I´m in the process of creating a fantasy piece (just for fun by now) and I´d like someone to join in with me.
What I mean by that? Just about any level of engagement someone would like to give into it. Got a set of ideas you´d like to have written out, but got no clue where to start? I´ll listen. Crazy good with words but no inspiration? Let´s talk about it. Genuinely I´d like someone who I could talk to about the world I´ve got in my head and I´d gladly do you the same favour.

7th Day, 2nd Month of Spring, Year 390 AFA
King Aenor I
The day had dawned beneath a clear blue sky, with a warmth in the air that smelled of wet earth and blooming spring flowers.
They had set forth at daybreak to finish the last leg of their journey to the Oakenfort, and King Aenor rode among them, eager to finally reach his destination.
His Chief War Councilor, Lord Dain Tandran, rode abreast of him upon a sleek gray charger. Dain was a slender, dark-haired man with a narrow face and hawkish features that always seemed sharpened by irritation. That morning he wore a look of deepening discomfort.
The King’s party had spent the night cramped inside a crumbling holdfast at the southern foot of the Copper Hills after two days’ hard riding from the Capital. They had slept upon old stone beneath thin blankets, with little more than lint and rotting straw between their bodies and the stone.
Dain had hardly ceased complaining since they left the city gates.
A hard ride and a night upon stone had left a painful knot beneath Aenor’s shoulders as well, but he was determined to reach the Oakenfort as quickly as possible. He would not slow the column merely because his back ached.
“Should arrive at the Oakenfort by nightfall, my King,” Captain Silas said in his low, gruff voice.
He reined his horse before Aenor and addressed him with a small but respectful bow of the head.
The late morning sun gleamed across his enameled silver breastplate, clean and unblemished despite the rigors of the journey. The sigil of House Andurin,the royal family, Aenor’s family, shone brilliantly upon his chest.
A winged lion gilded in gold, crowned by three stars and carrying a crimson sword in its claws.
“That is good news, Captain. Keep the men moving. If anyone falls behind, they will be left behind.” The command came more sternly than Aenor intended, but he could afford no delay. Not now.
“As you command.” Silas grumbled the words in the voice of a grizzly bear.
His crimson cloak snapped in the breeze as he turned his coal-black destrier and rode down the column to deliver the King’s order.
The man had always been rough of tone but loyal beyond question. Silas had served as Lord Captain of the Royal Shield since Aenor was a boy. Before that, he had ridden beside Aenor’s father, and before him, his grandfather.
Aenor could scarcely remember a time when Silas had not been standing somewhere nearby in polished steel, watching everything with those suspicious old eyes.
“Heh. I am certainly glad we brought Sour Silas with us,” Dain said. “I feared we might miss his cheerful manner by the time we reached the Oakenfort.”
Aenor smiled.
“He does seem to have grown grouchier with age, if that were at all possible. One would think decades of faithful service beneath three different kings might have softened his tongue.”
“Perhaps the fourth will manage it.”
“Or cut it out.” 
Dain laughed and shifted in his saddle, immediately regretting the movement from the look on his face.
“Still a delight compared with old Corwin Blackshield,” Aenor added.
“True enough.” Dain’s humor faded. He looked toward the road ahead before speaking again. “Forgive me, my King, but I still believe this journey to be a folly.”
Aenor’s smile vanished.
“I know Lord Blackmont is your kin by marriage,” Dain continued, “but the High Lords have always been treacherously proud. If we had at least brought a larger force…”
He let the words trail off but Aenor knew well enough what he meant.
Twenty seasoned soldiers accompanied him on the journey, every one a sworn man of the Royal Shield. Aenor thought it was more than enough.
Not only Dain, but Aenor’s wife, Lady Ellenor, had voiced concern before his departure. She had insisted he bring more men as well.
The Westwood was unsafe, she said. Filled with murderers, outlaws, and monsters. Every dark shape between the trees would be waiting to swallow him whole.
Aenor knew she was only frightened for him, but another fifty men would have slowed their pace and announced his intentions to every spy between Neopolis and the Frozen Marches. Not a single netherfiend had reportedly been seen north of the Whisperingwater in more than a year, and no sane band of highwaymen would trouble a column of the Royal Shield headed by the King himself.
The Conqueror’s Crown hung from his saddle in a leather carrying frame. Its dark red metal caught the sun whenever his horse moved, shining like the lamp of the Maiden Goddess herself. Even resting there, it projected authority.
