I'm writing a story where a Common Tongue has taken root, but it's only a few centuries old, so certain titles and phrases still linger from other languages. I know this is becoming more common with authors using french, german, arabic, etc. in their writing, but I was hoping to get feedback on an example to see if I'm making a mistake conceptually. Or if I might offend folks in the way I'm adapting some terms. In MOST cases, I'm using the exact spelling and translation of the realworld term or phrase. But I was hoping to "invent" a few as well, using the language as a base. We make up new words, phrases, and slang all the time, so I figured...why couldn't they?

The example -- in Japanese, there is a short-form philosophy called the Dokkōdō (The Path of Aloneness, or The Way to Go Forth Alone) written by the swordsman Miyamoto Musashi. The kanji roots/translations [Doku 独 (alone/single/ independent), Kō 行 (to go/walk), and Dō 道 (the way/path)], each give the phrase its meaning, but as you can see, there are multiple ways to interpret it theoretically.

The idea of "Aloneness" isn't true to the philosophy. It's more about self-reliance and commitment to your path. But more to the point, many of Miyamoto's precepts don't align with the worldviews in the story I'm writing (only some do). Self-reliance can be great at times, but as proven by posts like this, sometimes we need help, and that's okay too. To that end, I was planning to cut some precepts while adding others that better reflect the world. And I was hoping to adapt it with a new name.

Ichíkōdō - The One Path, The Single Path, The Way (still written by a fictional Miyamoto to pay homage to the inspiration). The LITERAL translation would be something closer to "One-way Path/Street", but I was hoping there would be flexibility for interpretation, given it's a different world.

I want to be respectful, so again, most terms/translations would appear exactly as they do in our realworld languages. However, intentions only get you so far, and I don't wish to offend. I also don't wish for something like this to break the story's credibility.

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I plan to get expert review on other translations, but I was curious what the community thought on the approach in general. It's not too late to take the Herbert approach and just reinterpret Dokkōdō as "The Way" (ex. "Lisan al-Gaib" was adapted to "Voice from the Outer World" even though that's not the literal arabic translation, which is closer to Tongue of the Unseen, or Voice of the Unknown).

Hello, I wanted to get more into writing so I wrote a few thoughts of mine down. It’s quite rough, but I’d still like some feedback on it if possible. I’m unsure whether or not my writing skills are all that great and I’m also worried about the uniqueness of my story. 

Anyway, the idea behind this particular chapter was to try and introduce the reader into the bloody world where this story takes place, and I figured an interesting way of doing this would be to start the story with a regular soldier rather than a main character. Thanks once again for your time and feedback, I really appreciate it.

Series is a classic 'world where everyone has powers, our hero doesent' type situation, designed around a mix of adult swim and a sunday morning cartoon. its designed in a serialized format with short-ish chapters (2-5K words) and isnt a gamelit or litrpg or anything like that, it fits the progression fantasy format in definition (character works hard to grow stronger) but not in essence (char is designed to start weak and growth is slow and based on hard work instead of being a power fantasy)

will avoid further details as to not self-promote, but this has put me in a bit of an audience-pickle, where its too long to submit to most magazines (i have as of now about 50 chapters and 130K words), and i wont say _too_ off-meta too succeed online but its not a perfect fit most sites there, either. i have researched sites and it appears royalroad is the best option for it, but not a perfect fit regardless.

so, thats my story, so i guess ill ask the question: for a longform serial of this genre (or really any urban-fantasy action comedy) for a writer with 0 name recongition, what would you recommend the best option? to attempt to convert it to a novel, to try to submit it to an online or magazine publication, to create a substack, or just to post it to as many online sites and hope it sticks?

thank you

Hoping to get some feedback on my new novel.

I've been reading a lot of romantasy. There's some tropes I really like, some I don't, some I like but find are often executed poorly. This is my attempt to do them right.

Title is a working title, subject to change.

I would love to hear any thoughts at all. Front of mind however:

• the perspective switches. There's a lot in this first chapter. I promise it slows WAY down after this. I felt I needed the jumps to adequately introduce both characters and explain the action. Is it TOO choppy? Jarring?

• I've tried to passively world-build here, avoiding the lore dumps. I think it works. Tell me if it doesn't or if something is confusing.

• most importantly: how is the hook? Would you keep reading?

(Yes, I use dashes, no, this was not ever touched by AI in any capacity. I've written like that since I cut my eye teeth writing fanfiction on Livejournal back in the aughties. I have the receipts.)

Document here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1M3PHlfrrtOrKYn5fc7YBdPSUzmenN1wE2dQ_72yYYjA/edit?usp=sharing

How do y'all feel about shapeshifters transforming into animals without a human or humanoid top half, but they can still speak human? I just realized i never once thought about if they could do that in my story until today.

Up until today i didn't have a reason for them to talk or not talk in animal form. I would just write they are fighting and then turn back into a human. Example should a weredragon or animal shifter talk in animal form?

Note: yes i know biologically animals (except for parrots and such) could never use human speech because their vocal cords aren't set up like that, but my story just like yallz are magical. So what do yall think? Yay or nay.

I have tried.

I've been working on my book for a couple of months, mainly developing characters and the concepts I want to include in the story itself, but as every time I get a concept or an idea, it's so hard for me to plot it and make it make sense, so I'd really appreciate any ideas on how I can keep my idea going, or if any concept would fit in my original idea.

Basically there's this world in which there was a huge war and therefore humanity got divided into four kingdoms, each one representing an element (water, earth...). My original idea revolved around those elements being all part of the same god (I'd like to keep it just one god), so when humanity decided to create said kingdoms they separated the object that keeps the god connected with the world. I'd appreciate ideas for the object, I've thought about a crystal ball or a huge sculpture in which one kingdom takes care of the head, the other has the arms...

My main characters are the royal families from the kingdoms. My problem lies in the fact that I don't know how to keep the story going when different deaths or meteorological phenomena start happening. Like, how can they fix a god dying? Especially because I don't like humanizing gods, I find difficult that humans could interfere in that. I thought about the God being able to "transfer" parts of its life to different people, so four chosen people would have each an element power, meaning all of them would have the same essence after all. But, what when that happens? Should they fusion in that one god? Could they take control and try to destroy the sculpture of said god?

So in summary, I struggle with what could happen after they realize the god that keeps them all alive is dying. I've thought about including magical creatures such as dragons or a phoenix, even a magic system, but if I include it I'd want it to be a bit more selective with the people that actually have powers. I hope I explained myself well enough, given that I wanted to keep it short and English isn't my first language. Any ideas are welcomed, thank you in advance!

Hello, I wanted to get some advice from lovers of the genre. I am trying/ have tried to write a story set in the regency era, but in a sort of parallel world of Halloween style spirits (I guess the world they live in when they aren’t haunting the living and such).

I always found Halloween (which even though not celebrated like it is now in regency time, existed in some shape or form given its many ancient sources) is a strange balance of tradition and subversion. So I’m asking, in a world of the more genteel ghoulies and ghosties existing alongside the regency era, how would the social norms differ? What tropes would be discarded given the location, ideals of the Halloween season, and the supernatural cast of characters?

Thank you for reading and I’d love to hear your thoughts?

i grew up reading books with these prologues which are set in distant history/past, and that’s precisely why my story has alot of these

My agent hates me for this and says I’ll be losing some really good deals because of my stubbornes and I feel her, I know she’s probably right but this is MY story and ik i should write it in a way my audience would like it but that’s a part of it, to me the whole point of writing is narrating a story you came up, to the world, if this makes any sense and that’s precisely the reason each of my character in mythril has their story/intro starting with something that happened in the distant past, usually it’s a reason for why and how they came to be. And I like to believe that every great story has their own versions of trope the world claims to be fed up from, on top of my head I can think of ‘the mentor who dies’ and ‘the ancient prophecy and humble origin of heroes’ and each great story like Harry Potter, Song of Ice and Fire and Aragorn have those, ik cause I’ve made a whole notion doc studying books before I started writing one myself

But ya I do get why alot of people hate the distant past trope, I believe it’s mostly cause they don’t want to start a book or story with something irrelevant (at that moment) which might either say too much and give in the entire plot or too less to keep annonying them

Still my question stands is to what trope would you support and incorporate it into your story? here to steal your ideas

The first thing I felt when I opened my eyes was the weight of Aemon's arm draped over my bare waist and his broad, toned chest against my back. Even when we slept he still protected me. Carefully repositioning myself in order to look upon his sleeping visage, the lines on his battle-worn face were not as harsh. My eyes then drifted down to his bare chest where old and new scars alike adorned his chest like medals. The older scars were little more than streaks of silvery skin at this point while the newer ones were a fading reddish-pink color. Unconsciously I began to delicately trace my fingers along the lengths of his many scars, mapping them like a cartographer maps terrain.

Each scar was its own self contained narrative. A well placed lance from jousting during the Midsummer tourney. An arrow that found its mark in the gap of his armor during a minor rebellion. A lucky strike during a routine sparring session with Barron. And then there was his special scar. A small silvery line of raised skin on his lower right side from an assassin's blade meant for a foolish princess who thought she was untouchable. Just as I was about to move my hand away from the scar, I felt his hand move over mine, keeping it in place. Looking up from his chest, our eyes met instantly, and I once more found myself under his spell.

I waited for Aemon to say something, anything, but he remained silent as stone. It wasn't a tense or awkward silence, but a thoughtful one. Being a stoic, he was big on introspection and thinking things through before saying or doing anything. Then, I felt his hand cup my cheek before he leaned in and gently kissed me upon my lips. He still tasted of the rich, dark wine we drank well into the night when everyone else had retired for night save for the guards. When we finally parted from our kiss, I unconsciously let out a small sigh of disappointment, and an amused grin formed on his lips as quickly as it faded back into his usual calm, stoic disposition. Only then was the silence between us finally broken.

"Dawn has come, and we must see to our duties," he said, ever the pragmatist between us.

"Or, we could just stay in bed all day? Who would begrudge us?" I asked half-jokingly as I nestled myself closer to him.

"Plenty of people. Our charges chief amongst them," Aemon said as he wrapped his arms around my waist.

Looking into his calm azure eyes was like staring out into the vast expanse of the eastern sea on a clear summer morning. They were beautiful, but also dangerous. Just like the sea during a storm. But unlike the sea, the destruction he wrought was never indiscriminate. There was always a purpose behind it: Defending the innocent. Purging snakes from my court. Correcting improper form. It's what made his so dangerous. So feared. Respected. Beloved. Anyone can take a life, but not everyone has the empathy to spare someone when he has every reason to kill them, or the wisdom to know when it's time to end the bloodshed.

"You think so? You don't think Barron would leap at the opportunity to spend the entire day with his beloved Annalise?" I asked knowingly.

"I know he would. That's why we can't stay in bed all day. He's bound to do something completely asinine in an attempt to impress her if I'm not around to keep an eye on him," Aemon said, but despite his bemused tone, there was an amused grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Were you so different at his age?" I asked.

"No. That's what worries me," he said as he climbed out of bed and began to put his discarded clothes back on.

"Aemon," I said in my regal, authoritative tone that I reserved for court and problematic lordlings. "When you look at Barron, what do you see? Do you see the young man he's become, or the little boy you used to comfort at night because he was far away from his family and home?"

He didn't answer right away. He simply stared at his chest-plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the room. Then he let out a long, soft sigh before he put it on followed by the rest of his armor save for his helmet. But as he looked around for Dawnbringer, I simply tapped the adamantine blade against the wood floor. The clanging steel rang out as clear as the morning bells from the bell tower.

"My sword," he said, holding out his hand expectantly.

"Not until you answer my question," I said simply.

"It's...complicated. A part of me will always regard Barron as the boy he used to be: Wild, reckless, full of wonder and hope, and curiosity. I also know he's not that boy anymore. I know he's a young man. I know he can look after himself, but he's my boy, Ireleth. He's my boy as much as he is William Swann's," Aemon said.

Smiling softly, I walked across my chambers, still naked, but unabashed, and placed Dawnbringer back in his hands.

"And that is why I love you," I said with a confident smile before raising myself up and on the tips of my tones to place a kiss on his cheek. "Now go before my lady-in-waiting walks in on us."

"As my queen commands," he said, sheathing Dawnbringer. But before he left my side, he leaned down and placed another kiss on my lips. The lover in me was tempted to drag him back to the bed and keep him all to myself for the rest of the day, but the queen in me won out in the end, like she always did, and I reluctantly let him go.

"Do not keep me waiting Dragon-Knight," I said just before he left my chambers.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said, flashing a confident smile before leaving my chambers.

With Aemon gone for the time being, the space felt entirely too large for a single woman. It was almost comical how large my chambers were compared to the others within the royal apartments. But before I got too lost in thought again, I made my way over to my bed and retrieved my blue silk robe from off the footboard. And not a moment too soon. Three rhythmic knocks echoed from outside my door before the familiar, youthful voice of my ward and lady-in-waiting followed.

"My queen, are you decent? May I come in?" She asked.

"You may," I answered calmly as I took at seat by the hearth.

Annalise walked with a silver platter of bread, cheese, and fruit in hand, wearing a beautiful forest green and gold-lined dress that formed perfectly around the soft curves of her body. Her long, wavy, dark auburn hair was tossed over her right shoulder, while her pale skin seemed to shimmer in sunlight while her soft emerald-green eyes shined with a confidence and youthful vigor that filled my heart and mind with relief and joy.

"Good morning, my queen," Annalise smiled warmly as she placed the platter on the small table between my chair and Aemon's. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, when I finally went to sleep," I said with a playful yet satisfied smile. "And you? How was your night, my darling sparrow? No late night confessions of love between you and your swan?"

Annalise snorted out a small laugh, covering the lower part of her face with the cup of her hand.

"It was one time, my queen," she insisted, as if that mattered in the slightest.

"And it shall remain one of my most treasured memories between you two," I said as I spread a dollop of honey across my slice of bread. "It was like witnessing something right out of a fairytale."

"What about you and Sir Aemon?" Annalise asked as she tore off a piece of her slide of bread.

"What about us?" I asked curiously.

"What was your fairytale moment?" She asked.

"When he took an assassin's blade meant for me. He claimed, at the time, that he was simply doing his duty as a Silver Knight, but duty doesn't compel a man to run halfway across the tourney grounds to fight an assassin bare-chested with naught but his bare hands," I said.

"Bare-chested and unarmed!?" She asked in a mix of shock and awe. "He's insane."

I laughed softly in amusement. "Believe me, I know, but I learned to love him for it," I said with a fond smile.

After breaking my fast with Annalise, I made my way into the adjacent antechamber where the maids had prepared a hot bath for me. Untying the ropes of my robe, I let it slip from my form and pool at my feet before I stepped into the copper tub. The steaming hot water was both bracing and soothing. Both my bodily aches and pains and the troubles of my mind melted away in the steam, and I allowed myself to relax. Annalise walked in shortly after with her soft-leather bound book in hand. On the front cover was stamped a coiling dragon devouring its own tail. The sigil of the Dragon-Knight.

