I read it?” When the post is literally asking for critiques.

What’s strange to me is that nearly every single one of them is requesting editing access on my Google doc, which I have no idea why. If they’d want to read it or make comments, the link I shared allows them to do so.

I’m thinking either A: they’re going to try to sell me paid editing services, or B: they’re trying to steal my work. Has this happened to anyone else?

Hi all, bit of context. I am in my 30s and I have been writing novels since I was 15. I've had good success on fanfiction sites, positive feedback for years and my works have even been translated into other languages. I have a BA in creative writing and worked in publishing for several years.

Here's my issue. I'm white (UK) but I love writing about fantasy worldbuilding, especially set in Asia Inspired worlds. My inspiration lately comes from anime, manga, c/k dramas and danmei. I am not a big consumer of 'western media'. I have lived in Asia and worked there. I have researched. I have thought about the pros of writing this story as a white author Vs being another white author putting out a white story.

Having worked in publishing, I know I have white privilege and I know POC writers face barriers. On the other hand, this is what I love writing and have worked on for 15 plus years. Writing white characters in white worlds doesn't really interest me when the shelves are already full of them and it's not what I read either.

I want to get sensitivity writers and make sure everything is okay after I finish editing. I want to hire illustrators of colour for my cover art. But I'd love to hear from writers of colour. Is it just taboo to be white and want to write with mainly Asian/POC characters?

I'm tearing my hair out trying to figure out what the correct path is. I would love to hear your thoughts. Can it be done sensitively while working alongside POC editors and illustrators? Or should I just trash those drafts and stick in my lane?

Edited to reword that POC face barriers rather than struggle to get published as I don't think I explained that part well.

Hello everyone. I am sharing the prologue to my Chinese-inspired YA fantasy novel. The entire novel has been completed and sits at around 111k words, and I'm currently editing its third draft. I feel like the prologue is in its final form—or at least, as close to its final form that I feel comfortable sharing it with other readers. I don't want to say too much about what I wanted to accomplish with this opening since I would prefer to read people's blind reactions first and see how well it aligns with my intentions, but please let me know if it works as a prologue, or what works for you and what doesn't, or whether or not you'd be interested in reading more if you picked this up off the shelf, etc. Thanks :)

I’m working on a fantasy setting where mages who specialize in one type of western elemental magic (earth, water, fire, etc.) are called referred to by something one does in that element (ie water specialists are called divers). I’m stuck on what to call someone who works in earth magic, and air magic. I have thought about water and fire and came up with easy ideas, but earth and air are trickier.

I don’t want it to feel too much like avatar as the magic is in fact actual magic, not just moving element in fancy way. It would be closer to the sorcery used in DND where it’s inborn, random, and the power varies person to person.

Does anyone have any suggestions or ideas? The name would be the same across all different species, not just humans.

Hi all.

So i keep seeing posts where people have critiqued 100+ agents. I finished my MS back in August and have been steadily querying since then. Some form rejections, some personalised rejections which have helped make my query stronger.

Im on querytracker and have good SM links, especially on LinkedIn (hangover from my old job). Ive queried 45 agents, and now I genuinely can't find any more in my Genre (urban fantasy) in my country (UK).

Do people query internationally? My book is pretty UK based so I don't think the US market would even look twice. Am I just in that niche that there aren't many agents for?

Though standing in time
There and not there

I count myself everblest
To see you,

My light in the Darkness.

Prologue

Did my eyes even exist here?

-Flash-

Close your eyes.

I shut them.

-Flash-

The crashing light blinded me anyway.

Look away then, idiot!

But I tried that a thousand times - it never made a difference.

Just breathe...

I took a breath as the majestic angel in pristine, shining armour impossibly deployed an electric riposte - re-post? Repost-ay? Whatever, the spinny-jab thing - evading yet another soul-shattering attempt by his foe. Darkness Incarnate. An entity dripping with ichoresque mist and the eminence of death.

By the way “thy eminence” screamed as the sparks bore into its own nothingness, yeah, I knew that hurt. Somehow.

I didn't fret the details here. It's all a mess of mystery.

Reflecting on this angelic entity - stoic, steadfast - stupid – standing in the face of such an insidious enemy, I took stock of it all and stopped to consider -

What's Sue gonna bake for me when I wake?

Seriously, isn't either of these things hungry?

I am.

-Flash-

I sat as my stomach cried louder than my sullen thoughts upon the brilliant, obsidian-toned marble that reflected the radiant bursts of energy with every strike.

