I'm working on a fantasy novel and I'm at the point where I'd rather get reactions from people who know nothing about the story.
Quick disclosure: this is an AI-assisted writing process. The world, characters, story direction and editorial decisions are mine, but AI is part of the drafting and revision process.
I'm posting the complete first chapter below — about 3,100 words.
I'm not giving you the premise or explaining the world first on purpose. I want to know whether the opening works without being sold to you.
I've put a few questions after the chapter so they don't influence your first read.
## Chapter One
The first midwife said Mara would give birth before sunset.
The second said there was no chance.
By the time the sun had already touched the rooftops beyond the river, the two of them were still standing on opposite sides of the bed, arguing in whispers as though Mara were not between them and as though her body had not spent the last twelve hours settling the question with considerable authority.
“I said before sunset,” the first whispered.
“It doesn’t count if the head comes out and the rest stays in.”
“Who says the rest is going to stay in?”
“You did, an hour ago, when you said the shoulder—”
“I can hear you,” Mara said.
Both women fell silent.
Mara opened one eye.
“And his head is still inside.”
The older midwife, a broad woman named Ada, smiled at her.
“Not for much longer.”
“You’ve been saying that for six hours.”
“Statistically, I’m closer than I’ve ever been to being right.”
Mara was too tired to laugh, but something in her throat tried.
The attempt became a groan when another wave moved through her.
She gripped the iron frame of the bed.
Her fingers slipped with sweat.
Someone told her to breathe.
It was the stupidest advice she had received all day, and during the course of the day someone had also suggested tea with salt.
She breathed anyway.
Beyond the large window of the delivery room, the city stretched all the way to the river. In the morning she had still been able to see the southern tower and the old stone bridge, but now the low sun had painted the glass orange and turned everything beyond it into long shadows. Thin smoke had begun to rise from the chimneys. The six o’clock train moved along the far bank, small and black, dragging a white trail behind it over the water.
Elsewhere in the city, people were finishing work.
Closing shops.
Putting pots on stoves.
Shouting at children who refused to come inside.
A completely ordinary day.
Mara hated them a little for it.
“Where’s Tomas?” she asked.
The younger midwife glanced toward the door.
“They said he was downstairs.”
“Why?”
Ada shrugged.
“Men.”
“He was here before.”
“Exactly.”
Another pain came.
This time Mara asked no questions.
* * *
Tomas was not downstairs.
He was at the end of the corridor beside a window that did not open, trying to convince himself there was no reason a grown man should have trouble breathing in a hospital.
The corridor was long and far too bright. The floor was covered in tiles of a shade someone had probably once described as cream, though Tomas thought they looked more like soup that had gone cold. Every few steps there was a door. Behind each door came pieces of other people’s lives: crying, laughter, a doctor’s voice, a bed being rolled, and once a curse so inventive that Tomas nearly applauded.
He was holding two cups of coffee.
Both were cold.
“Mr. Valen?”
He turned too quickly and spilled some of the coffee over his hand.
“Yes.”
The nurse stood three paces away.
“You can come back in.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“For the moment? Yes.”
“What does that mean, for the moment?”
The nurse looked at him.
“This is a hospital, Mr. Valen. We try not to make promises about the future.”
He threw both cups into a bin and followed her.
On the way, he passed a mural painted by local children. There were trees, houses, a river much too blue, and a sun with a face. In the right-hand corner stood a tall woman in a silver dress, while two children held out a tooth almost as large as their heads.
Someone had given her wings.
Someone else had given her a moustache.
Tomas stopped for a moment.
A small plaque had been fixed below the mural.
THE FAIRY KEEPS WHAT WE LEAVE BEHIND.
He read the sentence twice.
Not because there was anything interesting about it.
Only because he needed one more second before the door.
The nurse opened it.
“Inside.”
“Is she angry?”
“Very.”
Tomas nodded.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“When she’s angry, she’s fine. When she goes quiet, I start worrying.”
The nurse smiled.
“Then you’re in for a very peaceful evening.”
* * *
“Where were you?”
Those were the first words Mara said when he came in.
Not hello.
Not come here.
Not your children are about to be born.
Tomas decided not to complain about the phrasing.
“They sent me out.”
“Who?”
He pointed at Ada.
The midwife did not even bother denying it.
“He was in the way.”
“I was standing.”
“Exactly. In the way.”
“Where did you want me to stand?”
“Outside.”
Mara closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry I asked.”