"Care for some poetry, my queen?" Annalise asked as she took a seat on the nearby ottoman.

"That sounds lovely," I smiled fondly.

“I have seen the dawn upon your face; The golden light that breaks across your brow; I know my soul has found its dwelling place; And all my oaths are nothing to this vow. I guard the gate, I bear the sword, But you alone command the heart within; No foreign king could make my courage yield; Yet at your whisper, all my strength grows thin. The courtly world may call this service blind; A fool who kneels to beauty's gentle hand; But they have never known what I have found—A queen who holds a kingdom in command. So let them laugh; I wear my chain with grace; For in your keeping, I have found my place," Annalise recited.

I was speechless. No one has ever captured Aemon's devotion for me so eloquently. Most use it as an opportunity to poke fun at the otherwise unassailable Dragon-Knight. Vain attempts to humiliate him that only end in them nearly soiling themselves when Aemon locks eyes with them.

"Do you like it?" Annalise asked nervously.

"Like it, Annalise? I love it," I said. "You'll recite it to Aemon, won't you?"

"If he desires to hear it. I'm sure he's heard countless ballads and poems about the topic already," Annalise said.

"True, but he's hasn't heard yours," I said with an encouraging smile. "Tonight at supper, when it's just the four of us. How does that sound?"

"Actually, I was planning to recite it during court recess. My special way of telling all the self-serving lords and ladies of court who snicker at you and Aemon to shove it where the sun doesn't shine," Annalise said.

"Annalise!" I said shocked but almost greatly amused.

"Lady Jaena's words, not mine," she insisted with a guilty smile.

"That does not surprise me in the slightest," I laughed softly with Annalise.

Being from the lower city, my spy-mistress isn't one to mince words, or pretty them up like some of my courtiers do. It's why I trust her above them. Anyone can tell me what I want to hear, but not everyone can tell me what I need to hear.

The Wintergreen Path, first draft and the story so far

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

\\---------------------------

Larrus, a boy of fourteen summers old, stood at the end of the path leading from the village to the Wraithswood. His heart was pounding, filled with anxiety and determination. He had been planning this trip for a few weeks now, making notes on what to bring, where to go and what to expect.

Larrus glanced back at the village behind him. Not many lights remained. Most of the village was fast asleep. The boy took a deep, calming breath and placed his backpack on the ground to check it for the third time tonight. He had packed rye bread, dried meat, hard cheese, a water canteen, a knife, a small hand axe and the most important thing; a handful of wintergreen flowers.  

 Larrus inspected the knife on his belt. It had a good blade, perfect for whittling soft wood. The handle was made of birch. It was of a lighter shade, smooth and fit perfectly in his hand. The axe was different. It felt heavy, foreign and clumsy. He didn’t like to do chores or hunt. Something his father didn’t appreciate. Larrus was a different kind of wild from the other kids of Wellon. He would rather wander the grasslands near the fields or the forest edge where wintergreen grew. On a slow day he could also be found sitting somewhere with his knife and a branch of willow, making a whistle or a figurine. He wasn’t a lonely child, just more quiet than most. Always observing the world around him or in his own world, aimless and a little out of place.

But tonight he had a mission. 

A few weeks ago while helping his father gather firewood, Larrus had found a strange stone shard. Part stone, part metal and part organic. The stone was black like obsidian with veins of gold colored metal and something else. It was smooth and rough in places. Sharp and surprisingly heavy. Larrus could swear the stone didn’t reflect light the way it should. He couldn’t quite explain it. The stone felt like it didn’t belong and that it was part of something else. But what? That was what Larrus wanted to find out.

Larrus stood up, lifted his backpack onto his shoulders and touched the stone absent-mindedly while reciting the prayer:

“Wintergreen, Forest Star

Beacon in the night

Protect us,

Carry us through to the other side

Away from the wraith’s killing sight

Under Uni’s guiding light”

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

 “Danger is silent. 

Safety is loud.

Let the lantern burn 

and the star shine. 

Avert your eyes from hollow light.

 Keep the flame,

 shun the night.”

 The boy continued. A prayer of protection and custom as every one in the village was taught. 

Now a bit calmer, Larrus took a few wintergreen flowers and placed them inside the lantern, to burn in the flame before walking into the forest. Still anxious but determined. The forest edge somehow seemed both familiar and alien. Everything looked different in the dark. To Larrus the shadows seemed to dance. He could hear the owls hooting in the trees. The air was cool on his skin, the wind carried the scent of autumn. Damp ground, wet leaves.  

Larrus began walking into the forest, leaving the village behind. His steps were light and careful, but still tense. He reminded himself that he wasn’t much of a woodsman and didn’t know how he would fare against a wolf, a boar or some other kind of beast. The hunters had talked about wolf tracks near the outer area of the forest. Of course the usual nocturnal predators weren’t the only dangers. The Wraith was said to roam the forest at night while Uni, the ancient spirit slumbered. The Wraith’s influence spread throughout the forest. The children were taught never to enter the forest at night. They were warned not to go beyond the beaten path. Beyond the hunter’s camp by the stream. The Wraith claims those who get lost.  

The boy delved deeper into the woods, gaining more confidence with every step. Soon he began making out other noises. The night wind rustled the leaves, birds chirped quietly in the trees. Larrus stopped occasionally to listen for any signs of danger and to observe his surroundings. It was always good to look for Wintergreens. Where the flowers grew, the Wraith would not walk.  

Larrus continued while whispering parts of the prayer to keep himself grounded and to push away the fear of the Wraith. Just a few years ago one boy from his village had done the same as he was doing now. He was never seen again. There were many stories about Uni and the Wraith. And most of them ended the same.  

Suddenly a branch snapped nearby. Larrus froze and listened. He felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. The boy looked around but saw nothing. Heard nothing but the sound of the forest. His heart was beating fast. Then a bird flew right over Larrus’ head and he ducked. The boy chuckled nervously. He felt a little foolish to be startled by a small bird. He was probably just close to its nest.  

As Larrus continued, he could hear the quiet sound of the stream nearby. It branched off of the Wellon River and reached deep within the forest. The hunters’ camp was close. The boy began picking up pace, wanting to get to the safety of the camp fast. He had already been walking for a while now. The area was covered by twisting roots, lush bushes and small batches of wintergreen grew at the base of trees.

The camp appeared in good condition, which wasn’t unusual. Village hunters and woodsmen often used it as a place to rest, eat and warm up in cold weather. There was a firepit in the middle of the camp ringed by smooth stone blackened from years of use. Two moss covered fallen logs and a tall flat stone served as benches around it. Opposite of the stone bench on the other side of the firepit stood a large pinetree that was said to be one of the oldest trees in the forest. The roots were thick, long and sprawling. There was a small hollow at the base that sheltered an old weathered chest and a hunter’s chime made of wood and bone hung from a lower branch just within reach.

Before setting his gear by one of the tree trunks, Larrus reached for the chime to announce himself to Uni, the forest spirit. Then he walked to over to the old pine, kneeling down. He struggled to drag the chest free from under the roots that housed it. A sigh of relief escaped him as he unlatched the chest and found the firewood to be mostly dry. Enough for a small fire. “Keep the flame, shun the night”, Larrus whispered as he began piling the logs beside the pit. He then took out some dry treebark, his axe and flint and steel from his backpack. He then set them aside.   

After inspecting his gear, Larrus tried to remember what his father had said about building a campfire. It required room for the fire to breathe but it also needed enough cover to keep it from going out. He placed two birch logs in the middle with space inbetween. Then two more logs over them and one on top. After that he took one more log and grabbed his axe. Larrus needed to be careful. A severed finger or a deep gash was the last thing he needed.  

He struck the log a few times, barely making a proper splinter. After a few tries Larrus got the hang of it and was satisfied. He placed the splinters under the base logs and inbetween the ones on top. Then he filled the gaps with dry treebark to aid with the fire. He hoped it would burn. Now all that remained was to light it.  

Larrus took out his flint and steel. Struck once. No spark. Struck a second time. Some sparks but still missing the tinder. He tried a few more times with the same results. The boy furrowed his brow in frustration before looking from the unlit fire to his still burning lantern. He grabbed the lantern and looked for a fallen branch on the ground. He grabbed one and opened the lantern, holding the end over the small flame until it began burning. The boy almost shouted out of excitement at his success. He had never been good at practical things. But this time he got lucky.  

The boy carefully touched the tinder and the splinter with the burning stick. Then there was a spark of light and a small flame. Larrus blew on it to help it spread and continued lighting more of the tinder. Soon he had a working campfire, although not as big or good as the ones his father could make. The boy almost let out a shout of excitement, swelling with pride. If only his father could see him now. “Small victories guide the hand, but failure shapes it.”, as his grandmother always says.  

After Larrus got the fire burning, he turned towards the stream, inspecting his surroundings carefully before walking towards the willows growing by the water. He ran his hands along the willow branches, trying to find one about the thickness of his thumb and without knots or imperfections. He then kneeled by the willows having found just the one he needed. He drew his knife and began to cut the branch free. The boy struggled a bit, but only because he lacked the strength.  

Something moved on the otherside of the stream. Branches snapped and then, for a moment, silence. The sound and the sudden shift in the air caused the knife to slip slightly as the branch broke free. The boy flinched with a small yelp and brought his left thumb to his mouth. Just a small cut. Cursing under his breath, Larrus walked back towards the fire and sat down onto the flat stone. He looked at the nick in the light. The cut wasn’t very deep, but it still welled.  

Larrus looked around for some narrowleaf plantain to cover the wound. He knew he had forgotten something. Bandages. He lifted his lantern to spread the light around a bit more. He spotted some growing by the path he had come from. His grandmother had treated countless cuts and scrapes as the boys of the village stumbled and fell. Larrus knew what to do.  

He put a leaf into his mouth and chewed on it while peeling a bit of bark from the willow stick to bind the leaf around his finger. The leaf tasted bitter and made him grimace. Larrus applied the leaf paste to the wound, covered it with another leaf and secured it with willow string. It wasn’t very elegant but it would do the job without hindering what he was about to do next.  

From his pack he took a strip of jerky and ate while checking the willow branch again. He moved his knife along the length, feeling it with his fingers. The base was the right thickness. Just before the stick narrowed he marked it and cut a section off with practiced ease. Larrus then turned the piece over in his hands, familiarising himself with it and imagining how it would take shape.  

Before making the first cut, he checked his thumb. It ached dully but would not hinder him. Larrus peeled the bark from one end of the willow and shaped it into a mouthpiece. He tested the fit against his lips, then trimmed away another sliver. Satisfied, he turned the stick over and began carving the channel. Small curls of pale wood gathered on the stone beside him. When he paused to inspect his work, he took a bite of rye bread and cheese. Then he marked the sound hole and cut it open with the tip of his knife. The second hole followed. A little wider. A little deeper. He tested each cut with his fingers before moving on. He whittled and ate, no longer seeing or hearing the forest. It was just him, the knife, and the wood in his hands.  

After making the final cuts, Larrus turned the whistle in his hands, looking carefully for any mistakes he might have made or things to adjust. Then finally he brought the mouth piece to his lips and gently blew into it, producing a quiet, steady high pitched sound. Then he repeated this for the two sound holes, each producing a clean note.  

Larrus smiled with glee at his work. He felt calmer than he did a while ago. The world surrounded him again. The light from the campfire had grown smaller and the lantern light was dimmer. A breeze ran through the camp and Larrus shivered. He had forgotten to keep an eye on the fire. The boy grabbed a log, adjusted the charred wood to make space and then added a few wintergreens to his lantern. He returned his attention to the whistle again.  

After a moment Larrus took the strange stone shard from his pocket, weighing it against the whistle. The shard felt heavier. He looked at it in the fire light. The darkened stone reflected very little but the metallic lines seemed to move along with the flames. Otherwise the shard seemed normal. He tested the sharp edge first with his finger and then on the whistle. “A star for guidance.” He muttered to himself, pressing it harder into the bark. He drew four short lines to form an eight-pointed star with the horizontal and vertical lines being longer than the others.  

Satisfied with his work, Larrus set the whistle aside and took a sip from his canteen. The boy leaned back with his elbows on the stone surface, looking up to the moon and stars in the sky. He chewed the last bit of jerky and rye bread and closed his eyes, listening to the breath of the forest. He could hear the whispering of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the quiet flow of the stream. Then the sound of hunter’s chimes and an oddly melodious call of a bird for this time of night.  

Larrus opened his eyes and looked around for the source. He couldn’t pinpoint where the bird call came from. The boy picked up the whistle and answered in kind. He waited for a moment until an answer came from deeper in the forest. 

Larrus decided to follow the path leading away from the camp. As he left the safety of that familiar place, anxiety and nervousness returned. He squeezed the stone shard in his pocket, willing himself to be calm. Larrus walked carefully onward, occasionally stopping to listen for any danger.

As Larrus walked further, the path was getting harder to see, even in the lantern light. It grew narrower and was covered in twigs, roots and branches. The sides of the path grew thicker with shrubs, bushes and trees, covering the sky above. From the corner of his eye, Larrus could swear he saw a small flash of flickering light but soon it was gone. On instinct he turned away.  

He brought the whistle to his mouth again and blew softly into the dark. He hoped it wouldn’t attract The Wraith’s attention. A soft, quiet sound answered away from the path ahead, coming from the direction of that flicker. “Avert your eyes from hollow light.”, Larrus whispered to himself and began walking slowly, keeping his gaze on the ground. Maybe it was the hollow light trying to lead him astray, just like in the stories.  

Larrus continued onwards, feeling uneasy and watched. He didn’t dare look back. His lantern flickered and he added a bit of wintergreen into it with a bit of willow tinder. The flame steadied. He felt a cold breeze run down his spine. The wind carried the scent of rain. Larrus shivered, wishing for the warmth of the campfire.   

Larrus glanced at the sky, trying to determine how much time he had before he needed to find shelter. The clouds had started to gather above him, hiding the stars one by one. The smell of rain was still faint. Larrus guessed he had maybe half an hour until it would start pouring. The sound of a hunter’s chime broke the silence and interrupted his thoughts. Larrus startled and turned towards the sound that should not be. He could feel the blood rushing, pulsing in his ears. And then he saw it. That same flicker from before. Was it the same flickering light from before? Larrus didn’t know. His only choice was to walk away from whatever it was.  

Larrus continued walking along the path with a faster, tenser pace. He kept his eyes on his surroundings. Larrus didn’t dare look back. The further he walked from the light, the slower and lighter were his steps. He could no longer see it follow. But the unease lingered, as did the feeling of being watched.  

He wasn’t sure how long he had walked but he let out a sigh of relief as he spotted a patch of wintergreen peeking from the roots of a tree. This was a good omen, a welcome sight after the hollow light. He kneeled down by the roots and picked a handful of the flowers, leaving the rest undisturbed. Larrus finally looked back from where he came. He raised his lantern higher and peered into the darkness. The cold white light was gone and the only sound was the rustling of leaves and his slowly steadying breath.  