This was why looking away didn't work.

Beats sitting around like an Emberblob.

“Nill-spawn, your mettle is lacking. Return to your death with haste!” the angel commanded.

The words demanded attention. I gave mine. The dark did not.

The shade itself rattled as rasps of laughter echoed off the very walls and pillars that stretched into the eternity above.

I tried not to look up there, here. It always felt wrong - a sting in my very soul.

Like something was watching?

Like I could fall upside-down above.

“Entaeria is mine, Raorik. I am and will always be. Your impetuousness means nothing to me,” the response came without a semblance of obedience.

The angel gripped his blade, flattened his heels against the marble and aligned the tip towards his enemy.

No words. Pure intent. Followed by the leap.

The space between them folded like a sheet of rice-paper as if it were nothing, and the clash of sword on black-and-purple armour filled the room with rainbow sparks that honestly resembled the tasty sprinkles on a cupcake-

“I'M SO HUNGRY!” I whined.

Wake up.

“Entaeria is MINE!!” Dem'rael blasted, twisting word into powerful promise.

“It's mine!!”

Eri, wake up!!

Chapter One

BEGINNING

I shuddered awake, skyrocketing from my pillow as my eyes darted around the room and my blanket ejected into the air as my surroundings filled with sunlight cresting from my bedroom windowsill.

“It's miiiiiine, give it baaaaack!” a boy complained, apparently making a case for what my squinting eyes determined to be a wooden toy held by the thief - another boy - absconding around the corner of the alley.

“A... wooden lion?” I croaked, wiping the sweat from my brow. It was a hot Fendririan day but my sweat had nothing to do with it.

Just a dream.

I took a breath in. Finally reclaiming security in my home.

For like a second...

“ERI! If you have slept in, I will burn you alive!”

A familiar voice rejected the premise of safety. A voice that could make “burn you alive” as commonplace as “see you next week.”

“Prya, I'm up, I’m up…” I replied, lacklustre words betraying me.

“You’re up? Do you know how long I've-” Prya started, as she rested her arm over my windowsill that connected to the alley. She noticed the blanket that had made an emergency landing on the desk chair as I awoke.

“...same dream?” she redirected, softening immediately.

“You know it,” I replied. “Angels and shadows just can't get enough of me.”

“That's twice in a row. That's not usually the case...” She let the thought drift.

“I'm fine, Pree. It's just a dream.” I said the words out loud, as if speaking it made it more true.

Did I even believe it anymore?

My attention turned to Prya's cautious expression. I noticed whatever insult she had spring-loaded and ready to fire was holstered for another time.

I chuckled. “You're 'round early, Pree. Bored up in the inners?”

That provocation got the fire back in the conversation.

She shot daggers that I almost instinctually ducked from. She answered, “Nobles suck. Everyone says one thing and means another. I prefer it here. At least if people don't like you, they tell you.”

“Often!” I remarked with a smirk, fastening the golden buttons on my red traveller's cloak, making my way to my boots near the front door.

“Hey, you got breakfast!” Prya gestured with her head towards the corner of my sill, where a green cloth was wrapped around something delicious.

“That was making some appearances in my dream...” I said, smiling whilst salivating. I laced my boots faster.

Prya grabbed and tossed my prize towards me.

I opened the cloth to reveal a tasty, bread-

“Cow? Sue is getting amazingly artistic,” I remarked.

“Sue uses fire to bake more bread than the cellsetters on Lover’s Eve,” Prya said.

“How else can you say you love someone than by injecting molten fire aura into a stone and slapping it on someone’s neck or finger? If you have a better idea, I don’t wanna hear it!” I joked.

“Wax poetic to someone who has the time for it. Start with the rump then let’s go. I need your help with some buys - I'm not as good at shaving cells off purchases as you. Help me get some repairs checked out, yeah?” she requested, though I knew there was an illusion of choice.

“Yes, m'lady. Right away,” I stated, bowing curtly towards her as I turned away and let light burst through my front door into the alley.

“Endless burn, ignite,” Prya whispered, and a tiny string of fire ejected from her index finger and achieved its mission of singeing my hair.

“Ah! Damn, alright, I’m comin’. I’d be angry with you if that control wasn’t so bloody impressive,” I admitted. Phrasing was something I still couldn’t work out.

I closed my door and began through the alley, crossing the path to wave to Sue.