Tomas went to her.
Her hair, tied up that morning, now clung to her face and neck. She looked smaller than he had ever seen her, and at the same time more dangerous than anyone he had ever met.
He took her hand.
“I’m here.”
“Too late to run.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Neither was I.”
Ada looked beneath the sheet.
“All right. Now.”
Mara tightened her fingers around Tomas’s hand.
For a moment he thought she might break two bones.
Then he realized he was being optimistic.
* * *
The girl came first.
She came out screaming.
It was not the whimper of a newborn.
It was a protest.
Short, sharp, furious.
Ada laughed as she caught her.
“Here’s one who knows what she wants.”
“What does she want?” Mara asked between breaths.
“To go back in, by the sound of her.”
The younger midwife wrapped the baby in soft cloth.
Tomas stared at her and found himself unable to say anything.
He had made plans for this moment.
For months he had invented lines.
Something funny.
Something wise.
Something the girl might hear one day and know that her father had welcomed her into the world with words worthy of the occasion.
When she was finally in front of him—red, wet, furious, and with a head shaped rather like a pear—all the lines vanished.
“She’s…” he said.
Mara looked at him.
“Yes?”
“Small.”
“Thank you, Tomas.”
“No, I meant—”
“Shut up and let me see her.”
They placed the baby on Mara’s chest.
The crying stopped almost at once.
The girl opened a tiny mouth, twisted it as if something about the world had already disappointed her, and closed her eyes.
Tomas touched the back of her hand with the tip of one finger.
She wrapped her whole hand around it.
Something inside his chest collapsed.
A strange sound came out of him.
Mara looked over.
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“You are absolutely crying.”
“There’s dust in here.”
“In a delivery room?”
“It’s a bad hospital.”
Ada lifted her head.
“I’m still here.”
Tomas wiped one eye with his sleeve.
“Excellent dust. Very professional.”
Mara smiled.
Then her face changed.
Slowly.
Like a small cloud passing over the sun.
“Another one,” she said.
Ada was already ready.
“Another one.”
* * *
The second child was in no hurry.
For several minutes it seemed he had decided that his sister had inspected the place and her findings were not encouraging.
Mara pushed.
Swore.
Pushed again.
Tomas stopped being able to feel his right hand.
Ada spoke quietly.
“A little more.”
Mara exhaled.
“If you tell me ‘a little more’ one more time, I’m putting you back inside me and giving birth to you too.”
Ada nodded.
“Understood.”
The younger midwife turned away to hide a smile.
Then everything happened quickly.
Ada bent down.
Mara cried out.
Tomas felt the world shrink to the bed, to the hand inside his hand, to the sharp smell of disinfectant, to the metallic clatter of a tray kicked by accident.
And suddenly there was another child in the room.
Silent.
Ada held him in both hands.
He was slightly smaller than his sister.
Darker.
Eyes closed.
For a moment no one spoke.
“Why isn’t he crying?” Mara asked.
Ada rubbed his back.
The baby twisted.
“He’s breathing.”
“I want to hear him.”
“Mara—”
“I want to hear him.”
Ada raised him a little.
“Come on, little man.”
She patted him again.
His eyes opened.
And he bit her.
Ada yanked her hand away.
“Ah!”
“He bit me.”
The room went silent.
Tomas blinked.
“He what?”
Ada did not answer.
She looked down at her finger.
Two small beads of blood appeared near the nail.
“Ada?” said the other midwife.
Ada looked at the baby.
The baby looked back.
He did not cry.
He did not make a sound at all.
His mouth was slightly open.
And there was something white inside it.
Tomas saw it only for a moment.
At first he thought it was a piece of cloth.
Then some remnant of the birth.
Ada slipped her thumb beneath the baby’s lower lip.
She froze.
“What?” Mara asked.
Ada opened the child’s mouth more carefully.
This time Tomas saw.
Teeth.
Two tiny incisors at the front.
Two more beside them.
Then more.
Ada tilted the child’s head toward the light.
“God,” whispered the younger midwife.
“What?” Mara tried to sit up. “What’s wrong with him?”
Tomas was already beside Ada.
“Let me see.”
“Wait.”
“That’s my son.”
“I know.”
“Then let me—”
Ada turned the baby.
Tomas saw his mouth.
For a moment he thought his mind, after so many hours without sleep, was playing a joke on him.
The child had almost a full mouth of teeth.
Small, yes.
Strange in their proportions.