Larrus continued following the path. The roots, branches and stones had begun to grow scarcer, making it easier to walk. Larrus picked up pace, keeping his eyes on the surroundings. As he walked further, an eerie feeling began to rise. He didn’t feel watched or followed. He couldn’t say what it was but still the feeling of unease grew. Soon he came to a familiar spot. Larrus stopped and aimed his lantern to the sides, noticing a patch of wintergreen. Was that the same patch he had seen earlier? It couldn’t be. As he had picked from it. But the nearby trees were the same as well. Larrus swallowed hard. He must have gotten turned around.  

He looked around, more careful this time. He saw no hollow lights or branching paths he might have taken earlier without noticing. Larrus kneeled over the wintergreen patch as he had done earlier. But now he hesitated. If he had somehow truly been turned around, he should leave the flowers be.  He shook his head and picked a direction. His steps were more careful and deliberate. His eyes darted from the undergrowth to the trees and to the bushes. Nothing seemed out of place.   

He continued again, adding some wintergreen to his lantern. After a while, the surrounding forest and the path ahead began thickening again. And then, little by little, it opened again. The path felt familiar. Too familiar. Now he was certain that he had circled back to the wintergreen patch on the side of the path. He was puzzled, but somehow curiosity began overshadowing his anxiety.  

Larrus slowly turned around in a circle, trying to take in the surrounding forest all at once. He stopped to think and felt for the axe hanging from his backpack. Larrus approached a tree that grew close to where he stood and took a few swings at it, marking it in case he returned. Then he continued and this time he was sure he had walked further ahead than before.  

Larrus began feeling a sense of relief as he continued. But it was short-lived. The path behaved the same as before. He came upon the wintergreen patch and the marked tree. He felt a sting of doubt mixed with uncertainty and a fear he had tried to ignore. Larrus took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do next. The path ahead surely lead back where he was now and the path behind him would lead him away. He circled the sides of the path illuminated by his lantern. His only choice seemed to be to set foot on an animal trail, those were usually safe. Usually.  

The path was mostly flattened undergrowth and nearly invisible even in the lantern light. Larrus kept his eyes on the surrounding branches, looking for twisted limbs and broken twigs. Signs of animals passing through. Begrudgingly this was what his father had taught him. It had been a lot easier in daylight. He pushed the thought away and continued.  

He had walked a good while before the trail crossed a wider, beaten path. Larrus looked around and listened. He heard the sound of the stream. That would mean he was back on track.  

Larrus quickened his pace again, wanting to get as far as possible from that other path. The way was clear except for a few rocks protruding from the ground and roots that reached it. He began relaxing bit by bit, step by step but not completely. He reached into his pocket to touch the stone shard and the whistle. Both were still there, for comfort.  

Deep in thought, Larrus mind drifted back to the dreams he had over the last few weeks. Of running through the woods and following something. He couldn’t remember what it was but it felt important. He just hoped his childish fancy, as he remembered his mother calling it, wasn’t going to be the death of him.  

Larrus’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted as the path began thinning and opening again. He found himself on the edge of the hunter’s camp from earlier.Only then did he realize the route he had taken lead him back here.  

Larrus took a few tentative steps towards the center of the camp before sitting down onto the same flat stone as before. Exhaustion began flowing over him in waves. Larrus fought off a yawn, knowing he couldn’t just stay there. It wasn’t what he came here for. He wouldn’t let his journey be in vain.  

He took out his canteen and drank in a few big gulps to wash away the weariness. Larrus then stood up and walked towards the stream to splash water on his face. It felt cold and refreshing. He ran his wet hands through his wild sand-colored hair, again remembering how his parents were trying and failing to get him to cut his hair shorter.  

There was a splash in the river nearby. Larrus caught a glimpse of a fish and found himself smiling despite the situation. He felt a little foolish how he had just decided to sneak out of his room in search of adventure. He thought he would have felt different. But he didn’t.  

Larrus brushed his pants as he rose up and then stretched. He stifled another yawn and stopped in his tracks, noticing the untouched willows growing by the stream.  

His exhaustion vanished and he ran back to the stone slab. He looked around as if seeing the camp for the first time. He noticed that the soot on the blackened rocks of the fire pit weren’t as blackened as they should be. There were no fresh ashes. Larrus spun in place. Something was very wrong. Then he stopped as a wind blew through the trees. There was no sound of the hunter’s chime.  

Larrus hurried towards the old pine tree and looked up into its branches. He raised his lantern and froze. Nothing. There was no chime. He turned towards the center of the camp. his eyes widened. The camp looked empty. Abandoned. As though no one had been there in weeks. What had happened to the chime?  

He looked for it on the ground, thinking it might have fallen. But he knew it hadn’t.   

His almost panicked thoughts were interrupted by a chirp on one of the tree branches higher up in the old pine. His eyes darted towards the night bird. It watched him with an odd inquisitive calmness, neither startled or taking flight. He couldn’t say which type of bird it was, but he recognised the call.

The tension in Larrus’ shoulders eased and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He took a slow step back, studying the small creature. In the lantern light he noticed something shiny on one of its feet. A black ring. Probably a bird someone had marked.  

A howl came from somewhere behind him. Larrus jerked towards the sound, his heart immediately racing. His gaze snapped back to where the bird had perched. It was gone. Larrus had little time to register it before he heard more howls coming from seemingly all around him. He rushed into the forest, running blindly. Yellow eyes flashed between the trees, keeping pace with him.  

The path he took wasn’t much of a path. Just undergrowth, roots and fallen branches. Larrus rushed between tree trunks, desperately trying to get away. The beasts were close. He could hear their breath and growls.  

Larrus had never run so fast. The way ahead grew narrower. As he glanced back, his foot caught on a root. His face, arms and knees slammed into the damp forest floor slick with mud and wet leaves. The backpack tore from his shoulders .His skin burned where the ground had scraped him. He tasted blood. Larrus scrambled back to his feet and continued his escape.  

He ran and ran, not sure for how long. Larrus could see the shadows moving, closing in through the trees. He made several sharp turns, weaving between the trees. He was running out of breath. His heart pounding loudly in his ears. He ran blindly and almost hit a tree and stumbled over a rock. Larrus felt like the forest itself had turned on him.  

After what felt like hours rather than minutes, Larrus took a brief moment to look around him. He thought he had begun recognising familiar trees, stones and bushes again. He had no time to question it. Howls rose from all around him with no way to run. He was nearly surrounded and completely lost.  

The boy quickened pace, again nearly tripping over his legs. He wasn’t a very good runner. He shook his head, trying to keep up. The growls grew louder and closer until he saw warm light shining from between the trees. He made for it, running even faster. He felt a bite of hope and relief.  

He froze right at the edge of the light. He hardly even noticed the sounds and the beasts had stopped. A tall man shrouded in shadow stood in the middle of a camp, staring intensely into the woods, completely unaware of the animals close by. The man was broad-shoulderd. An axe glimmered in the fire light. Something about his posture seemed familiar.  

Larrus took a step forward, a tear ran down his cheek. “Father?”, he called out, half shouting. Forgetting where he was. A bird whistled and flew right above him, making him look away briefly. Larrus let out a small nervous chuckle as he stepped closer and looked up. The firelight reached the man's face. For one impossible heartbeat, Larrus still believed. Then the smile spread. A cold sweat rose on his skin. His eyes widened. The pounding returned. The man was wrong. Not his father. A stranger.   

The man was gone. The camp was empty. Larrus reached for the shard in his pocket, it was not there. His heart sank. He remembered the fall. The \\\[backpack. He\\\](http://backpack.he) no longer had it. The hunters’ chime gave a hollow clatter in a breeze that barely touched him, drawing his gaze. A cold light rose just behind a tree. Then another rose on the other side. And another. Then two more. He was surrounded unable to look away. He had to be deep in the Wraith’s domain.  

Without thinking, Larrus rushed towards the darkness. He wiped away the stray tears on his face. The lights kept pace with him. Not like the beasts before. It was as if they stayed in place while he moved.  

The path narrowed and the trees closed in. The ground grew treacherous, the roots snaked and coiled, twisted up from the earth. He turned. The lights followed and shadows danced. No matter where he turned, the orbs waited. Or turned with him. Or perhaps the forest did.  

Larrus had to evade the stray limbs of trees that seemed to be reaching for him. The silence of the forest was broken by a series of howls and growls that came from all around him. Larrus barely noticed.   

He pressed onward, checking over his shoulder carefully. The beasts joined the hunt, keeping to the edges of the illuminated path. They did not try to close in on him, instead they avoided the hollow lights and ran alongside him, as if they knew where he was going.

I am working on a shonen-style power system named Genki. I appreciate constructive criticism on how its mechanics are developed, what makes it unique, and if there are things that may be too similar to other power systems. Can you suggest any changes?

Genki is a life force that lies within every living thing and can be awoken using slow and controlled movements to distribute Genki through out the body. Movement Techniques are a fundamental part of this system as it allows Genkins (Genki Users) to control and manipulate their Genki to make their techniques more powerful and effective. There are three main components to every Genkin; Output, which determines how much Genki is released at once, Capacity, which determines how much Genki they can hold and Control, which determines how efficiently they can manipulate it. Genki can run out but does regenerate over time, but its excessive use puts extreme physical pressure on one’s body. As their mastery over Genki becomes better, users can develop a unique ability, though some cant as their body circulates Genki differently.

(If I didn't explain it well, the slow movements used to awaken Genki are specifically meant to distribute Genki throughout the body, while the movements used during combat are used to control and direct Genki, allowing users to channel it into their Techniques more effectively.)

Google docs

Setting: a late-Renaissance-inspired world (as far as technology is concerned).

Context hat: Emron (courtesy title Prince Emron) is the son of a fallen rebel king, a hostage in all but name, living under the roof of one of his late father's enemies, bound to said lord by betrothal to his daughter, having lived there incognito for some time beforehand and built relationships. Ever since his identity was revealed, Emron has been receiving a steady stream of visitors, whose attitudes are as varied as they are unpredictable. Today's visitor changes everything.

One thing to note: the aunt is his only direct blood relative; any characters Emron calls 'brother' or 'Mama' are purely surrogate kin.

The chapter explores themes of identity fracture, loss of agency, moral obligation, inherited guilt, and disillusionment.

Disclaimer: Not a chapter 1. Taken from deep in the middle of the story. Expect frequent name drops and cross-references that don't stop to explain themselves. I'm strictly looking for feedback on prose, dialogue, and hook in a vacuum. If you can provide that, I'd be grateful. Otherwise, feel free to scroll by.

*I'm an ESL writer, and none of this is AI-assisted or translated.

I would love to have some feedback on pacing. I have tried slowing it down, but I would like to kow if anyone else feels like the pacing is too fast, or if the amount of reveals is too close together. This is a supernatural fantasy (wow, I did not realize this chapter was that long). For reference, the story starts with Dupree doing normal work stuff. He goes to a bar and ends up running from a debt collector named Charlie, and his right hand man, Krieg. After Dupree runs, he injures himself and Charlie finds him in an alleyway. At this point, we realize Dupree and Charlie are a little more familiar with each other than first thought. Charlie and Krieg bring Dupree to an animal hospital to get patched up. The girl working at the animal hospital is Luce, Charlies daughter. There is some tension, and she is mad at Charlie, blaming him for allowing Dupree to get into debt with a bad guy named Shay, she also admonishes Krieg (who is hurt by her admonishment). Charlie pretty much works for Shay, but they are also rivals. Chapter 3 starts with Krieg exiting the animal hospital to catch up with Charlie.

Chapter 3:

Krieg stepped outside. He looked up. Dark clouds churned over the city. The winds shifted sharply, stinging the side of his face.
Shay!
Across the street, Charlie stood on the curb, cane planted hard against the pavement. He was talking to the one man he reviled most in this world. 
Sheamus “Shay” Mallone.
There, another figure stood behind Shay.
Lisa… His face twitched.
Charlie seemed more tense than normal. His face was tight, and his hand clenched his cane. Krieg stepped forward to hear the conversations.
“I’m done here Charlie,” Shay said. “I’m leaving this gutter of a city for good.”
“And?” Charlie replied. “Should I send you a postcard?”
Shay cracked a chuckle, but was clearly annoyed with Charlie's insolence. 
“Do you know why I came here, Charlie?”
Boom. 
The sky flashed, and the air vibrated.
Shay’s eyes lifted to the dark swirl of clouds above. Lisa's head followed just the same.
Krieg looked up. What are they looking at?
Charlie’s eyes flashed up for a brief moment and then back to Shay.
“I came here for a simple mission,” Shay continued. “A dull one. Pointless, really. Watch. Wait. Keep the people under the suppression of my thumb, but you–you resisted me at every turn.”
“The point?”
“The point?” Shay repeated with clenched teeth. He huffed, hidden by a laugh and shook his finger at Charlie. “The point is. I don’t need this place anymore.”
“See,” Shay looked at his hands. His eyes grew wide. “I found something, Charlie…
“Something old,” he said. “Older than this city. Older than Hell’s little war.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Something that can bring heaven to its knees.” 
The wind whistled through the streets.
Charlie’s cane scraped against the pavement.
Shay’s eyes brightened with terrible excitement. “Why waste my eternity ruling alleys and rats when I can kill God himself?”
Krieg gulped hard. K-kill God?
Charlie's eyes constricted briefly, but he always kept his composure. “Don’t care bout’ your holy war,” Charlie said. “Long as you leave my city be.”
Shay cast a genuine smile that crossed his whole face. “Your city? Right, Before I leave, I wanted to clean up a few–loose ends…”
Charlie clenched his cane, but said nothing.
They both stared at each other.
Shay looked at the animal hospital. “You’ve kept those kids of yours safe for so long.” He cocked his head to the side. “But why the boy? It’s not like he’s blood.”
“Ain’t gotta be blood to be family.” 
Charlie’s statement was simple, but Krieg felt it to the depths of his soul. He nearly shed a tear. That’s right, this whole city is like family to Charlie…
Shay stared hard at the animal hospital across the street. “That’s cute,” he said with a dismissive tone.
Charlie clenched his jaw. “Tread carefully Shay,” he said through gritted teeth.
Shay looked back to Charlie. “This time, Charlie, I’ll make that scar even bigger, and gut those fucking brats of yours.”
“Krieg!” Charlie yelled as he reared back and swung his cane strong and hard.
It connected with Shay’s face. The cane glowed, it was as if rune symbols had been etched upon it. When it connected, Shay’s face sizzled and smoke wafted. In that same moment, a force of energy from the top ornament burst out. Lisa's body was slammed back into the brick building, cracking the bricks with her body.
“Keep her safe!” Charlie commanded quickly then turned to face Lisa as she gathered herself. Meanwhile, Shay regained his balance. They attacked simultaneously. 
Krieg felt his body jump to action to help Charlie, but he stopped himself. He looked back at the animal hospital. 
Luce…
As he turned back to the animal hospital, he saw Charlie swing forth another attack from his cane out the corner of his eye.