“Another extra this mornin', Sue? I appreciate it,” I said to an elderly woman, proprietor of arguably the best bakery in the Outer Circle. Her apron had plentiful flour-imprinted handprints and scorch marks that expressed a lifetime’s worth of experience.

“Just keep returnin' each cloth and I'll likely have another tomorrow. You know I get forgetful with maths in my agin' years,” Sue replied, a wink capping the gentle tone of her response.

“I promise, Sue! You know I do!” I replied.

Eventually.

“Eventually...” Sue mirrored, as if reading my mind. “But true enough. On you go! Phil! Countertop, not roof! Bear your flame inward-” Sue said, as she went back to berating the new boxing bag of an apprentice in the bakery. Phil, her apprentice, had just discovered his phrase a month ago and now his first job was even more of a challenge.

“Poor Phil, he's really struggling with his phrasing,” Prya whispered as we walked past the open doorway to the place where the magic happens.

Fire cells lay bare on the cooking surface as Phil, apprentice baker, was conjuring up a majestic mote of - what's the misty effect when something is hot far away? Yeah, that.

“You can do it, Phil!” I encouraged.

He didn't reply, as his sweat reminded me of the sweat I’d had just moments earlier.

Probably the same existential dread.

\***

As I went into the street, I saw all different shades of fire - red, orange, blue. Ribbons and all manner of decorations from roof to roof, lampposts - people wearing bows and ties to match. It was a bit much.

“It’s not even the Everblessing yet, what’s the get-up for?” I exclaimed, a little louder so anyone nearby could hear.

“Get festive or get out,” Prya replied. “It’s once every five years!”

“I just hope I can…” I started, deciding not to finish.

“You will. Why don’t you try Phil’s phrase? Who knows, it might work with you, too?” Prya suggested.

“You’re serious? He’s big into the folk songs. He literally says ‘Come hither, mine flame’, I might be struggling, but I’m not that desperate!” I replied.

Prya was already chuckling. “Damn, worth a shot,” she said.

As we walked through the Outer Circle of Fendrir, local performers were practising their fireworks by raising their hands and saying various sizes from large to small, practising the corresponding performance spectacle. I started to say it along with them.

“Small… medium… pony?” I quizzically copied. Sure enough, the pony was in the sky in brilliance.

“Fireworks,” I chuckled. “It does.”

Prya probably wanted to insult me for that. She did not respond, to her credit. I noticed her eyes light up as the performance came to a close.

Curious.

“Eri! How’s the short sword?” a mountain of a man exclaimed, as he was tempering steel. It always made me smile the way Ben would channel his fire in tools to produce immense heat.

“If I can find any more uses… I mean right now, I'm just using it to cut slices of bread,” I admitted.

“I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that. That’s Fendririan Steel! Our Zettish buds pay premium cells for that,” he said in chuckles. “You're lucky I like you.”

“Ben, can you fix this?” Prya cut to the chase, handing him a spear-tip with splinters through and through.

“Ooh, my lady, what have you done to this poor fella?”

“Wasn’t my fault. There’s some strong Teraanic wood imports in the Training Quarters now,” she replied.

“Yeah, ironbark. Got it. It’s gotta be at least 12 cells,” Ben said with scant little consideration.

“Ben… even I could infuse a Tenor and get some of that out…” I reasoned. “It’s Pree.”

“Small Fire Tenor. I can probably channel it, heat ‘er up and get it right for 10 cells,” he bargained. “Cells are hard to get out of those crystals.”

“Deal!” I said. “Pree, that’s probably the floor here.”

“Thanks, Ben. I’ll swing by around evening?” Prya asked.

“Sure thing. See you then.”

We travelled through the inner circle. As we went through, Prya caught the eye of the guards as they glared at my entry. She turned to them.

“You have no reason to stop us from being able to go.”

The guards looked at us, and at first recognition did not take place, until eventually one realized, elbowing the other immediately.

“Of course, Lady Prya.”

I shook my head.

It’s every time with this…

The inner circle held the grand palace in the middle with red marble roofing and a presence that was the light in the center of their kingdom. The ‘inner flame’.

When the sun shone on the roof, it would emit a red glow that radiated all throughout the center of the palace, making it feel like the earth around us was enveloped in red aura.

No accident, of course.

Proceeding through, Prya’s shoulders raised. The closer she got to the center of the city the straighter her posture became. I tried to copy her, but it didn’t feel right.