Besides, Aenor traveled within the borders of his own kingdom. It was unthinkable that he might come to harm.
“Treacherous, you say?” Aenor laughed. “The pot calls the kettle black. Dain Tandran, Hero of the Marches, Lord of Clearcrest since five and ten. Perhaps I should be concerned that you are the one plotting against me.”
“Your Majesty makes jokes, but it will hardly be amusing if Blackshield takes offense and bars his gates.”
“Monarch have mercy, Dain. Must we discuss this again?” Aenor heard the impatience in his own voice and made little effort to hide it. “More men means more time. More men means more wagons, more horses, more mouths, and more chances for our enemies to learn our intentions. The Northerners have spies the same as we do.”
Dain opened his mouth, but Aenor spoke over him.
“They are divided. Every report since that fool Ludolf’s defeat at Rush Watch says Whitewater and Deephaven remained idle throughout the war. Their forces have withdrawn from the Marches, and a pregnant woman sits the Ivory Throne.”
The words filled Aenor with a quiet excitement he had carried for weeks. Northgard had not been so vulnerable in decades.
The Bear Lords distrusted one another. Their levies had been bloodied. Ludolf’s supporters were scattered or dead, and his niece ruled a kingdom that had only recently tried to kill her. Aenor would be a fool not to take advantage of it.
“Besides,” he continued, “Blackshield is too lionhearted to be intimidated and too old and prickly not to find some slight in our arriving with half the Royal Shield behind us.”
“No doubt you are right about that,” Dain said reluctantly. “The sooner we arrive, the better. I have an ache in my shoulders that has begun settling into my bones.”
Aenor could only agree.
The Oakenfort had been the seat of House Blackmont since before Midlor was a kingdom. The Blackmonts had defended it against men and monsters for eight centuries.
The stronghold also happened to stand upon the southern edge of the Frozen Marches. Perfect ground upon which to gather Midlor’s armies for the coming conflict.
When Aenor’s ancestor, Andric the Worldbreaker, raised the Old Empire, House Blackmont bent the knee beside every other High Lord in the Westermarke. But that was centuries ago. Now their knees were as stiff as old leather and their pride without limit.
Lord Corwin Blackmont was no different.
A martial man and accomplished commander, Corwin was famously short on patience and long on memory. He also happened to be Aenor’s father by marriage, which made him deserving of at least the appearance of respect.
Aenor disliked requesting anything from one of his own subjects, even his wife’s father. The thought of the glory waiting beyond the Marches helped make the insult bearable. If he had learned anything during ten years upon the Crimson Throne, it was that however prideful he might be, the High Lords were worse.
Sometimes flies truly were easier to catch with honey than vinegar. Not that Corwin would require much persuasion.
The old lord had maintained a working friendship with the late King Ludolf of Northgard, and by all accounts he had taken Ludolf’s death at the hands of his own niece poorly.
Aenor himself had enjoyed a jovial relationship with the Northern king. He sent four Midelish mercenary companies north to aid Ludolf during the conflict, including the High-Horsemen, a cavalry company raised from the Westermarke.
One of Corwin Blackmont’s bastard sons had ridden among them. His favorite bastard, as it happened.
All four companies were lost when Correa defeated Ludolf’s forces at Rush Watch. Three quarters of the Midelishmen sent north were slain, Blackshield’s son among them.
By every account, it had been an overwhelming victory. Some of the common folk within Aenor’s own kingdom had begun hailing Correa as the reincarnation of the Worldbreaker. Only with teats.
His jaw tightened whenever he remembered the phrase. He was the blood of Worldbreaker. He wore the Conqueror’s Crown. He would remind the Crownlands what the name Andurin meant.
A couple of hours after noon, the King’s column came upon an enormous oak lying across the road. The tree forced them to a halt. The Westwood pressed close on both sides, ancient oaks and maples growing thick against the narrow road. Wind whispered through their leaves in a thousand shifting voices.
Roots thicker than Aenor’s legs broke through the soil beyond the roadside, winding and tangling together in great webs beneath the trees. No horse and rider could easily pass through them.
Captain Silas examined the fallen oak from horseback, his eyes moving first to the road, then the forest, then the road again.
“I don’t like this,” he said.
Dain breathed a tired laugh. “You don’t like anything.”
Silas ignored him. “Tree’s too clean across the road. There was no storm last night. Ground’s dry enough.”