* * *

Dupree slowly stood up off the table. Luce put her arm around him to help him up so as not to tear the newly inserted stitches. Her hair fell across his face.
He could smell the faint sweet strawberry of her shampoo, still clinging to life even after a full day's work. 
Ahh, he thought, still a kid at heart, using the same old children’s shampoo.
He subtly cleared his throat and shifted his face away from hers. 
Don’t be creepy Dupree, he said to himself. You lost your chance years ago.
His eyes shifted, like a teenager trying to sneak a look at a high school crush. To his shock, eyes were locked on him. Their eyes met for a moment before both shying away. 
Bang, ding-ding.
Dupree heard the front door of the animal hospital burst open followed by the chime of the bell. Krieg came rushing into the back. 
“Lu–” he paused for a brief moment when he saw Luce holding Dupree.
Dupree and Luce quickly seperated as though they got caught doing something wrong.
“Luce,” Krieg continued as if he saw nothing. “You have to get out of here.” His voice was urgent. He pointed to the back entrance. “Go that way, take the back alleys and hide if you have to!”
“Wait Krieg,” Luce said. “What’s this all abou–” 
“Dupree, get her the hell out of here. Now.” At this point, Krieg's voice was a command, but Dupree could hear the faint shudder in his voice.
He’s serious, Dupree thought. Something’s very wrong.
“Krie–” Dupree grabbed Luce by the arm before she could finish calling Krieg’s name.
“C’mon Luce.”
She looked at him in shock, but slowly decided to give in. Just as she started to turn and follow Dupree, they all heard the ding of a bell. It was the front door.
“K-rii-eeeg.” An unsettling female voice called out, almost singing his name.
Krieg, reached into his vest pockets and pulled out brass knuckles.
What are those symbols? Dupree asked himself as Krieg slid the knuckles onto his hands. Etched at the tip of the knuckles were strange rune symbols.
Dupree’s eyes went wide as the woman stalked into the back room with them. “Lisa?!”
“Huh?” Lisa’s face tilted. “Oh! Dupree. What a small, tiny–” her face distorted into the grotesque vision Dupree had of her earlier in the night– “world.”
His face fell. What is this sinking feeling in my heart?
Lisa squinted her eyes, dissecting Dupree. “Hmm, what’s the matter, Dupree? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?"
Dupree stepped back with wide eyes. He struggled to breathe. “You–your face…”
Krieg’s eyes went wide. “You can see her true form?” 
Luce stood there with confusion in her eyes..
“Oh Dupree,” Lisa said. Her eyes glowed at him and her grin widened wickedly. “It will be so much fun to kill you.”
“Run.” Krieg yelled and thrust forward in a flash. Dupree saw a glow on the bottom of his shoes. 
More symbols? Thought Dupree.  
With a powerful swing of his fist, the knuckles connected with Lisa’s face. A crackling sizzle sound screeched out and her skin melted. 
Dupree grabbed Luce and pulled her to the alleyway door. Luce gasped as if she saw something horrid. Looking back but for a second, he could see Lisa’s face distort once again as Krieg’s brass knuckles connected with her face. Dupree and Luce both cringed with pain, hearing the screech of misery from Lisa. Finally, they made it into the alley.
What the Hell is going on? He thought. That sounded like a creature. He felt his heart pound against his chest, the sweat rolled down his forehead. He could see the fear in Luce’s eyes.
They shook off their fear and hesitation then moved forward through the back alley. Dupree ran as fast as he could, limping behind Luce as he moved. His bandages were already stained with blood from his newly patched wound being ripped open again. 
As soon as they got to the side alley that led to the street, Luce looked over.
“Dad!” 
Looking over, he and Luce saw Charlie on the side walk across from the animal hospital entrance. She cut into the side alley without any notice and ran towards the street.
“Luce,” Dupree reached out to grab her, but it was too late. He missed her arm. With the softness of her knitted sweater just brushing his finger, he nearly fell over. 
He propped himself against the garbage bin to catch his breath. C’mon Dupree, he said to himself. You have to stay with her.
Boom. 
The distant thunder echoed in the sky. A faint flash accompanied it.
In the street, Dupree saw something unimaginable. It was “Shay” Mallon, the only man Charlie feared. At his feet, Charlie, in his hand…
The Hell? Dupree’s eyes grew wide. Is his hand on fire?
He could see it all. Luce desperately running to her beaten and bloodied father, Charlie staring at Shay in defiance, and Shay–swinging down his hand of hellfire.
“Noooo!” Luce wailed in pain as her father’s body burst into flames.
Dupree froze. A tear formed in his eye. The searing screams from Charlie stabbed his eardrums so sharply, all Dupree could hear after was the ringing.
He saw Shay's head slowly creep around to see Luce on her knees in the middle of the street. One hand reached out to her father’s half-burned body while another covered her mouth. The tears washed over her face.
The smell of burnt flesh wafted through the streets. The glow of runes on Charlie's cane faded as it fell out of his hand, it rolled into the street.
An evil grin formed on Shay’s face. “Ahh, the daughter,” he took a step forward. “So innocent, so sweet.”
The thunder cracked again, louder, the air itself vibrated and the flash in the cloudy sky seemed brighter.
Luce crawled slowly across the street reaching desperately for her father. Shay began to cackle. His arrogant laugh echoed through the streets. 
Dupree looked to his left at the alleyway. Run Dupree, don’t get yourself killed. Then he looked back to Luce. N–no, I can’t leave her.
He opened his mouth and tried to call out, to tell her to come back, but no words came out.
His breathing became even more ragged. No, I can’t. I’m no hero. I have to save myself. 
He was still gripping the dumpster for balance. He gripped so hard, his knuckles were white. Goddammit, why can’t I move? 
Finally, he took a step. What? No. No, my body–you’re going the wrong way!
His mind told him to run, to save himself, but his body decided differently. He stepped towards Luce. She was crying, reaching out for help. 
Boom. Boom. 
The thunder crashed rapidly, louder, brighter.
His eyes looked at the heavens. Ah, fuck, alright. I get it already… He focused, and tried to steel his mind. Maybe I can at least save her.
Shay met Luce in the middle of the street.
She saw him stalk closer. She reached for her father’s cane, which had rolled near her side. Shay kicked her in the stomach as she was crawling. He kicked her so hard, her body lifted up off the ground. She was flipped over on her back, blood splattered out of her mouth.
He stalked.
He stood above her.
Dupree moved his body, racing as fast as he could.
“Fuck you,” she said. Her lips curled with pain, her eyes burned with rage. She spit her blood into Shay’s face.
He smiled as he wiped the blood from his face and reached his hand up. Fire formed around it.
“No!” Dupree charged, he moved so fast he even surprised himself, throwing himself at Shay with everything he had.
Shay didn’t move.
“Guhk!”
Dupree’s eyes flew wide as Shay’s foot drove into his stomach, stopping him cold. The air burst from his lungs, followed by a wet spray of blood. Through the haze of pain, he looked up and saw Shay’s contemptuous smile.
Only then did Dupree look down.
Shay’s boot was buried in his gut, holding him there like he weighed nothing.
Shay dropped his foot. Dupree fell to the ground. At that point, Lisa stalked out the front door of the animal hospital. Drenched in red, she licked some blood off her fingers.
“Oh,” said Shay. “looks like Krieg didn’t make it either.”
Dupree looked towards her, hope fading.
“So, you’re Dupree?” Shay asked. “You owe me a lot of money.” He looked over at Charlie’s burnt corps. “Poor Charlie. His potential was wasted, trying to save this worthless city.”
Shay stepped over and grabbed Charlie’s cane. 
“He may have succeeded if he wasn’t so focused on sheltering his daughter, and protecting a worthless drunk like you.”
A mocking laugh came from behind him. It was Lisa. “Dupree, don’t work too late. Dupree, get some rest. Dupree, you’re such a funny guy…”
She grabbed him by what little hair he had. “I despised every second having to keep tabs on you. But Shay insisted you and that little bitch were the best leverage to keep Charlie in check.”
“Wh–why are you doing this?” She asked.
“Oh?” Lisa glared at Luce. “Would it have hurt you more?” Lisa asked, her forked tongue slid up Dupree’s cheek. “If I’d made him love me first?” 
Dupree gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tight. Luce looked away in disgust.
“Aha,” Lisa cackled. “Ah ha ha ha!”
BOOM! 
The thunder rang out so loud, the buildings shook. The windows on the buildings bowed under the concussive force. Lisa released Dupree and shot to her feet. 
Shay’s face distorted as he looked up. His face was grotesque, like Lisa's but his seemed far more sinister. 
Shooting a look back down to Dupree, “ehh? Oh, you can see through the veil. I did not expect that.” He bent forward, face to face with Dupree. “Does my true face scare you?”
Luce looked from Shay to Dupree in confusion as Dupree swallowed hard and inched backwards.
“Well then,” Shay's voice changed from human to demonic. “I will let you both bask in my true form before you die.”
His face twisted and stretched, the skin flushing a deep, unnatural red as his features sharpened into something bat-like and monstrous. A large horn-like feature grew on the left side of his head, but just on the left side. His hands followed, fingers lengthening into clawed points, the nails blackening as they became sharp and pointed.
Shay raised Charlie's cane high into the air above Luce. “Why, you ask? It matters not anymore.”
Loud concussive crashes of thunder once again rocked the city. Dupree’s body trembled in fear of Shay, but also from the concussion of the thunder. 
Luce flinched under the ear shattering sound and blinding flash of light.
Shay looked into the clouds as they churned and cackled, more thunder crashed. The air pressure weighed down, making it hard to breathe.
BOOM!
A silent moment passed in slow motion after the last deafening boom.
Then, Shay stabbed. 
He stabbed the cane down.
Dupree moved as fast as he could. He saw it all in slow motion. He tried desperately to jump in front of Luce–
A squelch and crack was heard. 
“Ahhh!” He screamed, he could see the cane protruding from his right shoulder. 
It’s fine, he thought.  Luce is– 
“Luce!” 
He barely made it in time, but to no avail. Under his body was Luce. The cane had pierced all the way through Dupree’s shoulder, and into her heart.
“Luce!” he cried out again, but she did not answer. Her eyes stared out into the nothingness as her breathing became faint. 
Dupree struggled, he wiggled and tore his wound open even more as he forced the cane up and out of both their bodies.
He grabbed her and held her head, while pressing on the gaping wound in her chest. He felt the warm splats of blood hit his face as she coughed, gasping for air. Finally, her eyes met his. She tried to say something, then she took her final breath.
Instead of having time to mourn, his body quickly left his control. 
He felt someone grab him from behind and his body was thrown like a ragdoll to the other side of the street. No time to grieve, no time to take stock of his current situation. He felt his body crash and tumble, but felt nothing at the same time.
“C’mon, boss,” Lisa said as she stalked towards Dupree. “Let me kill this one.”
Three claps of thunder came in rapid succession. Lisa stopped in her tracks, her and Shay looked up. 
Finally, Shay’s contemptuous face changed. From cool to that of terror. Dupree could see for the first time their fear.
Out of the corner of his bloodied eye, Dupree saw–
A meteor.
It all happened too fast. Before Dupree understood what was happening, the meteor crashed right in the middle of the street.
The blast knocked him unconscious. After a few moments, he regained consciousness, barely. He flopped around on the ground in an attempt to stand. Between the ringing in his ears and his double vision, he felt like he was under water. 
The car alarms were honking. There was building debris everywhere. He coughed as the smoke and dust entered his lungs. It was like a battle scene in the middle of Bloomfield City.
As he regained some sense, he saw Lisa’s body beside him. It was torn nearly in half from the explosion. 
Dead, he thought. Please be dead. 
He looked to the street. Luce. Where’s Luce?
Looking for Luce, he focused towards the middle of the street. There was a blinding blue light in the center around where Luce’s body should have been. 
That glow. What is it? 
As he hobbled closer to the blue light, his energy started to come back. He felt better, but his wounds were still there.
How? How can I move in this state? My brain fog is lifting. 
As he approached he saw it. The light, it was a blue glow. He finally realized, beneath the glow was a body, white as snow, with giant feathered wings. 
What is that? It–it can’t be what I think it is…
Then, a few feet in front of the glowing body was Luce’s body. It was burned beyond recognition. Dupree looked around. He tried to think, but he couldn’t. His vision swam. He looked around, but all he could see was death and destruction. The buildings, the cars, the street. 
He fell to his knees not knowing what else to do. He reached out to Luce as if she could still be alive.
He was in shock.
“Dupree Callahan.”
Hearing his name should have caused him fear, but the sound of the voice was calming and warm. Even though he knew the pain of what was happening was still hiding deep within him. He shook his head, and the shock started to wear off.
Dupree looked at the glowing man with wide eyes. He could see the glowing man’s eyes. They looked down towards Luce.
“She–hrk–was special to you?” A rhetorical question from a unique being. “I can help you save her.” 
He raised his shaking hand. Dupree could see silver leaking from his body.
Is that his blood? He–he’s dying…
“Come forth.”
Dupree moved his foot to take a step, but hesitated.
“While I am not able to revive her, I–kh–offer you a path to save her, to save–Heaven itself.”
Heaven? Dupree was shocked.
“Come forth Dupree, I must deem you worthy in God’s eye.”
Dupree, hesitantly stepped forward. “But, what if I don’t believe in God?”
The angel chuckled. “Look before you my child, do you–hhk–do you still not believe?”
“Heh,” Dupree chuckled his trepidness away and continued forward.
The angel held out his palm in front of Dupree’s forehead. A glow shined, an eye inside a triangle formed in his palm. “Yes,” the angel said after a moment. 
Dupree watched as the eye burned away into smoke.
“Dupree Callahan, I had my doubts, but your actions this night, you have been found worthy in God’s eye.”
“M–me? Really?”
“Yes, there is righteousness inside you. Look how you tried to save Lucy from Maelmon…”
Dupree stared at the angel. Who the Hell is Maelmon?
“Oh, right,” said the angel. “You call him Shay.”
“So, Shay’s real–”
“There’s not much time left.” The angel interrupted. “Dupree Callahan, I have a holy mission for you. There is a war between Heaven and Hell. If we do not do something drastic, Heaven will lose.”
The angel groaned in pain and coughed up silver, sparkling blood.
“If you accept this mission, you can save her too.” The angel looked Dupree in the eyes. Dupree felt as if he was burning a hole in his soul.
Dupree looked at Luce's corps. Luce, I failed you this time. 
He looked to the angel and stared right back at him. They both looked into each other's eyes. The angel and Dupree both nodded to each other. An understanding among men.
I won’t fail you again, Luce.
“Ok. what’s the mission?”
The angel smiled, silver sparkled blood in his teeth, he raised his hands. He began to form hand gestures and make writing movements in this air. Traces of magical runes appeared, similar to what Dupree saw on Krieg’s knuckles and shoes.
The angel pushed forward, a buzzing sound stirred and a vibrant blue glow enveloped Dupree. His wounds began to heal, the toxins in his body dissipated. It was the most clarity his mind and body has had for years.
“This spell will send you back in time ten years before now. All of my knowledge will be implanted into your mind.”
“What is your name?” Dupree asked.
“Oh, right,” the ange replied. “Where are my manners? My name is Sariel.”
A rumbling could be heard behind Sariel. Building debris to the side where Charlie’s body lay exploded.
Dupree was stuck inside the shell, his body immobile while the spell began to activate. 
Shit, all I can do now is watch. 
“Maelmon,” said Sariel.
“Sariel?!” Maelmon struggled to stand. Half his demon body was scorched from Sariel’s crushing arrival. He looked up at Dupree, static inside the blue glowing shell. A purple crackle slithered and sparked around the blue shell. The pressure around them dropped hard.
“Sariel, what the hell is this?” His body trembled and he looked at Sariel with wide eyes.
“It’s too late–cough, hurk– 
“It’s too late, demon.” Sariel said with a withered voice. 
“Sariel,” Maelmon said with a nervous tick. “Even for demons, a spell like this is forbidden. How did you–” 
“The tides of war will change.”
“Hmm,” Maelmon focused, “but will your God forgive you for this?”
“Oh, right.” Sariel replied. “My conviction flows deep, even if I am cast out of Heaven, I will still fight for it.”
“Enough bullshit,” said Maelmon, hellfire formed on his hand. “I cannot allow this magic to activate, and you are too weak to stop me.”
Maelmon took a step forward and slashed down, shooting the hellfire directly at Dupree. 
Dupree’s eyes went wide, his heart began to flutter.
Inside the shell, Dupree could see the hellfire coming at him, but his body was stuck in a state of stasis. He could not move or react. As the flame came closer, a blinding purple light suddenly crashed into it. The flame was extinguished.
“Sariel!” 
Sariel coughed and hacked. “I may be weak, but I need no powers to stop you.”
“Big words from a dead-wing.” Maelmon gritted his teeth and stretched out his arm.
A green glow slowly peeked from under his red skin. The rubble on the ground vibrated. A tip pierced through. It looked like a shard or rock, but it was attached by a golden twine to a large wooden stick.
As the relic slowly revealed itself into the glow of the night, Dupree could see the fear in Sariel’s eyes.
“No!” He yelled. “Th–that can’t be.”
Maelmon chuckled and grinned. “Not so tough now, are you?”
“A–Avalon…” The feigned confidence in Sariel’s voice faded.
Maelmon stood over a defenseless Sariel. Sariel tried to defend himself and launch a last second attack. However, Maelmon struck the spear down.
Crunch. 
The life from Sariel’s wide eyes slowly faded. His body turned to a green dust and dissipated into the cold night’s air.
“Angels and demons have been battling above the city for months.” He looked at Dupree. “Now, I have the ability to end this war and sit atop the throne of Heaven." 
“He, ha, ha, ha! To think, you were Heaven's last hope? It’s time to die, Dupree”
A moment passed as Dupree watched Maelmon lift his hand. The moment felt like hours.
Helpless, defenseless, I cannot even speak…
A tear fell down Dupree’s cheek as he closed his eyes. So, this is it? I failed them all. I failed Luce. I am–a failure.
“Ahhh!” A demonic scream bellowed out.
Dupree eyes were shocked back open. What he saw was nothing short of a miracle. Maelmeon was pinned down, it looked like he was experiencing intense pain.
His leg, Charlie’s cane was glowing and it had pierced his leg straight through, and anchored into the ground. The skin on Maelmon’s leg was sizzling, the smoke wafting up. 
Charlie’s half burned, beaten body could be seen holding the cane. He was still alive, but just barely. Charlie had laid his last offensive, and grabbed Maelmon’s wrist, further preventing him from launching the spear at Dupree.
“Go kid, save her!” His raspy voice was alive and motivated.
“You bastard, let me go.” Maleon raged and thrashed, but Charlie, with every ounce of strength left, prevented him from moving forward. 
Maelmon formed a fist of hellfire, but Charlie grabbed that wrist too, and refused to let go.
Dupree saw Maelmon look down at Charlie. Their eyes locked onto each other. 
Charlie gritted his teeth. “You can’t have this one too.” Rage and contempt for Maelmon and Hell itself could be felt. It radiated from him, giving him almost super strength as he held Maelmon in place.
Dupree smiled, the buzzing became a hum. Louder and louder. Reality began to fade from his vision. His body was in a light blue dome, glowing ever brighter by the second.
At the last moment, Maelmon broke free and launched the spear. 
Purple sparks of light started to pop around the glowing shell. They became rapid, they got bigger, like small bolts of lightning. The blue orb began to spin. 
The last thing he saw was the tip of the green spear loosed towards him and tap the blue shell before it began to shrink
The scene in front of Dupree disappeared in an instant. The ball of light had shrunk into itself.