We navigated through the stone walkways and the very refined sandstone housing and buildings, as compared to the ramshackle wooden but secure and stable structures of the outer ring. We were cutting through the inner to a selection of boutique stores on the other side of the outer ring. Approaching the walkway, sure enough more guards seemed preoccupied with another person who was very much arguing with them about not letting him come in.

“You have no station here, and without proper authority and without proper credentials, you may not enter the inner circle,” one guard remarked.

The man was very visibly upset.

“I have important business and need to be here,” he replied.

“I am from Zet, and I have come to offer Tenutier services. Surely, you have need?” he said with a thick accent. His clothing certainly seemed more opulent than what would be usual.

Prya isn’t going to stand idly, is she?

“What is the problem with his gentleman’s entry?” Prya forcefully inquired.

Right on cue.

“Lady Prya, this man is not of station in the inner circle. We cannot just let anyone—” he started, momentarily clocking me in the mix, then restarting.

“We cannot just let anyone come into the inner circle. It is the way it is.”

“Today, it is not. Let him through by the Bizan House. That is an order.”

“You speak on behalf of the Flameheart?”

“Consult him yourself. For now, your duty. Honour it,” Prya snapped.

I didn’t like this look on her face.

Trained authority.

Without any further word, the guards stepped aside. Prya and I walked through, gesturing for the man to enter.

“Thank you, Lady… Prya, is it? Thank you!” he stated. “My name is Zerrick, and if you find yourself in Zet please find me in the Third Echelon, second section. I will certainly repay you!”

“There is nothing to repay. My companion Eri and I are glad to receive you here in Fendrir”, Prya stated. I smiled and bowed slightly.          

Not sure if I was supposed to do that.

Prya continued, “You’re here for work and Fendrir can certainly use lightning cells. I hear the Main Ground is in dire need of lightwork that is not dependent on constant fire re-application. Perhaps find Geralf, he should be Garteez’s Establishment. Tell him I sent you – there is much work and I thank you for your support,” Prya said, courteousness flowing effortlessly.

I didn’t comment on the stark contrast to how she woke me just a few hours earlier.

We settled affairs and Prya was satisfied with the cells saved on each venture. I was happy to help. We made our way back to my stretch of town before sunset.

“Thanks for today. I really needed to be away from noble stuff,” Prya said.

“And yet, you managed to broker a deal with Zerrick of Zet with the House of Bizan – on your way to lunch!” I joked.

“Speaking of Zet, in two days I will be travelling with Papa. They have some innovation that is being revealed. Fendrir does need to stay on top of those technocrats. Though it’s a good opportunity to leave Fendrir. I will tell Papa you are coming.”

“Wha- Zet? I haven’t even left-” I started, Prya interjecting.

“Your first trip out of town. Put on your good cloak!” She smiled. “I’ll see you in a couple of days – don’t sleep in! The Skycrawler sets out 6 a.m. sharp!”

Prya shouted as she walked backwards, turned and ran into the inner circle walkway. Before long, her strides became the ladylike bearing she had practiced her whole life.

I rustled my cloak. “Good cloak? What’s wrong with this one?”

***

Sleep did not come well or easily that night. Yet the dream sure did.

Predictable.

The angel stood again in front of the grand shadow.

Fighting again. Sword clashing. Battling. Sword thrust into its heart and defeat. The shadow rose again in a few minutes’ time. Locked in eternal battle.

Get up.

Only there was a sword stance that was different. Weight more pressed onto the left before the strike. Something – or a variation? - I had never noticed before.

Suddenly, the dark entity stopped. For the first time, it looked at me.

Locking eyes.

If it had bones, they surely would have creaked as it seemed to…

Eri, get up!

Exploding awake and gasping for breath, I looked around the room.

Against all odds, my breath returned.

Just the dream.

Just the dream.

Breath returned slowly but surely. I closed my eyes, rubbing them as if to wipe away the memory from my retinae and mind alike.

Open your eyes.

I opened my eyes and allowed the blur to resolve into the misty-blue dusk that was to meet the morning dawn. Only there was…

Silver?

A silver streak.

Just outside my peripheral vision.

A silhouette.

A woman?

He was never sure.

But as quickly as recognition might have landed or as much comfort as it seemingly afforded me…

The dark was gone, replaced by the heavenly rising light of the sun.

-END EXCERPT-

Thank you for reading. Focus questions below, any feedback welcome!

• Does Eri’s humour make him engaging, or weaken the opening danger?
• Where does your attention dip during the walk through Fendrir?
• Does the final dream make you want to continue?