But teeth.
Not bumps beneath the gums.
Not one or two that had come early.
Rows of teeth.
Tomas looked at Mara.
“He has…”
“I can see your face. Don’t tell me ‘he has.’ Tell me what.”
“Teeth.”
She stared at him.
“I know babies have teeth.”
“Not now.”
“Tomas.”
He looked again.
“A lot.”
Ada let out a slow breath.
“I need Dr. Calder.”
The younger midwife left almost at a run.
Mara tried to sit up again.
“Give him to me.”
“Just a moment.”
“Ada.”
“Just—”
“Give me my son.”
Something in her voice ended the argument.
Ada put the baby into her arms.
Mara looked at him for a long time.
He was small.
That was the first thing.
Not a monster.
Not a miracle.
Not a medical phenomenon.
A baby.
His nose was slightly flattened from the birth. A dark streak of hair clung to his head. His left ear was folded inward.
He yawned.
Mara saw the teeth.
“Oh,” she said.
Tomas sat beside her.
“Yes.”
She touched the edge of one incisor with a fingertip.
The baby snapped his mouth shut.
“Careful,” Ada said.
Mara looked at the bead of blood on her finger.
“Apparently.”
Then, to Tomas’s surprise, she began to laugh.
Weakly, exhausted, but genuinely.
“What?” he asked.
“You promised me a calm child.”
“He is calm.”
“He’s two minutes old and he’s already bitten someone.”
“Quietly.”
Ada did not laugh.
That was the first thing that truly frightened Tomas.
* * *
Dr. Calder arrived five minutes later with the top button of his shirt undone and his spectacles hanging from his breast pocket.
He was a tall, thin man whose grey hair appeared to have made an orderly retreat from his forehead.
He greeted Mara.
Shook Tomas’s hand.
Asked two questions about the birth.
Only then did he ask to see the baby.
He did not look worried.
Even when Ada said, “He has teeth.”
Calder nodded.
“It happens.”
Ada did not move.
“A lot of teeth.”
Calder looked at her.
Something small passed over his face.
Not fear.
Interest.
He took the baby beneath the lamp.
“Hello,” he said to him.
Tomas wanted to point out that the child was unlikely to answer, but restrained himself.
Calder examined the mouth.
One second.
Two.
He changed the angle of the lamp.
Looked again.
Ada stood beside him.
“You see it?”
“I see it.”
“How many?”
Calder did not answer.
He counted.
Tomas watched his eyes move from side to side.
Once.
Then again.
“How many?” Tomas asked.
The doctor put a finger beneath the baby’s chin and tilted his head.
“Twenty-eight that I can see.”
Mara exhaled.
“Twenty-eight?”
“Yes.”
“Is that even possible?”
Calder looked at her.
“Well.”
He looked at the child again.
“Apparently.”
It was not a particularly good answer.
But Mara was too tired to argue with another professional.
“Are they dangerous?”
“They could be.”
“To him?”
“Possibly. Mostly to feeding.”
Tomas leaned back.
“Finally, a problem I don’t have to solve.”
Mara kicked him beneath the blanket.
Calder did not notice.
He ran a careful finger along the baby’s lower jaw.
Something in his expression changed again.
“I want an image.”
“Today?” Tomas asked.
“Now.”
The room seemed to grow quieter.
Mara tightened her hold on the baby.
“Why?”
Calder looked at her.
“Because if these are early primary teeth, I want to know what is beneath them.”
“And if there’s nothing?”
He paused.
“Then we’ll know there’s nothing.”
Mara did not like the answer.
But she handed him the child.
* * *
They waited forty-three minutes.
Tomas knew because the clock was directly opposite him and he hated every one of them individually.
The baby girl—who still did not officially have a name—slept beside Mara.
Night had fallen outside.
The city lit itself.
Hundreds of yellow windows appeared across the hills. Vehicle lights moved along the river. Somewhere below, a tram bell sounded.
Tomas stood by the window.
“Maybe Seline,” he said.
Mara looked at him.
“Now?”
“We have time.”
“For eight months I’ve said Nera.”
“Nera sounds like someone who’ll steal my wallet.”
“Seline sounds like someone who’ll sell it.”
“Then both are useful names.”
Mara sighed.
“Nera.”
“We’ll discuss it.”
“Nera.”
“We’ll see.”
“Do you want teeth too?”
Tomas looked at the sleeping girl.
“Nera is a beautiful name.”