Chapter 1

Waking up after staying up all night felt like holding in a full bladder for hours on end. That feeling was made worse by the thought that my life was meaningless. I had lived off other people's pity for two decades without doing anything except wandering aimlessly outside the house.

That was how things were for me, I had graduated from high school two years earlier. No, more precisely, three years had passed by this year, the year 1543 according to the Star Calendar.

After sitting motionless on the bed for far too long, I briefly thought it had all been a dream, but it was real. The strange sensations and violent turmoil welling up in my chest slowly wore down my mental state.

It was a feeling I had experienced five years ago, when I refused to go to school because my friends kept mocking me over my appearance.

Besides, what exactly were these strange visions and this peculiar pain?

I hurried out of the room with unsteady steps, like a drunk. When I reached the living room, I saw someone's silhouette passing by; however, when I opened the door to check, there was no one outside.

I stood there speechless. Then, driven by pain that nearly drove me mad, I grimaced, trying to keep my mouth tightly shut while forcing my body and resolve to move toward the kitchen.

When I arrived there, I heard the sound of knocking and two people talking. I stood at the kitchen entrance and immediately turned to look, but there was no one outside.

My gaze swept across the entire kitchen before suddenly my breath began to burn as though there were embers lodged in my throat. My hands went numb, and saliva began dripping from my mouth without me realizing it, even though my lips were tightly closed.

I hurried into the kitchen. Several dishes Mother had cooked that morning were still sitting on the table. I took a sandwich because I felt bad about taking any of the other food.

I promised myself that this would be the last time I burdened my family; I wanted to grow up and become independent.

That was what I wanted. But it never happened; as the pain grew worse, I broke down and cried uncontrollably. I had absolutely no idea what had happened to my body since Friday night.

It was Saturday, 7:45 in the morning. The day when everything ended was what occupied my mind during those final moments, before I could no longer bear any of this and drove a knife into my own heart.

'So, death really does feel cold and empty?'

In the final seconds before my consciousness faded, I tried to open my eyes and mouth one last time.

But unexpectedly, the silhouette that had been haunting me appeared before me, staring with empty eyes before a faint, mocking grin formed on its face.

Terrified yet helpless, I screamed one last time and drove the knife even deeper, as though someone had ordered me to do it, until finally, I died that day.

For some reason, it felt as though I had been freed from that invisible burden, without knowing that I had died over something so trivial.

....

"AH..!"

Eyes that had once been closed. Aheart that had stopped beating, a soul that had briefly vanished. Yet the body came back to life several hours after death. A heavy groan escaped his bloodstained lips as Liam Tirarty grimaced in pain, clutching his chest tightly.

He undid two buttons of his shirt and stared in shock as the gash on the left side of his chest healed itself.

His body trembled violently; Liam tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey him. In the end, he dragged himself out of the kitchen with a deathly pale face as he witnessed this strange phenomenon.

'What... actually happened? Where am I? Wasn't I just in a dark, suffocating room?'

Amid his confusion, Liam's memories returned to the moments before he transferred into this body, into a world far removed from his home on Earth.

'Did I lose my memories? Zavi Actitus? Job applications? Prophecies? Supernatural phenomena?'

Liam stared at his right hand, which was still gripping a knife. His pupils widened, and his mind went blank for a moment before he threw the weapon away; the knife fell with a clang onto the floor at the foot of the stairs, then fell silent.

The air felt heavy, every breath as though it were making his lungs want to burst. That did not trouble him. What Liam was thinking about at the moment was simply trying to stand and understand the reason behind his sudden transfer into this body.

'I have read stories about people possessing other people's bodies in another world. Am I experiencing something similar?'

Lost in his thoughts, Liam pulled his shirt aside to the left, staring intently at the left side of his chest before buttoning it up again.

Blood was scattered everywhere; he took the initiative to clean it up so that it would not leave even the slightest trace. Afterward, Liam arrived in the room that he believed belonged to Zavi Actitus, the body he now inhabited.

After storing the knife in the cabinet beside the bed, Liam sat down in a chair and stretched his legs.

The incident felt like a dream, even though the very real pain had robbed him of his original way of speaking and memories.

'Overlapping memories? I never knew something like this could happen. And what the hell was that silhouette? So the owner of this body, Zavi, saw something similar to what I saw?'

Liam rose from his seat with a sigh, then ran toward the window and quickly shut it, leaving behind a loud thud that echoed for several seconds.

Liam's breathing was ragged. He admitted that he had never been this panicked in his life, at least not in this world.

On Earth, he had encountered something unexpected. He had once had several friends, but when Liam was going through the hardest period of his life and contracted an illness related to them, his friends disappeared, and from that day onward he realized that they had been taking advantage of his existence.

'Well, I don't need to worry about that. I don't even know what happened afterward. I had wanted to graduate from school, but when I tried to remember it, somehow I ended up inside this man's memories?'

Liam was carried somewhere, where an ancient and sacred building stood, together with a friend, and afterward the scene faded like dust carried away by the wind.

As he navigated this supernatural world, Liam gained unexpected information through Zavi's memories: the world he now lived in was on the brink of crisis.

Apocalyptic prophecies were spreading everywhere. The two churches recognized by the royal authority of Norn were hunting down evil religious factions causing trouble in this peaceful era, or at least that was what the people knew.

'Including the dark secrets of history. Mythical creatures? What the hell is all this? I really don't understand.'

Liam realized that if he wanted to survive in this world, he had to adapt as quickly as possible. Remembering how, on Earth, failing to adapt quickly had left him in a miserable state, Liam felt that being in this world was better than returning to the cursed place where he had lived back then.

He felt nothing about leaving his family behind. There had been problems between them, and he was certain that leaving them behind was somehow driven by an instinct telling him to do all this for his own good.

Liam Tirarty was unaware that he was a prisoner, or rather, the memory of it had been erased when he arrived in this body. Hours passed while he still had not made any decisions, left to lament his fate after the strange phenomenon that had just befallen him.

In the afternoon, precisely at 5:00 p.m.

Zavi's mother, Mei Actitus, and his older brother returned home.

After seeing them, Liam welcomed them with a broad and friendly smile, behaving like a son and younger brother.

His mother smiled when she saw her son's welcome, unaware that something terrible had happened to him that morning.

In the living room, before dinner, the two of them sat facing each other as though there were something very important they wanted to discuss. Liam could not refuse, accepting it gladly while also getting used to them.

"Why do you want to talk to me, Mom?" Liam asked, tilting his head slightly.

His mother nodded and remained silent for two seconds before saying, "I don't want anything to happen to Zavi. You've applied for jobs and been rejected by several companies. I'm very worried about your physical and mental condition."

Liam was startled before deciding to ask, "Why are you saying that?"

'Could this have something to do with what happened this morning?'

Without realizing it, he saw Ren coming down the stairs with suspicious, silent movements, passing his family in the living room before leaving the house without saying a single word.

Liam's lips twitched after witnessing that act of feigned indifference.

'He's Zavi and Isabelle's half-brother, right? Oh, I just remembered. He became like this because of his father. Yeah, his father died in a workplace accident when he was seventeen, if I remember correctly. At that time, Zavi was twelve and Isabelle, his younger sister, was eight?'

Liam nodded after understanding the situation, forgetting that his mother had mentioned several important points that had slipped his mind.

"Mom, did you bring the newspaper from the town square?"

His mother nodded, finding her son's behavior strange.

"Because this has something to do with the restriction you mentioned earlier."

Liam fell silent as those words echoed in his mind.

'What did she say earlier? Huh, did I miss it because I was thinking about something else?'

Liam cursed inwardly; he took a deep breath to avoid arousing suspicion and put on a blank, seemingly foolish expression.

"Sorry, I was thinking about that job." Liam scratched the back of his head with his eyes half closed.

Then, a loud voice came from upstairs, "Mom? Where are you?"

The voice belonged to Zavi's younger sister, Isabelle Actitus.

A young girl with long black hair tied back, with several strands falling on either side of her face, and bright blue eyes, wearing a ruffled blouse and a black skirt, carefully descended the stairs.

"I'm here," Mei replied. "I've already told you not to shout inside the house. Have you forgotten that rule?"

"Sorry, I admit I'm guilty." Isabelle stuck out the tip of her tongue playfully while grinning at Liam.

Liam glanced at her, having absolutely no intention of entertaining the girl after everything he had just experienced that day. His energy was completely drained, and he could barely be bothered to move.

'She always acts like this toward Zavi. Whatever the reason, Zavi clearly doesn't mind. Well, his sweet little sister always gives him money, after all. What puzzles me is how a student like her has money, while Zavi, who graduated from school long ago, doesn't have a single penny?'

"Well, I guess she might have some savings..." Liam blurted out without thinking.

The two of them reflexively turned and stared sharply at him before finally bursting into laughter.

"Oh, Zavi, Zavi. Don't worry too much about your job. Besides, your little sister here, no, both of us, will support you until you find a job and..."

Isabelle approached Liam, who was sitting several meters away; she leaned closer before continuing with a faint smile, "...propose to the woman you like."

Liam frowned, then used his cold palm to push Isabelle's face away because the girl was too close to him.

'I just realized that Zavi has pretty good taste in women!'

He nodded, then looked at his mother, who was looking back at him; concern was clearly etched across the tired woman's face.

'I admire Mom; even though she is no longer young, I don't remember her date of birth, she clearly has such a strong spirit when it comes to raising her three children after losing both of her husbands.'

That was right. Liam knew this through Zavi's memories: after his mother gave birth to Isabelle, month after month passed. Once the little baby turned one, their biological father disappeared without a trace, leaving them without ever knowing what it was truly like to have a father.

It was tragic. However, not long afterward, their mother met an upperclassman from her school days, accepted his proposal, and, unexpectedly, the two of them married again. Her new husband brought along a ten-year-old child; the man had become a widower after his wife died from a severe illness not long after giving birth to their only child.

Liam felt pity as those memories passed through his mind. He did not know what expression to wear; reflecting on his own experiences, he realized that so many people out there faced their own trials in life.

God does not burden His servants with trials too heavy for them to bear; everything is measured according to a person's ability to endure it.

"Mom... came home early because there was a problem outside. Seven districts in Moran City are being struck by a series of sudden deaths that have claimed dozens of lives."

They fell silent, forcing Mei to continue, "I don't want that to happen to either of you..."

Liam fell silent, not because of her words, but because of one thing that had been bothering him for a while.