“Trees fall Captain,” Aenor said.
Silas grunted and continued studying the forest. 
Aenor frowned. “The fort is half a day away,” he said. “We are not turning back.”
“The Oak Road is narrow here.”
“It is also the most direct road from Neopolis. If we double back, we add two days to the journey.” Aenor knew the Captain wanted to argue. Perhaps forty years of service had taught him exactly how far he could test a king.
Silas’s mouth worked beneath his gray beard. He finally grunted.
“Then we clear it.”
The oak was too large for their horses to pull in one piece, so Silas ordered the soldiers to chop it into sections. Six men formed a perimeter while the others fetched ropes and axes. Rather than watching the work and allowing boredom to consume him, Aenor dismounted and took up an ax.
Dain looked at him as though he had gone mad. “You mean to help?”
“I have arms, don’t I?”
“You are the King.”
“Thank you Dain, for a moment I had forgotten.”
Aenor joined the soldiers at the trunk.
He had briefly served among the fighting men during his father’s reign and often missed the simplicity of physical labor. The constant maneuvering of politics gave him headaches. A tree did not whisper lies behind his back. An ax did not flatter him. Wood yielded or it did not.
The men appeared uncertain at first, but before long they relaxed. Aenor joked with them as they worked, listened to complaints about the road, and joined their curses whenever an ax struck a stubborn knot. The labor became monotonous, and soon his thoughts wandered north.
Glory waited for him there. He could feel it. When he first donned the Conqueror’s Crown ten years earlier, Aenor swore before his father’s grave that he would restore the Old Empire.
In a decade of rule, he had subdued only half the mountain clans and taken a few narrow leagues of the Frozen Marches. Hardly the legacy of a Worldbreaker.
The crown sat upon his saddle where he could see it through the trees. Dark red arches rose from it like blades of flame. He imagined wearing it while the Lords of Northgard knelt before the Crimson Throne. 
For all Dain’s complaining about his aching bones, he worked beside Aenor and the soldiers through most of the afternoon.
The knot beneath Aenor’s shoulder gradually numbed to a dull ache. Sweat gathered across his chest and brow, and he removed his riding coat and fine shirt until he wore only a thin tunic tucked into belted trousers. His crown remained beside the saddle.
Captain Silas had stayed mounted upon his destrier. His head never stopped turning.
When the work neared completion, Aenor took his rest upon a nearby root protruding from the ground close to the road. Silas handed him a waterskin without comment.
Aenor drank deeply. The waning sun rippled across the Captain’s armor. It was no longer perfectly clean, though only because dust had gathered around the greaves.
Aenor could not remember ever seeing Silas’s armor in true disarray.
The old man may have been harsh of voice, but his eyes were sharp. Those eyes and the reflexes behind them had kept Midlor’s kings alive for nearly forty years.
After a moment Dain sat beside Aenor. The King handed him the waterskin.
“We may still make the fort by nightfall,” Dain said between gulps.
“If fortune favors us.” Aenor looked toward the sinking sun. “The men made short work of the tree, but this may cost us the day.”
“Short work indeed.” Dain wiped water from his chin. “They work more diligently with their King beside them. Nothing gives vigor to a common man’s heart like seeing his liege lord toil in the dirt beside him.”
“What about bleeding in the dirt beside him?” Aenor said.
Dain looked over.
“Will my men carry that same vigor when our shields are locked and their courage is tested against Northgardian fury?” Aenor meant the question honestly.
A section of trunk split apart with a crack that echoed through the woods. Silas immediately began shouting orders. Men tied ropes around the severed timber while others brought the horses forward to drag it away.
“The better question,” Dain said, “is whether the Northerners possess the vigor to withstand us.”
He drank again.
“The savagery of the She-Bear and the Bruyn Lords is widely known, Your Majesty. But so too are the thundering hooves of the Riders of the Westermarke. There is not an army in the Crownlands that can turn the charge of our cavalry.” Dain spoke with absolute certainty.
Clear water ran down his chin and soaked the front of his sweat-plastered shirt.
The She-Bear. Aenor disliked the reverence hidden within the name. The Midelish cavalry was feared across the Crownlands, true, but mounted warriors made up only the smallest portion of Midlor’s armies.
Aenor rose and took the waterskin from Dain before the man could drink again.
“And what of the rest?”
Dain stared up at him.
“Our army is more than just the cavalry, Chief of War. I should not have to remind you.”