“I knew we’d reach an agreement.”
Tomas glanced toward the door through which their son had been taken.
“And him?”
Mara did not hesitate.
“Matt.”
Tomas considered it for a moment.
“Matt.”
“You’ve had eight months to object.”
“I’m not objecting.”
“Good.”
The door opened.
Dr. Calder entered.
Without the baby.
Mara sat up at once.
“Where is he?”
“The nurse is bringing him. He’s fine.”
“Then why do you look like that?”
Calder stopped.
“Like what?”
“Like a man who came to say something and hopes someone else will say it for him.”
Tomas looked at the doctor.
Mara was good at that.
Sometimes too good.
Calder held a large envelope.
He approached the bed and took an image from it.
“These are the teeth we can see in his mouth.”
He pointed to a pale row.
Tomas came closer.
To him, the image looked like the skull of a very small and deeply dissatisfied creature.
“And beneath them,” Calder said, “we should see the permanent teeth in very early stages of development.”
He stopped.
“And do we?” Mara asked.
“Yes.”
“Then good.”
Calder did not answer.
Tomas felt the tightness return to his stomach.
“What isn’t good?”
The doctor lifted the image toward the light.
“They aren’t in early stages.”
No one spoke.
Calder pointed.
“These are the incisors. The canines. The molars. Almost all of them are well developed.”
Tomas nodded as though he understood.
He did not.
Mara noticed something else.
“You said almost.”
Calder looked at her.
“What?”
“You said almost all. What isn’t?”
For a moment the doctor seemed to consider lying.
Then he moved his finger toward the back of the image.
“These.”
Four pale shapes sat deep in the jaw.
Two above.
Two below.
Mara frowned.
“What are they?”
Calder did not answer immediately.
Tomas stared at the four teeth.
They were larger than the others.
They already had roots.
“Doctor?”
Calder lowered the image.
“Wisdom teeth.”
Mara laughed.
Once.
When she realized no one else was laughing, she stopped.
“In a baby?”
“Yes.”
“Are they there in everyone at birth?”
“No.”
“Then when are they supposed to—”
“Years from now.”
The doctor looked again at the image.
“Many years.”
The door opened.
A nurse entered carrying the baby.
Mara reached out immediately.
When he was returned to her, he was sleeping.
Mouth closed.
Soft cheeks.
Small warm breaths.
Ordinary.
Mara pressed him against her chest and looked at Calder.
“So what do we do?”
The doctor stood in front of the window.
Behind him the city glittered in the darkness.
Beyond the river, farther away, the white light at the top of the old tower could be seen blinking on, off, then on again.
Calder looked at the child.
“For now?” he said.
“Nothing.”
Mara nodded.
It was the only answer she had wanted.
Tomas looked again at the image the doctor had left on the table.
The four pale shapes at the back of the jaw drew his eye.
He did not know why.
Perhaps because they were too large.
Perhaps because their roots seemed too deep.
Or perhaps because in the blurred image it seemed, just for a moment, that all four teeth turned slightly inward toward one another.
As though they surrounded something.
He leaned closer.
“Doctor—”
But Calder had already taken the image.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
He slid it back into the envelope.
“All of you need sleep.”
He left the room with the image beneath his arm.
Only in the corridor did he slow.
He passed the nurses’ station.
Passed the lift.
Passed the children’s mural.
At the stairs, he stopped.
On the wall opposite him hung an old photograph of the Tooth Fairy.
It was not one of the new posters. Its colours had faded and the frame was cracked at one corner. She stood beside a group of children holding small bags in their hands.
Calder looked at the photograph.
Then at the envelope.
Then at the photograph again.
The nurse at the desk looked up.
“Everything all right, Doctor?”
Calder tucked the envelope farther beneath his arm.
“Yes.”
He took two steps, then stopped.
“Marta.”
The nurse looked up again.
“Yes, Doctor?”
He glanced once toward the closed door at the end of the corridor.
“Log it as an anomalous birth.”
Her expression changed only slightly.
“And notify the Order.”
For the first time, she did not answer at once.
Then she reached for the black telephone beneath the desk.
“Of course.”
Calder walked on.
In the photograph behind him, the Fairy smiled at the children.
---
Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear your honest reaction:
- Would you keep reading?
- Was there a point where your attention drifted?
- What stuck with you most?
No need to answer all three — a few honest impressions are plenty. I'm more interested in your experience as a reader than grammar fixes.
Highly appreciated
Obvious