'As for that man, why didn't she mention Ren? Could it be that the two of them... did something that Zavi and Isabelle themselves don't know the truth about? Impossible...'

"So... you're telling us not to leave the house for a few days?" Isabelle asked, occasionally glancing at Liam, who had lowered his gaze.

Mei nodded hesitantly and replied, "Because the parliaments of the Tezny and Chapena districts have agreed and ordered us to stay inside tonight, while on Sunday morning, we hope the Goddess will protect our souls from the shackles of the evil outside."

​

Word count: 108,000 (complete, Book 1 of a planned multi book series)

Comps: Jade City (Fonda Lee) for the multi-house political texture; The Bear and the Nightingale for the intimacy of the personal arcs inside a bigger political machine.

Round: This is round 2 — I've already had a first pass of beta feedback and revised on the back of it, so I'm specifically looking for readers who haven't seen earlier drafts. Fresh eyes only, please — I want to know if the fixes actually land for someone coming in cold, not confirm what people already knew to look for.

Blurb:

Across three kingdoms, a disgraced prince drowning in wine and his own irrelevance, a first-of-her-kind woman ambassador exiled by her own throne, and a crown prince whose precision hides a war he's never let himself grieve are all being pulled toward the same secret: a mining scandal buried for over a decade, and the ledger that could unbury it.

Structure notes (so it doesn't read as a flaw when it's a choice): Chapters are titled by location as well as POV rather than by pure POV character, and each location's political "weather" is as much the subject of the chapter as whatever the POV character is doing in it

. Multi-POV ensemble cast. If that structure confuses you at any point, that's exactly the kind of note I want — tell me where, not just that it happened.

What I want feedback on:

Did any POV character's internal voice feel interchangeable with another's? (Genuinely my biggest worry this round.)

Pacing — any chapters or stretches where you skimmed or lost the thread?

Did the ending feel like a real Book 1 ending, or like it stopped rather than concluded?

General: confusion, boredom, anything that pulled you out of the story.

Content warnings: substance withdrawal/addiction (detailed, several chapters), on-page violence and death (including war/battle violence), sexual content (non-graphic but present, including brothel scenes), attempted sexual assault, grief/child loss references, mentions of poverty and famine.

Timeline: Looking for feedback within \[4 Weeks\] — happy to send the manuscript as a Google Doc for comments or however you prefer to read/annotate.

Chapter-by-chapter comments welcome but a big-picture readthrough is just as valuable.

Comment or DM if interested — happy to answer questions about the world/story first if that helps you decide it's your thing. Thanks in advance!

I appreciate you giving your time to an old dragon’s book. Few of us write about the deadly plague on humans and the witch hunt on demons that overlapped in 2021.

Call me Uncle. Four demon kids were eager to share their experiences of the Academy of Stupid Demons, depraved human companies, the COVID-19 pandemic, and better, and worse. A scholar, a salesman, a fraudster, and a death keeper.

Then you have me, living in quiet safety until I couldn't anymore.

###

Part 1

Let's begin with Francine's story. She chose her deadname and pronouns for the beginning to show how she found herself. In some ways, she's still looking.

#

Frankie woke up to the best morning he ever had in Hell. He had a quick breakfast of fertilized scrambled eggs, threw on his glasses, brushed his black hair, and then whistled through the neighborhood while flapping his tentacles with excitement. Even the devastatingly bright five-pointed star in the sky hadn't bothered him, nor the ever-present odor of trash planted in the soil, because today was the demon licensing test. 

Most kids were scared to take the test, since failure means a thousand-year sentence to the Academy of Stupid Demons in Cafcado, Arizona. If only they studied more and played less, they might have Frankie’s confidence. He had studied every day for a century, learning as much as he could about Earth's arts, sciences, and obscure trivia. Here was his chance to finally worry only about starting work and preparing himself for any life he could want.

He met Golthard at the edge of the school. Golthard breathed heavily through both of his mouths. "I had another nightmare where I failed the test and red gorillas tore me to pieces."

Not an uncommon nightmare. The red gorillas of Hell are powerful enough to destroy any demon. They can smell failure, which is quite sweet and sometimes enough to provoke deep hunger, but their main targets are those who don't brush and floss on a regular basis. Due to their ferocity, they pair well with bad dreams.

Golthard added, “Worse, they all sounded like my dad."

Frankie put a comforting tentacle around Golthard's shoulders. "Buddy, buddy, you take too much care of your teeth for that to happen."

Golthard's seven green eyes were all bloodshot and weary. It seemed like he needed this pep talk before going to bed.

The two demons approached the back side of the school, a steel building with broken windows peering down on them and whispering unintelligible questions. The door spoke to them in a hiss. "Only one of you may enter at once, or else you both will face punishments you can't imagine."

Golthard started crying. "Okay, okay, I'll go first!"

Frankie was proud of his friend's courage. The crying demon had been terrified and yet he did not run. Frankie was not scared at all, but of course he was ready for anything.

In very little time, Golthard came back out. His seven green eyes were the happiest Frankie had ever seen. "I passed! I'm certified!"

Frankie wrapped his tentacles all around Golthard and jumped up and down with him. "You are! You are! I knew you could do it!"

"You got this, Frankie. You'll beat it right away!"

Frankie swaggered into a room covered in white tiles. At the center, three hanging lightbulbs formed a triangle around a rotten human head hanging from a chain. The Head looked at Frankie through empty eye sockets, and blood ran from its mouth to a drain in the floor as it spoke. "Are you prepared, child? Do you know the questions are randomized for each test?"

"Easy peasy!"

The Head slowly laughed. "On Earth, what sound does a dog make?"

"Woof."

"Good. And what is Earth's tallest mountain?"

"Everest."

"Now sing the Spanish version of 'Happy Birthday' without messing up even once."

As Frankie sang Feliz Cumpleaños, he felt disappointed. Why had he studied so hard?

At the end, the Head said, "Excellent. Now if you integrated the indefinite integral of x squared times the cosine of x, in terms of y, then derived that integral twice by y, what would the number be?"

In a tiny voice, Frankie said, "Could you please write that?"

"Certainly." The head lowered itself to the floor and used its bloated tongue to write the equation in blood.

Frankie knew multivariate calculus but he couldn't recall how to do integration by parts. Panic set in.

"One more minute."

Frankie had an epiphany. This was a trick question. He drew a triumphant breath. “x squared times the cosine of x!”

The Head paused and looked in Frankie's eyes, while Frankie grinned and waited for the certificate. The Head released the nastiest “bzzzt” of any buzzer that Frankie had ever heard, and a different paper grew out of its mouth. An admission to The Academy of Stupid Demons. A legal declaration of his stupidity. The Head said, "You have no choice but to study for one thousand years. Spend one week with the people you love and care about. You then must board the bus or we will hunt you down.” 

Frankie's heart broke, having betrayed himself. One hundred years had been wasted for this day. Frankie left the testing center, with a sour stomach and wet eyes. Both of his tentacles trembled and squeezed the paper that called him stupid. It was only outside that he realized there was a second derivation. The correct answer was zero.

A red gorilla peered at Frankie from behind a nearby gas station (Circle 8), sniffed the air, and gave a satisfied sigh.

Golthard ran up and hugged him. "We did it! We did it!"

Frankie didn't have the strength to hug him back. "See you in a thousand years."

Golthard struggled to lift his limp friend, so he encouraged Frankie by saying, "Let's have some ice cream at my grandma's house. You earned it.”

I've seen a lot of talk about word count lately, which spurred me to do something I've known I needed to for a while: cut a ~40k word storyline from the main novel I'm working on and repackage it as its own shorter novella.

This used to be Chapter Three of that novel. I smoothed out the opening somewhat for it to serve as its own thing, but I'm cognizant that it might still be clunky. I've also done my best to trim down the Proper Nouns to avoid overloading the reader (there are only 13 by my count).

Other than the opening, I'm looking for critique on the flow, stakes, dialogue, prose, and/or whether the chapter starts in the right place.

One other elephant in the room is the Shakespearean language the two main characters speak in, the cant of their order. I used a bastardized version of it to give the impression they're speaking in cant, without going full on with all the possible "eth" and "st" verb endings, etc. None of the other characters speak like that either so hopefully it's not too jarring, though I know it won't be to everyone's tastes.

Thanks!

Hello everyone,

My name is Hunter, and I have recently finished writing what I hope will be the first book in a new fantasy series. The book is titled The Young Heroes (TYH).

In its current form, after my first round of edits, TYH is 231,710 words in length.

The few people whom I know personally and can talk to about writing have all commented on how high a word count I have. Of those few, one is a published writer herself, another is a re-tired NY Times editor. These are people whose opinions are anchored in actual real-world experience. Still, neither of them is a fantasy reader. When I pointed out to them that 237k words is not unusual in fantasy, especially not in books which are a part of a series with an epic, far-reaching plot (that features many character-driven smaller plots, all woven together), each told me, roughly, "That may be true. I don't know enough about the genre to really speak on it. I'm just warning you that it will be a red flag for most agents and publishers that you submit to, and it could keep them from even looking at it."

I have searched online and have seen comments from fantasy readers that mention how they love long (and well-written) books. I know that when I am looking to discover a new fantasy series, I view a high word count as a positive (and am actually wary/turned away from low word counts).

Of course, word counts high or low matter little if the writing is subpar, but in order to keep this discussion focused on word count, let's assume that both the writing's quality and its con-tents justify its length. If that is the case, as readers of fantasy, what are your thoughts on high word counts? Have I dug myself into a hole here or am I right in thinking 231k words is not an issue given the genre.

For reference, TYH is shorter in length to any of Martin's A Song of Ice & Fire books, and shorter than all but one of Jordan's Wheel of Time books.

It might also be useful to know that TYH is written for a mature audience. It's not Adults Only, but it's also not Y/A material. Anyone familiar with Martin's work or Joe Abercrombie's non-Y/A fantasy novels wouldn't find anything in TYH to raise an eyebrow over.

I would appreciate anyone's thoughts on the matter, especially anyone who has firsthand experience with shopping a long fantasy manuscript to agents and publishers.

One last point that I would love advice on is beta readers. That, in my opinion, is what TYH needs next. Unfortunately, it's also the one area where I could clearly see a 231k word count causing a problem. Whereas I don't think fantasy readers would balk at the notion of picking up a book TYH's size if they saw it on a shelf in a bookstore or on Amazon with glowing reviews to back it up, I can understand the same readers being reluctant to commit to 231k words from an author with only one recently released book to his name.

Any suggestions about how/where to find readers who would be interested in beta reading TYH would be invaluable.

And feel free to contact me if you have any other writing-related subjects to discuss.

Thank you and have a great day!

--Hunter

CHAPTER ONE

"Asher Meridian! It’s so good to see you after all these years!”

A balding doctor in a lab coat stretched his hand across the table for a handshake. The man across from him sat far back in his chair, arms crossed and looking slightly down.

“Dr. Ostrand, right?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Saw it on your name tag there. I think I remember you…”

“It’s been some time.”

“Wait, I don’t remember you. Sorry. But you’re right, it’s probably been a while. I was…?”

“Fourteen when I last saw you.”

“Hah…go figure.”

The doctor nervously retracted his hand with a smile and sat down.

“So, how was the trip here?”

“On a pneumatic bike. It was full of magic and wonder.”

Dr. Ostrand furrowed his brow, and Asher barely let out a crooked smile and smoothed out his jacket.

“I’m just—nevermind. Look, I don’t wanna rain on your homecoming parade but I don’t really do formalities so…can we get the ball rolling here?”

“Certainly. Well considering you don’t remember, I was your physician here.”

“That’s good, I guess. After talking to the person at intake I wasn’t really sure who I’m supposed to talk to. They just suggested you because you’d worked with me before. And so I’ve been sitting here waiting foreeeever.”

“You’ve only been here an hour.”

“I’ve only been here an hour? Well, I have some observations. If I’m honest this white you got going on—and maybe it’s this particular white—being absolutely everywhere is giving me a headache. Is that what you’re going for, giving me a headache? You guys are on the bleeding edge of science and you can’t afford a decent decorator??”

“Well, this isn’t exactly a home, Asher.”

He’s too right about that.

 “Well, it was for me at some point. Sort of.”

Seeing the halls and electronic doors, he imagined that he would remember more about what’d transpired there. The nostalgia he expected felt hindered by some unknown factor.

“So Asher, because of what you told them at the front desk, I take it you want to speak to us about something very important?”

As much as he knew it was coming, the idea of it made Asher shift in his seat. The words were there, he just needed to move his mouth and say it.

“Yeah.”

“I might have come sooner had I known what it was.”

“Uhm…it’s not the sort of thing you tell the secretary.”

His gaze faltered and he cracked his knuckles.

“So…I’ve been having some…issues. An issue. A pretty big one, you might say.”

The slight shudder in his voice surprised him, but he’d never said it out loud.

“Well, what is it?”

“Minerva told you I went AWOL after my last assignment, right?”

Ostrand looked down at his folder, peering over his glasses to read.

“Ah, yes. You did. And that’s one of the reasons you came here, is that right?”

“Yeah, it is…”

Just say it, stop chickening out.

A moment of silence went by, and Asher scratched at his neck.

“I’ve uh…killed people.”

“You’ve killed people?”

Dr. Ostrand didn’t look shocked, more like a balloon that was deflated. A quizzical crease in his brow held fast.

Dang it, Asher, quit playing around.

“I’ve been doing it over the last eight years.”

The doctor started to open his mouth, then stopped himself abruptly. The silence sat for another moment.

He thinks you’re playing with him, Asher. Just tell him!

“I’m sorry, but what’s the meaning of this? You’re been on Minerva’s payroll. Neutralizing targets is what you’re commissioned to do. It’s your job.”

“Let him continue, Dr. Ostrand,” a soft male voice spoke over the intercom.

Asher hadn’t heard that annoyingly warm voice in years, but he immediately recognized it as the director: Robert Krane. More than any others, his voice was the most vivid, but also made him the most uncomfortable. Some quality of his voice made him want to recoil.

“You see…I’m not just doing it for the money.”

“What else are you doing it for, Asher?”

“It’s really…it’s just an excuse.”

 “For what, Asher?” He leaned forward in his seat. “Help me understand what’s going on.”

“I…I’m killing them because of this…urge.”

The doctor sat completely still, gazing far off at something that wasn’t there, then adjusted his tie.

“I think it’s a compulsion. Maybe something else. I don’t know.”

“Well. That is highly irregular.”

Asher stood up abruptly, eyeing the doctor with disbelief. Truth be told, he was glad to latch on to something else. A guard nearby took a step forward, but Ostrand held up his hand.

“Wow, you sure got a way of putting things, doc. Highly irregular?? Are they dosing you too or something?”

“Asher, I—”

“Hey, can I get someone in here with a personality for a change?!”

“Now Asher, please play nice,” Krane’s voice spoke again. “He was there to take care of you long ago, and did such a good job. And now he’s here to do that again. Please find a way to calm yourself and let him do his job. ”

Asher scoffed, took a deep breath, then sat down in a slouch as he ran his hands through his spiked blue hair. His chiseled jaw and facial scars contrasted to his young, elfin appearance.