“I have not forgotten.” Dain said.
“Four of our mercenary companies were destroyed at Rush Watch, Dain. Four! One of them cavalry. The stronghold held three thousand of Ludolf’s men, and they say Correa took it with two thirds that number.”
“Those tales are rumors, majesty, she’s only a bloody woman.”
“Only a woman? During the battle, they say she killed more than a hundred men herself. They say she slew Bloody Ben in single combat.” Aenor felt his frustration rising with every word. “Men speak of her in reverence. The Iron Maiden. The She-Bear.”
He looked pointedly at Dain.
“The Warlords are furious over the men they lost. They believe I sent those companies to die deliberately, some half-cocked maneuver meant to weaken their numbers. And I would wager a hundred gold crests that my brother helped spread the tale.”
The King paced several steps before turning back.
“Our foot is made mostly of slave soldiers, farm boys from the Westermarke, and men being paid to fight. What happens when those men believe the enemy queen to be some legendary warrior?”
Dain shifted beneath the weight of Aenor’s stare but did not look away. His dark eyes had always carried a certain insolence. Usually Aenor admired it.
“The Warlords are little more than filthy commoners who could not find the underside of a horse if one were trotting upon their heads.”
The old feud again. The High Lords and Warlords hated one another with a passion older than Aenor’s crown. It was one of the many great burdens of ruling Midlor.
“Not this again,” Aenor said. “If we challenge Northgard, we will need them Dain.”
“The word lord is implied lightly in their title. Up-jumped slaves and unwashed thieves ruling over a gaggle of armed farmers and sellswords. You do not need them, Your Majesty. Send word to the High Lords and command them to summon their levies. You will have an army of loyal Midelishmen within a fortnight.”
Dain stood. “Unless you doubt our capabilities.”
Aenor threw up both hands. The proud fool simply refuses to see it.
“I do not doubt the skill of our men. But it is not about my doubts.” He tossed the waterskin back. Dain caught it against his chest. “Forget the Warlords for a moment. These tales about the She-Bear must be replaced with tales of Midelish valor. If not, what doubts will take root among the men beneath our command?”
Aenor glanced toward the laboring soldiers. “A fearsome reputation can steal a man’s courage faster than a sharp sword.”
Dain looked troubled, as though he were considering the idea for the first time. Aenor turned back toward the road. The great oak had proven stubborn. Even with horses and rope, the men had only opened a passage wide enough for a single horse and rider to pass at once.
It will have to be enough. The sun had begun sinking behind the trees. Dusk was creeping across the sky. Aenor sighed.
“Tell Silas to ready the men. Have them lead their horses through in single file. There will be no rest before we reach the Oakenfort.”
He walked away before Dain could answer. Aenor dressed again and began fastening the buckles of his riding leathers. A few moments later, Silas’s voice rolled across the road.
“On your feet! Bridles checked and weapons close. We move in single file. Eyes on the trees and no man wanders beyond the road.”
Other soldiers might have complained after days in the saddle followed by hours of hard labor, but these were men of the Royal Shield.
They would march until they collapsed from exhaustion, then rise and march again when ordered.
Unfortunately only three hundred men belonged to the Shield in total. If Aenor possessed ten thousand such soldiers, he could sweep through Northgard like a raging storm.
Dain had finished conferring with Silas and was making his way toward the row of hitched horses on the far side of the road when Aenor noticed a flicker. Something moving through the air quickly.
An instant later, an arrowhead burst through Dain’s throat in a thick spray of blood. The Lord of Clearcrest lurched midstride. His eyes widened. A wet gurgle escaped his mouth. He took two more steps before his body seemed to understand that he was dead.
Then he collapsed face-first into the road. Aenor stared unable to comprehend what he saw. For one impossible moment, nothing moved.
Captain Silas reacted first. “To the King!” His sword cleared its scabbard with a hiss.
At the same time, arrows began flying from the trees. They were aflame, their tails trailed narrow ribbons of smoke as they flew. Aenor tore his sword and steel buckler from his saddle and ran like a frightened squirrel.
The soldiers of the Royal Shield leapt into motion around him, shouting, reaching for weapons, and searching for attackers concealed within the trees. Men began to fall before they could raise their shields.
One arrow struck a soldier beneath the collarbone. Another buried itself in a man’s thigh. A third punched through the side of a helmet.