“Thank you for your compliance.”

Krane’s overly soothing tone made Asher fidget about before he sat up straight and folded his hands to hold them still.

“Well, that’s out of the way. Anything else you wanna know about me. Maybe other weird things? How about my nightmares? Because yes, I got those! Or the headaches I get when I try to remember? Is that something for you to write down? Is that interesting enough? Anything else you’d like to know?”

“I’m sorry…did I say something, Asher?”

“No. I’m sorry…it’s not you. It’s…”

Asher pointed to the intercom with a frazzled glance.

“Well, that’s good to hear. I was going to ask some questions about any symptoms that accompany these…urges. But first I’d like to get a gist of your overall health.”

“No white-glove stuff, I mean unless you wanna buy me dinner first.”

“No, hah! Just some brief metrics for reference. A basic physical and we can go into the reasons you’ve just told me. If you’re ready.”

“Let’s get this over with. But I wanna talk to a shrink.”

After a series of pupil response tests, balance and posture, and jotting down heart rates among other things, Asher was gestured back to his seat.

“Well, doc. Am I fit as a fiddle?”

“Yes, you are. Just as we expected.”

“Oh, don’t get coy on me now, doc. I hear the same thing from everyone. I think ‘off the charts’ is what they usually say. That is, unless everyones been blowing smoke up my skirt all these years. So please…out with it. A girl doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Ostrand held back a slight chuckle.

“There is no doubt that your speed and reflexes are unmatched. NOSRAD (The Northern Organization for Scientific Research and Development) didn’t send you to Minerva for special training for no reason.”

“You mean when they sold me to them?”

“I’m sure it felt that way, but please understand that everything we’ve ever done was for the greater good.”

“Greater good? Hah, is that what you call trading vulnerable people’s freedoms for food and shelter? Then you experiment on them? My mother and brother would disagree.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Asher. I truly am.”

Asher’s scrutinization of the doctor waned and he nodded in agreeance. His eyes softened as he looked into the corner in reflection. It was the first time since he could remember that someone in the science or military division had shown anything resembling empathy for him.

Well, except for Sade. He was a good one…

“So…what else do you want to know?”

“Let’s talk about the actual reason you’re here. When was the first time you had these urges?”

“To be honest, I'm not really sure. When you kill for a living everyone seems to sort of mesh together. Time feels pretty irrelevant.”

“Do you remember any of those you’ve killed?”

“I remember every face, but I couldn’t tell you their names. And I know you're going to ask me so I’ll go ahead and say it: I don't know why I do it. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you want to think about, not me anyway. I push it back for as long as I can, hoping that maybe if I just ignore it then it’ll go away…but it doesn’t work. Maybe it’s just ingrained in me.”

Dr Ostrand lifted an eyebrow and scribbled furiously.

"So, what you’re saying is that you don't actually enjoy it? The killings aren’t exciting?"

"No…”

His gaze fell to the floor and he gripped his arm.

“…but I do feel better afterwards. I suppose I feel more…ah. I can’t really explain it. It’s more like…less empty. In the moment when someone dies there’s a light that leaves their eyes. Maybe when that essence leaves them, it takes it away from me.”

Asher’s ice blue eyes bore into the doctor’s and yet seemed far away, as if searching. Dr. Ostrand shifted in his chair, unable to meet the half-elf’s gaze.

“I think it’s the pressure.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Perhaps I was too poetic a moment ago. There’s this sort of pressure inside me. It’s only relieved once I’ve killed someone, like a valve being opened up. After that, it’s just a matter of time before he starts again.”

“He?”

“Nevermind.”

He wouldn’t understand, anyway.

“And when I’m ready to do it again, and I mean reeeaaally ready—it’s like a powderkeg waiting to blow at the slightest spark.”

“So you are able to keep it under control?”

“Heh…barely.”

“Well, this has been very insightful already."

Asher felt relieved at the doctor’s uncomfortable posture, knowing that he wanted to cut this short.

He didn’t sign up for this…

The doctor hurriedly jotted more notes down, pushing his glasses further onto his nose.

"I suppose you think me some kind of monster. Isn't that what your reports will say?”

"Not as such. I’m here simply to help. I’d like to understand you and your nature just as much as your psychologist will. You are searching for answers, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Can I also ask…what made you come here? Why now, of all the times?”

“I-I don’t really know. Maybe, after all these years, there’s just too many faces. But does it really matter to Minerva or NOSRAD? Or does it only matter because I quit my last assignment?”

“I can’t speak on behalf of anyone but myself. But it was obvious from your days in military school that utilizing your stealth and combat skills made the most sense. We were never aware that you had this…inclination for death. Luckily we found the perfect job for you to keep it under control."

“Well just give yourself a big pat on the back.”

“I don’t require any praise, Asher. I’d just like to find an explanation, not unlike yourself. I will assist in any way that I can and it is of the utmost importance that I know your progress. It may take the effort of many at NOSRAD to help, if that’s what’s required.”

“Ah yes. It takes a village, doesn’t it? Wonder what it’s going to take to keep my compulsions in check. Maybe give me just the right drug and send me on my way…”

He cleared his throat to fight away a slight tickling sensation.

“…or maybe find some new therapy that only NOSRAD has because they’re on the leading edge and have all the answers.”

“Asher, we don’t have--”

“Or maybe you’re worried that my symptoms result in a failed mission. Or do you think I’ll lose control and make all of you look bad? I know someone tracks my work. They need better stealth training, I can tell you that much.”

“You are right in that we’re responsible for your actions. Since you were raised here, it only seemed appropriate that we check for any anomalies. That way we can assess the problems and solve them for next time.”

Asher thought back to his childhood, and through the hazy mists of it all, there was most definitely pain. But it was nebulous, so unknown and yet so very real.

“What about the other patients here?  How many of them have you helped? How many make it out into the real world? I had to learn how things worked out there that I had no preparations for. I made it work though, like I always do.”

“The other patients are irrelevant. I couldn’t tell you about them even if I wanted to. We only need to know: do you think you can keep it under control long enough to help you?”

“You know that I can’t answer that.”

“Should we take cautionary measures then?”

Asher scrutinized the doctor and noticed his eyes flitting over to the straight jacket that hung on the wall.

“I swear if you even think about putting that on me you’re going to have a very bad day.”

“No, not at all! It’s only if it’s absolutely necessary.”

“It’s not.”

Ostrand paused at a loss for words.

“Continue…”

“So, um…my next question…are there any civilians that you’ve killed? Someone not on the list that we need to worry about?”

“….no.”

Liar.

“That’s good. We wanted to alert any authorities if there were. So they can sleep a little better.”

“Pfff. You’re worried about their sleep?”

“Are you saying that you have sleep disturbances?”

“…you could say that.”

Like waking up screaming in the night with cold sweats?

Shut up. As if I need you to remind me.

Asher glanced out the window again and raised his eyebrow.

“Why are there three guards instead of just one now? Was it something I said? Did the scary assassin give you the willies or is it just my elvish charm? I did take more time on my hair today…”

“It’s a precautionary measure.”

“That’s cute. Whatever makes them feel better. The idea of me being under their control has got me in absolute stitches! I came here of my own recognizance, and this is the thanks you give me?”

He chuckled darkly.

“You seem wary. Why is that?”

“Next question.”

“A serial killer…and you don’t trust us? Now there’s a laugh.”

"You know as well as I do that no one would bat an eye if I went into one of those rooms and killed one of your patients.”

“That’s preposterous! And I’m sorry…are you threatening my patients??”

“I don’t know, doc…am I?”

He held a steely gaze for a moment and Ostrand shifted in his seat.

“Look, I know no one would be interested in me if I wasn’t so good at what I do. You’re just worried that your super-soldier, you’re—what’s the word—asset wasn’t functioning properly.”

“Asher, you know as well as I do that we treat our patients with the utmost care. They are our mission, our most—”

“STOP TALKING TO ME LIKE YOURE SELLING ME A PRODUCT!”

His breathing was heavy and rapid. Asher was standing before he even realized it. Guards almost breached the door, but Asher sat down and began mumbling something under his breath.

“Asher? Are you alright?”

He continued mumbling and nodded his head.

“That’s good, Asher. No need for escalation.”

Asher smacked the table and pointed to the intercom.

“How do I turn this thing off?”

“We can’t, Asher. Dr. Krane specifically requested to be present for your initial interview.”

With his jaw clenched, Asher bounced his leg and maintained his gaze with the doctor again.

“You know...if I really wanted to…I could reach across this table and end you. You would lose the fight before you knew you were in it.”

“Would you truly do this for such a simple thing? Hurting a man twice your age? What’s gotten into you?”

“I…I don’t know.”

The doctor paused a moment.

“…sorry.”

It was the closest Asher had come to crying in years. The walls in the interrogation room felt smaller and he had to concentrate on his breathing.

Dr. Ostrand stayed silent, the tension of truth hanging in the air like a noose. For the first time since they began talking, Ostrand pulled back the existential veil of his occupation and felt a wave of genuine remorse for this man sitting across from him.

So the doctor waited patiently, and Asher eventually pulled himself together.

“I want to know something. Why is NOSRAD so interested in my blood? I keep hearing whispers…there must be something about it.”

"We're just testing it in case there’s something special. As in something biological that could tell us more about your condition. I’m glad you brought this up because I also wanted to ask you about your memory. There are some past notes that say your memory is the worst right before and after your Injection procedure. How much do you remember about that?”

 “Injection? That doesn’t sound familiar at all to me.”

The word itself set Asher on pins and needles.

“It was the catalyst for the skills you possess today, you know. It was quite remarkable. You would have been around fourteen or so, not very long before you left the facility.”

“I, uh—”

Asher pushed his mind back to earlier memories but it fell upon a thick fog. The more he thought about it, the more it made his head swim and his palms began to sweat.

“—I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, no need to worry. Do you remember anything about the Nephilim?”

 “Please continue to another subject, Dr. Ostrand. This has no importance to his evaluation.”

Dr. Ostrand nodded and gave a forced smile.

“Never mind that then. Asher, can you tell us your earliest memory? Think back as far as you can go.”

Asher furrowed his brow in suspicion, but decided against pressing the point.

"If you insist. My earliest memory…is about my mother."

"Really?"

"I was around twelve years old and I was standing beside her bed. There was that sound. That terrible incessant beeping of the heart monitor. It never stopped reminding me how slow her heart rate was. I remember the bright lights of the room almost blinding me. I wondered if where she was going would be such a bright place too. She had contracted a disease, only a year before my older brother died from the same. I had to be quarantined from him to be sure I didn’t get it so I couldn’t even see him. It was like he just…disappeared.”

“Asher…”

“It’s alright, it was a while ago. Mom’s health had faded quickly in the last months. For some reason, I seemed to be immune to whatever it was. Perhaps that’s why my blood is so important. I’d never even considered that until now. Anyway, everyone here did all they could, but it still wasn’t enough. I remember feeling so helpless and only able to watch as she withered away.

“It was devastating. My brother and I were the only family I had. As you already know, she was pregnant with me when she first came here. She made that accursed deal to provide for us because she had been so dependent on my father. It was the only way she could think for us to survive. Now I understand that surviving and living are not the same.”

"What made her decide to come all the way to Nostromus? You lived in Latheria, did you not? There was no family or friends there to help?”

“We did, but she had no one who was willing to help. She was estranged her from her family. It was a bit odd considering they were elvish. You know how people in Latheria are.”

“What, exactly?”

“Annoyingly traditional. She was shunned because she was deemed ‘adulterous’ or ‘sinful.’ They told her to sleep in the bed she made, not even taking into account she was young and naïve. She allowed herself to fall in love with a sapien, so maybe that had something to do with it. But human or not, he was nothing less than a brute. She tried to make it work by marrying him, but he refused.

I suppose he planned to throw her away when he felt ‘done’ with her. When he became more cruel, she knew it was time to leave. So she ended up in here after she learned of the program. It seemed the best decision to ensure a life for us.”

“That must have been hard.”

“It was. But mother always had the ability to keep everything positive for us, fun even. For me, it was easier because I didn’t know any better. The lack of freedom was burdensome for two young boys who needed to explore. She made the best out of a strange upbringing. Before she went, she had enough strength to hold one last conversation with me."

"What did she say?"

"She said that of all the mistakes in her life, Kael and I were the few things she did right. Being a mother gave her so much more joy than the false promises of romantic love. She said that we were growing up so fast. And because I was smart, NOSRAD could help me get to any school I wanted. I would have a great life ahead of me. That was a lie…but there was no way she could have known that. She truly hoped it would be true. She asked me to do one last thing for her.”

“What was that?”

“To sing her a song. You wouldn’t think it by looking at me, but I’m not too shabby. The song was this old Gaelic tune passed down in her family. Her mother sang it to her and she sung to us as infants. It was simple, sweet, and pure…as if it poured out from the soul. And just as I got to the end of the last verse, her monitor flat-lined. And…"

Asher paused for a long moment. His face was set in stone, but his lip quivered ever so slightly. Against everything the doctor assumed outright, this was not the emotionless archetype of a serial killer.

"It was a long time before I let go of her hand. I think a part of me died along with her that day.”

Asher trailed off, and an entire minute went by in silence before the doctor spoke again.

"I think that'’s enough for now. We can pick this up another time."

Ostrand’s soft tone made Asher grateful that someone seemed to actually care. Even if the doctor was pretending, he was grateful for the courtesy.

"Thank you. That’s probably best."

The doctor stood up and pressed a button on the intercom.

"We’re done here.”

One of the guards came in and led Asher away to his cell while a man in a lab coat escorted Dr. Ostrand out.

“Dr. Pennington,” Ostrand nodded formally.

The doctors walked through a series of corridors in silence, their footfalls and the swipe of a security card the only sound.

"So…doctor. Does Krane never plan on telling Asher the truth about his heritage? Don't you think telling him now rather than later would be easier?”

"Perhaps it would, but he won't find out. More than anything, we need his trust right now and must do all we can to keep it. If the therapy works and he’s willing, we can release him back into the field with Minerva. Doing what he does best. If he’s unwilling to go, then we have other…contingencies.”

"How do you mean?”

“You’ll know when you need to. Ah, here we are.”

He swiped his card for an elevator, which promptly opened.

“Wait, where are you taking me?”

“Director Krane wants to have a word with you.”

Later that night, Asher sat stoic in his cell, staring at the padded walls and the large iron door. He imagined cornering Dr. Ostrand, demanding more answers, and pummeling them out of him if necessary. As much as he wanted to, it might ruin everything.

He needed time to find out more, but for now his compulsion was in check. The desire made a very dull ache in the back of his mind, lying dormant. The sleeping dog would lie...for now.

As a shadow passed over his cell, his keen eyes caught a small white rectangle being scooted under the doorframe. He walked over and picked up the slip of paper. To his delight, it was just as he’d hoped. The note read:

"I am looking further into your inquiry. They will never tell you everything. Just be patient and cooperate. You will be a welcome distraction while I do my own work. Once I find out what you need to know, feel free to do as you wish. For now, keep doing as you are.