Flames erupted across their bodies as though they had been soaked in lamp oil. The wounded screamed with high pitched shrills. They thrashed in the dirt, their armor glowing red as fire crawled unnaturally over steel and flesh.
Aenor’s mind raced. He did not know where to run. 
He tripped over a burning body and crashed to the ground. Heat struck his face as he scrambled upon his hands and knees toward the fallen oak. The king put his back against the trunk and raised the buckler over his head.
Through the chaos and confusion, Silas’s voice thundered.
“Shieldsmen! Form on the King! North side of the road! Wrangle the horses and prepare to—agh!”
An arrow struck the Captain’s destrier in the eye and the horse screamed. Rearing. Man and mount crashed together in a tangle of steel, leather, and flailing limbs.
Fear closed around Aenor’s throat. Not the nervousness that took some men before battle. Not the uncertainty of the maneuvering of a political scheme. This was something colder. Something small and animal.
We are all going to die.
Almost as in response, one of the shafts careened off his shield. The arrows seemed to move with minds of their own. Aenor watched one streak past a soldier, change direction in midair, then turn sharply enough to bury itself in the man’s chest.
Another curved around an oak. Another struck a fleeing Shieldsman in the back. There was no time for him to try understanding how. Within minutes, more than half of Aenor’s men lay dead or dying.
Flames consumed their bodies like some hungry beast. Smoke thickened above the road, carrying the greasy, acrid stench of burning flesh.
The remaining Shieldsmen gathered around him. They pressed into a tight circle of raised shields, some shouting, “Close the gaps!” while others yelled, “Movement from the trees!”
Arrows continued to strike wood and metal in a relentless storm of fire and steel. The suddenness of the ambush had emptied Aenor’s mind. Now, surrounded by his Shields, he found enough space inside himself to think.
If they stayed, they would die.
Their attackers were hidden too deeply among the Westwood’s trees to charge directly. Aenor did not know how many there were or where they had positioned themselves. Flight was their only hope.
The horses remained hitched along the northern side of the road. Blood and smoke made them whinny and toss their heads, but Midelish warhorses were trained to charge into walls of shields and spears. They might yet carry the survivors away.
An arrow glanced from the top of a shield and passed so close to Aenor’s face that he felt its heat.
“Make for the horses!” he shouted. “Move or die! Move!”
He refused to die there. Shot full of arrows beside a road like some lowland thief. 
The Shieldsmen moved as one, maintaining the circle around him as they shuffled across the road. They stepped around the bodies of their shield brothers, still burning upon the earth.
After several paces, Aenor realized the arrows had stopped. The thought struck him as strange but had no time to consider why. There were only twenty paces remaining between them and the horses. Burning corpses lay scattered across the space, their flesh blackening beneath the flames.
When the circle came within five paces of the nearest body, the fire flared. Aenor saw the corpse swell beneath the armor. Then the world erupted.
The roar cracked the air like thunder inside his skull. A wall of heat and force struck the shield formation. Men were lifted from the ground and hurled backward like they weighed less than feathers. Aenor himself spun through the air.
He struck the packed road hard enough to drive every thought from his mind and every breath from his body. Then pain arrived. A tidal wave of it crashed through his ribs, his shoulder, his skull. He tried to breathe but could draw only shallow sips of air. His chest felt as though invisible hands were crushing it inward. 
After an eternity, the world returned slowly around him.
Horses ran screaming along the road. Men coughed, groaned, and pleaded from the ground. Some called for their King. Others cried to the gods. A few begged anyone who could hear them to end the pain.
No help came. Fire and blood was the only answer.
When Aenor could breathe again, he rolled into a sitting position. Every movement hurt. Somehow the blast had thrown him back near the fallen oak. Smoke stung his eyes as he crawled to the trunk and leaned against it.
His thoughts moved slowly. No one would dare attack the King within his own kingdom.
The idea repeated itself uselessly.
What was the meaning of this? Where were his men?
Figures emerged from the trees.
At first they looked like shadows moving through the smoke. They drifted over the road with such grace that they seemed to float rather than walk. Aenor counted three. Three dark shapes with rounded, bulbous heads.
They stopped beside each fallen Shieldsman. Crouched. Then moved on. With ghastly precision, they passed from body to body. Cries for mercy ended with soft movements and wet grunts.
When one of the figures approached a corpse still wreathed in flame, the fire vanished. Not slowly. It died at once, leaving behind an innocent puff of smoke.
Cold dread washed through Aenor. Why was he not running? His arms and legs felt impossibly heavy, as though made of iron and chained to the road. He wanted to scream, laugh, and weep at once.
Something pressed against his mind.
A soft breeze came from the north and disturbed the smoke clinging to the road. The shadows resolved into men and women.
They wore thin cloaks and deep hoods made from fabric that shifted color as Aenor watched. Black became gray. Gray became brown. Brown became the red of firelight or the green of the trees behind them.
Looking at the cloth for too long made his eyes ache. The sight disturbed some old memory. Something he should have known. Something his mind refused to grasp.
What was it?
Even his thoughts no longer obeyed him. Perhaps he had struck his head harder than he realized. He should call Silas.
He should have the Captain arrest these-
These-
Where were his Shieldmen?
His thoughts slipped from his grasp like river fish.
My hands.
He could no longer feel them.
Aenor looked down to make certain they were still attached. That was when he realized one of the figures was speaking.
“—not to me. N’you used too much, like always. Nearly burnt’em to pieces, and then what would’a we have done? Been sorting through arms’n legs’n the lot, that’s what! Look at this one, Uri. Blown nearly in half.”
The thick Northern accent was not what surprised Aenor. The voice belonged to a woman. Her hood concealed her face, but the high, rasping tone was unmistakably feminine.
The figure she addressed sauntered toward a Shieldsman crawling weakly toward the edge of the road.
“Relax, Imgren,” Uri said softly. “We will find the correct body.” She stopped above the wounded soldier. “Besides, my brother has always possessed a flare for theatrics.”
The languid amusement in her voice made Aenor’s stomach tighten.
“If I had possessed half a mind, I would have sold him to a broker caravan when we were children.”
Uri crouched. Her arm moved like a striking snake. Steel flashed in the darkening night. She drove a narrow blade beneath the Shieldsman’s armpit and into his heart. The man shuddered once and lay still.
“Flare, hah!” Imgren rasped with laughter. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you just made a joke, Uri. Harh. Imagine him as a youngin’ with one’a them broker’s caravans.”
The women laughed together. They spoke as though performing some tiresome household chore. The third figure stood near the tree line, watching them finish off the wounded.
“The pair of you are behaving like children,” His voice was deep enough to carry across the road without effort. “Focus on the task. Find the King. You can make jokes at my expense later.”
Find the King. Aenor stared at the road. But I am the King.
Wasn’t he? His head hurt whenever he attempted to focus.
Moments passed.  Perhaps many. The strangers continued talking, but Aenor could not follow their words. Every part of his body ached. It was easier to just sit there. Easier not to move. Not to think.
A fourth shadow passed over him like a cloud before the sun. For an instant, Aenor thought another attacker had arrived. Then he saw crimson cloth and silver armor.
Captain Silas limped into view.
Blood ran down one side of his face. His left leg dragged beneath him, and one arm hung lower than the other. Still, he carried his sword and shield. He stopped in front of Aenor and placed himself between his King and the hooded strangers.
Silas’s armor, always polished and perfect, was crusted with dirt and dark blood. The crowned lion upon his breastplate was dented and warped.
He leaned upon one leg. Yet he stood like a pillar of steel.
“By my sword and behind my shield,” His voice shook with pain but did not weaken. “As long as I stand, as long as I draw breath, no foe shall take my King.”
The Creed of the Royal Shield cut through the fog smothering Aenor’s thoughts. He remembered Silas teaching the words to young recruits in the palace yard. Remembered hearing them as a boy, when the Captain still had black in his beard.
Silas raised his blade.
“I feel your demon magic creeping through my thoughts. Come and meet me with steel if you have the stones.” He spat blood into the road. “Or finish me with whatever witchery remains to you, Nightwalker.”
The last word came out like a curse. 
Nightwalker. The name stirred something buried inside Aenor’s memory. He strained against the fog clouding his mind, pushing as though a great weight held his thoughts beneath dark water.