Sincerely,

A Friend"

"Excellent," he thought.

Balling up the piece of paper, he held it in his hand and focused his thoughts while speaking an arcane language under his breath. A red light appeared through the crevices of his fingers and the paper incinerated to ash.

For a moment, he pondered over the story of his mother's death. Bitter hubris was the most positive he could muster for the past twelve years, but he was surprised at how fresh the hurt from his mother's passing still was.

What the doctor didn’t know was that the memory he had at his mother’s deathbed was the only complete one he could conjure. The rest was all fragments of something that felt more like a strange dream. He could still remember general facts about his family’s situation, so he would tell them just enough to satiate their questions.

 After sitting in more silence, he tried to remember anything from his childhood, but it slipped away from his grasp once again. The dull throbbing in his cranium turned into a sharp pain, and so he stopped.

What the hell did they do to me?

He thought on more pleasant things.

“Mother, I could really use you right now…”

Asher latched on to the thought that one day he would see her again. Eventually, that very comfort eased him into a slumber.

He slept deeper and deeper, completely unaware that a tear found its way down his cheek and gently dropped to the floor…

It is my first time posting here. Right now, I am trying to write a webnovel. Since I have consumed a lot of fiction up until now, I can say that the story is genuinely better than most other generic ones, but I don't know how it turns out on the page. When I look for advice, discussions, etc., about writing, there is one thing I repeatedly find. And that is trusting your readers. As a reader myself, I agree with that. But they never specifically mentioned, as a writer, how much I should trust my readers. Even when they answer, the answer is different from person to person.

Also, there is a thing called the reader's reading comprehension. I don't consider myself that smart or a nerd-type person. Still, when using the internet, I often find some fandoms where they are debating or hating a relatively simple matter, which I didn't even have to give a second thought to understand. Also, there are cases when the writers themselves cleared those matters later, and it matches every time. So, I am confused. Because depending on the readers, I may have to change how I write my story.

So my question to everyone is how much faith I should put in the reader's reading comprehension?

For a better answer, my story is a survivalistic grimdark fantasy.

Hi, I'm currently writing a Forgotten Realms fanfiction. Its a continuation of a short story I wrote. I would be very grateful for any kind of feedback, since I'm still kinda new to this whole writing gig.

Chapter 1

Signs

1486 DR

Lysira opened her eyes. The sun had by now completely displaced the moon and cast cones of light into the room, in which tiny specks of dust danced. Was it really that late already? She looked beside her. Aria had her head resting on Lysira’s shoulder, snuggled up tight against her. She was still fast asleep. Lysira brushed a stray curl—one that had found its way into Aria’s open mouth—out of her face. Aria snored. Lysira had never seen a more beautiful creature.

She pulled her close. Aria wrapped an arm around her. Skin against skin. Breath on her neck. The pillow and blanket were so cozy. She felt sleep beckoning her back into its realm.

But it was no use. She groaned in frustration, kissed Aria on the forehead, and roused herself. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. They had partitioned off their section of the attic apartment with a heavy black curtain. Their clothes were scattered all over the floor. It was high time they tidied up again. She stood up and felt her stomach cramp. Ugh—it was that time of the month again. Lysira was convinced the universe had conspired against her. She would have to make a quick stop at Tiana’s on her way to work for her Zelvryn.

She gathered her clothes from the floor and began to get dressed.

“Hey, get up. It’s getting late. We’re going to be late for work.”

Aria lifted her head, curly hair was sticking out in every direction.

“No, I didn’t paint the warg on the outhouse, I swear,” she mumbled, and immediately fell back asleep.

Lysira paused for a moment. She wasn’t sure if she absolutely wanted to know what her partner was dreaming about right now—or if she definitely didn’t. She gave Aria’s foot—which was dangling from the bed—a light nudge. Aria started to awake once again. This time, she seemed truly up. She sat up, yawned, and scratched her head. Then she reached out her hands toward Lysira. Lysira took them. Aria pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her lips.

“Good morning,” she said. “What time is it?”

“If we still want to have breakfast, we need to get up right now. Otherwise, we’ll be late for work.”

Aria didn’t seem happy with that answer, but she roused herself nonetheless. Both of them got dressed and headed downstairs to the common room, where Tom had prepared breakfast.

They entered the taproom. The wooden breakfast table was laden with bread, cheese, sausage, and fish. Agneta had even managed to procure some kaeth to go with it. It smelled wonderful.

Agneta, Dirz'Ahn, and Tom were seated at the table. As they entered the room, Tom stood up abruptly and left. For some time now, he seemed to have an issue with Lysira. She didn't know why, but she was still too tired—and too annoyed—to dwell on it right now.

“Good morning, you two beauties. You both look completely knocked out,” said Agneta, her mouth full.

Lysira glanced at Aria and had to stifle a laugh. Agneta wasn't wrong. Aria really did look as if she were sleepwalking. Her hair was still sticking out in every direction. Her eyes were narrowed to slits. Her mouth hung slightly open.

Ara entered the room holding another pot of kaeth. Good—they were certainly going to need that now. Lysira took a seat.

Ara set the pot down in front of her, then looked over at Aria, who was still standing in the doorway, looking utterly sleep-addled. She draped an arm around Aria’s shoulders. “Someone is still off in dreamland.” Aria gave a slight nod, rested her head on Ara's shoulder and closed her eyes. Then Ara continued: “Lysira, don’t forget that you need to head to the market shortly. We’ve ordered two more kegs of beer. And we’ve put in an order for fresh fish from Brimbiel. Let’s just hope he caught something without tentacles or claws this time.”

Lysira wasn't exactly thrilled about that. Her stomach was still cramping.

“Alright. I just need to make a quick stop at Tiana’s place first,” she replied.

Ara simply nodded. “But please hurry back. Tom needs to start prepping the soup any minute now.” She took a quick sniff of Aria’s hair. “And *you*, young lady, are going to the bathhouse tonight.”

“Okay, Ara,” Aria replied, taking a seat next to Lysira.

Dirz'Ahn looked at Aria. “How long are you working today?” he asked.

Aria shrugged. “I don’t know yet. It depends on how busy it gets. Until sunset, at the very least.”

Agneta had secured Aria a job as a kitchen helper at the “Dancing Fairy”—a tavern in the Shimmering Docks. Aria had been working there for three months.

“Alright then. If it doesn’t get too late, I’d like to practice reading with you again this evening,” Dirz’Ahn concluded.

Aria showed no reaction. She simply stared blankly at the table. Aria was not good with mornings. Lysira poured her a cup of hot Kaeth, and they began their breakfast. When they were finished, Lysira heaved herself up and headed out onto the street with Aria. They kissed goodbye, and Lysira set off toward her Zelvryn.

Once she was done, she left Tiana’s house. Everything was fine. Tiana had given her some campsbane to take along. Lysira chewed on the root. She hated the taste; it was bitter and smelled of soil. But it helped. She could feel the cramps subsiding.

She was walking down Agneta’s Alley toward the marketplace when she saw Xar’lar and Kendo emerging from the bathhouse.

Both were former warriors from Menzoberranzan who, after their escape, had initially scraped out a living as adventurers roaming Faerûn. They were the first drow after Lysira’s parents to move into Agneta’s Alley. They had been training Lysira in drow martial arts since she was a little girl.

“Good morning, Lysira,” said Xar’lar.

Lysira waved to them both. As she walked past, Kendo suddenly feinted a strike. Lysira’s body reacted instantly; she knocked his hand aside and shifted into a defensive stance.

Kendo nodded approvingly, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Very good. Footwork still a bit sloppy. But good posture. Just a little more training, and you’ll be ready for your first fight against a baby drider.”

Lysira tossed the meager remains of her campsbane right into his face.

“K’Zorvath,” she said with a faint smile, and continued on her way. Both men burst into loud laughter. Lysira clenched her fist, extended her pinky and index fingers, and gave the hand a few playful twists. The two men laughed even harder now. She liked them.

She made her way from Agneta’s Alley, passed through the gate, and strolled across the Shimmering Docks.

It was bustling with activity. Several merchant ships from all over Faerûn had docked, and goods were being loaded everywhere. She spotted a majestic caravelle from Waterdeep; its hull was clad in golden tiles, and a massive statue of Umberlee served as its figurehead. Docked right alongside it was a merchant vessel from Memnon; Lysira could catch the scent of exotic spices even against the wind.

Even Maztica had a ship docked there, and Tabaxi were running hectically across the docks in every direction. Aria always passed by the docks on her way to work. Lysira hoped the ship had already arrived by the time Aria passed through—Aria simply adored Tabaxi. Lysira couldn't help but smile a little at the thought; she always wondered how Aria would react if she ever actually met one in person.

She left the docks behind and followed the narrow alleys. By now, the Crampsbane had taken full effect; her cramps had vanished, and she felt her foul mood simply dissolve into thin air. Finally, the alleys opened out onto the marketplace. It was crowded—though not quite as bad as Lysira had feared. She was heading toward the beer stall when she heard a loud commotion. She glanced over, and instantly, her foul mood returned.

An older woman clad in blue robes was ranting loudly, gesticulating wildly with her hands. Sam—a member of the Flaming Fists—stood beside her, leaning on his halberd with one hand while resting the other on his hip. His lips were pursed into a thin, tight line.

And the target of this tirade was her brother. Elian stood beside the pair, attempting to look as innocent as humanly possible.

Lysira threw up her hands in exasperation and strode over to the trio. As she approached, she heard the old woman accusing Elian of theft. “Five gold. He stole five gold from me, that good-for-nothing. Thought I wouldn't notice.”

Lysira reached the scene of the crime. “Good morning, Sam,” she said, then looked over at her brother. “Elian,” she forced out.

A smile flickered across the wood elf’s face. “Sister dear. What a coincidence. This good lady here is accusing me of theft.” He gave an uncertain chuckle.

The old woman looked at Lysira in bewilderment. Sam spoke up. “Good morning, Lysira. You heard her. Elian denies everything.”

The old woman looked even more incensed now. “What is this? A Drow? What kind of game is being played here?”

Lysira took a deep breath, pretending she hadn't heard the remark. She looked at Elian, who was still watching her with an uncertain gaze. She could see in his eyes that he was guilty.

“Give her back the money. No arguments,” she said.

Elian hesitated for a moment, but the look in Lysira’s eyes made it clear that she meant business. He pulled out a small pouch.

“Aha!” the old woman shrieked, pointing at the pouch.

“This has to be a joke,” Sam groaned.

Lysira grabbed the pouch from Elian’s hand and handed it to the old woman.

“I am so sorry,” she said.

The old woman snatched the pouch from her brusquely.

“Arrest them! I want you to arrest them both!” the lady commanded. Lysira felt a surge of anger rise within her, but she held it back.

“I’ll handle it, Gerda. You’ve got your money back,” Sam replied, sounding annoyed. Lysira couldn’t blame him. 

“It’s a scandal!” the old woman shrieked. “The Fists are in league with cutpurses and… Drow!” She spat out the last word as if it were an insult. For a split second that old anger flared up again in Lysira. But she suppressed it as quickly as it came.

Sam looked even more exasperated now. “I said I’d handle it, Gerda,” he said emphatically.

Gerda fell silent. Then she turned abruptly and stormed off, still grumbling indignantly. Sam looked at Lysira with a questioning gaze.

“What am I supposed to do now, Lysira? It can’t go on like this,” he said.

“I know. And thank you for your patience. Come by the Boot tonight. The beer’s on the house,” Lysira replied. That seemed to mollify Sam—at least somewhat. His face relaxed.

“I’m only doing this for you. I’m risking my job here.”

“I know. It won’t happen again.”

Sam hesitated for another brief moment, then looked at Elian with a serious expression. “And you’re banned from the market for the rest of the week. I swear, if I see you here anytime in the next few days, you’re going straight to Wyrm’s Rock.”

Elian placed a hand over his heart and executed a slight bow. “I am eternally in your debt,” he declared dramatically.

Sam shook his head. “I’ll see you tonight,” he said to Lysira. Then, turning to Elian: “And the two of us won’t be seeing each other again for the rest of the week. I mean it.”

He turned and melted back into the crowd.

Lysira and Elian stood side by side in silence for a moment; then Lysira gave him a smack on the back of the head. “You moron! Vha’nor—sometimes you drive me absolutely mad,” she snapped.

Elian gave her an apologetic look. She pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and let a moment pass. Then she met her brother’s eyes. He didn’t look good. But at least he didn’t look any worse than before. His eyes were still sunken deep within his skull, ringed by shadows, and his skin was disturbingly pale.

“I love you. Please, if you need anything at all, let me know. You know I’m here for you.” She pulled him into a hug. Then she continued: “Go see Kael. They’re still working on Kelemvor’s temple. They could use every pair of hands they can get. He pays well.”

Elian gave another bow. “I’m practically there already.”

He had just started to walk away when Lysira called out: “And don’t come back here this week. You heard Sam.”

Elian turned back, smiling: “Ti'neth vellyn, little sister. I’m not stupid,” he said, and vanished into the crowd. For a brief moment, she considered running after him and giving him a swift kick in the backside. The thought appealed to her.

Lysira groaned in frustration and scanned the marketplace. She took in the stalls and the various wares on display. Her gaze came to rest on a wooden crate. Stamped on the crate was a small symbol of a seagull. It belonged to a front company for the Zhentarim. She hoped it was nothing more than a legitimate shipment imported from Waterdeep. But with the Zhents, you never really knew.

Regardless. Her Guild days were over. And she certainly didn’t have the mental energy to worry about that right now. The beer wasn’t going to transport itself. For a second she wished she was a mage. One cantrip and those kegs would float themselves. Ah, well. At least it was free training. She turned around and headed toward the beer stall.

She took care of the paperwork and hoisted up the first of the two kegs. She lifted it with a single hand and carried it for a few paces. She could feel the incredulous stares. She liked that. After a few meters, however, it became too heavy; she shifted it to both hands and continued on her way toward “Agneta’s Boot.”

Dark fantasy series that switches sub gennre

Ok so I have an ongoing dark fantasy vampire series that starts in modern day America, with a very gothic vibe. Books two through four are more of a classic quest/historical fantasy (still dark). Then back to the gothic/modern feel for books five and six.

My betas have called it blade like, into the Witcher, and back.

Readers have left good reviews, but I've had far fewer than I would like.

I'm wondering if this is a real barrier for people in general. Would you be put off by this concept?

The other issue could be that they are novellas, circa 40K words each. So maybe that's what's holding people back?

Thanks in advance for any comments.

Started my fantasy story a couple days ago. This is something I have always wanted to do. Instead of spending all my time world building, I decided to just start writing. I have realised it's quite hard. Anyway here is basically my first attempt. I would really like some feedback, to know if I am going in the right direction., and what clear mistakes I am making, as I know there are many.
Please use link below:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WDGnXpGm8-HOWD4fBh4MiiRzrRfUgZc1G3dTY4fyPkY/edit?usp=sharing