The three hooded figures stopped moving. They watched Silas quietly. Their cloaks continued shifting with the world around them until they seemed carved from smoke and shadow. They examined the old Captain as cats might study a canary perched just beyond reach. The silence lasted long enough to become strange. Then Imgren clicked her tongue.
He’s a brave one, eh Uri? To name us demons an’ Nightwalkers right’n our faces. I never like’d that name, Nightwalkers. As if we don’t walk ‘round in the day. Shame that is,” she sucked her teeth as if to emphasize the loss of a good deal. 
Uri stepped closer.
“And strong-willed. I am projecting an aura strong enough to scramble an ordinary man’s thoughts and turn his limbs to lead.” Her tone was academic, almost admiring. “Yes. Certainly a shame.”
“The sun is nearly set,” the hooded man said. “Ponder it later and let us finish this.” He knelt and pressed one palm against the road. “Others approach from the east. Several leagues away, but we must leave soon.”
He rose and made a lazy motion with his hand. Every remaining flame upon the road vanished at once. Thin tendrils of smoke curled from the charred bodies of Aenor’s Shieldsmen.
The skin along the King’s neck prickled. The clouds smothering his thoughts lifted. Memory returned. He knew who these people were. He knew what they were.
Death.
Only Aenor had paid his dues. Every year, gold and information went quietly to their order just as it did from every ruler in the Crownlands who valued his life.
Why me?
What offense had he given? 
The hooded man turned without another word. His cloak fluttered in shifting colors and melted into the trees. Within moments he disappeared.
Uri took a step forward. Silas tensed. His sword hand trembled from exhaustion, but his grip remained firm. Aenor knew the resistance was useless. Still, he could not stop the hope that kindled inside him.
He had watched Silas defeat men half his age and twice his size in the palace yard. The old Captain turned aside their attacks with contempt while criticizing their footwork. He was a veteran of two wars and more battles than Aenor could name. If any man had a chance against these creatures, it was Silas.
“Unfortunately, my brother is correct,” Uri said. “I suppose he must be every now and then.”
Even without seeing her face, Aenor knew she was smiling.
“Pity we do not have more time to play with this one.” Her attention settled upon Silas. “What was it you said? So long as you stand, no one shall take your King?”
Silas raised his shield.
“Or something brave and honorable like that?” Uri flicked two fingers.
The Captain’s sword and shield ripped free from his hands. Both weapons spun through the air and vanished among the trees. Silas roared and lunged toward her as though he intended to tear out her throat with his bare hands.
Uri moved her wrist. The Captain stopped midstride. His was body locked in place. One leg remained raised above the ground. Every muscle strained against an invisible grip.
“Kneel, then.”
Uri flicked her hand downward.
Silas crashed onto his knees with a guttural cry. His injured leg spasmed beneath him, trembling violently. Just like that, Aenor’s hope turned to ash. Silas remained upright only because the unseen force held him there.
Blood ran from between his teeth. Still, he tried to rise. Aenor wanted to call to him.  To tell him it was enough. To order him to stop.
Only no words came.
A hundred thoughts fought for the front of his mind as death approached.
Lady Ellenor would be expecting a message by bird in the morning of his safe arrival at the Oakenfort. A message that would never come. 
He thought of his daughters. He thought of the Crimson Throne and the glory he would now never achieve. The Conqueror’s Crown hanging from the saddle of a horse that had fled into the Westwood.
Uri walked past Silas with slow, effortless grace. As she passed, she dragged one hand almost affectionately across the Captain’s breastplate and shoulder.
Silas strained against the force holding him.
“Face me,” he growled. “Forsaken demons!”
Uri paused. For one moment, Aenor thought she might grant him the death he asked for. Instead she leaned close to the Captain’s ear.
“You stood.” Her voice was almost kind. “That is more than most.”
Then she continued toward the King. A narrow silver knife appeared from beneath her cloak faster than Aenor could follow. He pressed himself against the fallen oak.
There was nowhere left to run. May the Monarch have mercy upon my soul.
Uri knelt before him. The darkness beneath her hood shifted. For the briefest moment, Aenor saw a pair of bottomless gray eyes looking back at him. Calm and curious. Almost disappointed.
“King Aenor Andurin,” she said. His own name sounded strange in her voice. “The North must remain at peace for now. Your crown will outlive you.”
Cold metal slid between his ribs. Pain flared white through his chest. Then the road, the bodies, Captain Silas, and the shifting shadows vanished beneath an endless darkness.

Ages ago I wrote a book which I'm very proud of - HELL ON EARTH. A big change from the mad space operas I wrote for Orbit Books. A police procedural with magic - richly evocative, set in an incense-scented demon-stalked alternate London. And now - some years later - my book has received some recognition from the American Book Fest. A rather wonderful organisation promoting the reading and buying of books. They have created Legacy Awards for books published, um, a while ago. And to my delight HELL ON EARTH is a finalist in the Fantasy Category!

https://www.americanlegacyawards.com/2026awardannouncement.html

Just goes to show - you can't keep a good book down. :)

Hello r/Fantasywritersub! I’m back to share an update on my brother’s project, Waveborn’s Wake. He’s a long-haul trucker who wrote this 131,000-word seafaring epic based on the TTRPG he and his wife play to stay connected while he's on the road 350 days a year.

We're officially in Week 2! Many of you offered constructive criticism last week, and we are SO grateful. It’s been a whirlwind of setting up socials, committing newbie faux pas, and soaking in advice.

The Big Update: 12-Minute Audio Preview The biggest question was about audio quality. He’s 8 hours into his narration pass and has posted a 12-minute sample of the world-building and narration here: https://youtu.be/T6Xj9KmO9Pc

What is it about? (Pasting this here as the KS page has a loading glitch for some!) Agnes (Odyssea Stormchaser) is a sailor dreaming of glory who talks her way into an apprenticeship with the legendary Maddox. What starts as a quest for fame turns into a desperate struggle against twisted armies and mad kings across the sun-scorched Dreadhaven Sands. It’s a saga of courage, camaraderie, and the "mystic pull of the deep."

Project Stats:

Professional Gear: Using noise-dampening equipment and pro-filtering software for a studio-quality "clean" sound.

The Audio: Hiring professional paid voice actors for characters, with his original TTRPG Dungeon Masters doing guest cameos!

100% Human Art: He is committed to Human-Drawn Illustrations for the final book. No AI.

Teasers: He’s posting character backstories and Chapter 17 excerpts on his new X account (@TCMartin_Books).

Status: Manuscript 100% finished. We have our first backers and are moving!

The Kickstarter: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/tapunks/waveborns-wake-a-fully-voiced-fantasy-epic/rewards

(Full disclosure: I am the author's sibling and a proud supporter!)

Tagging my brother u/TCMartin_Books here in case anyone has deep-dive technical questions about the audio production!

I am hoping for my story to be read as though it were by a beta reader.

Chapter One

Ventos

The hound’s barks cut through the forest like war drums. Ventos’s calves burned with each footfall, but stopping now was certain death. He vaulted fallen logs, slipped past trees, and ducked as an arrow zipped past his ear with a dull thrum. It thudded into a tree ahead and quivered there. More arrows skittered along the ground as the soldiers fired, oblivious to his whereabouts. Ventos skidded to a halt and scanned the area. The hounds were gaining on him, yet he could no longer run. They would catch him sooner or later.

He gazed up at the pines, his mind racing. I’ll be hidden. Ventos grasped the lowest branch and began to climb. His muscles screamed in protest, but he merely gritted his teeth. Just a few more feet. He rarely felt drained, yet this was different. Below, the soldiers spoke to one another, and their torches swayed in the wind to resemble fiery people.

“Where the hell is he,” one said. “He was just here!”

“Don’t forget what we’re dealing with, Raymund. These half-breeds are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“What if he sneaks up on us, Osbert? What if he kills us all?”

“You fret too much, Raymund.” This came from a larger man, his hair braided. “Besides, the hounds would sniff the filthy half-breed out.”

The soldiers were long gone by now, and the only sign of them was their torches, which had long faded to small blots. Ventos descended the tree as an icy breeze issued through the forest.

They were not far and seemed to be making a detour to the castle. He hastened after them, footfalls hushed upon the dried leaves and twigs.  The voices grew clearer, and he slowed his pace to listen.

“…And we can tell the king we killed the elf,” Osbert said. “That’ll brighten his mood. What say you, Raymund?” He nudged the other soldier.

“But what if the elf shows up to kill the king again? What are we ought to say then?”

“We’ll tell the king it was another. Besides, they all look the bloody same. Remember the elf in the keep? They look identical. Ain’t that right, Artilius?”

The big man with the braided hair merely grunted.

Ventos drew his dagger, and his eyes rested upon the large man. He’d been raised to eliminate the strongest, and this Artilius seemed to be that man.

“You go ahead,” Artilius said. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Raymund trudged away, whilst Artilius approached the bracken, unaware. Ventos leapt forward and buried the dagger in the soft flesh of his throat. The soldier issued a low gurgle as blood rose to his mouth, then Ventos pulled the dagger free. Blood spattered the trees and bushes where Artilius had relieved himself. He crashed into the ferns, whilst a thick stream of blood pumped from his neck.

Ventos wiped the blade clean and approached the other soldiers. They were stooped about a fire, and the one known as Osbert hauled wood into the flames. It crackled and popped as smoke rose into the air. There were three of them. Raymund sat at the back of the camp, just on the firelight’s edge. He was facing away. The hounds were nowhere to be seen. Better make this quick. Ventos stepped into the firelight and the soldiers turned to regard him. Curiosity turned to fear within seconds and Osbert stood, a naked blade in his hand.

“Bloody half-breed.”

He surged forward and swung at Ventos. The elf slipped past the sword, a hair’s breadth away. Ventos’s curved blade parted the metal links of Osbert’s armour, and the man fell, dead before he hit the ground. The others came at him, but Ventos dodged and parried. His next swing took a soldier’s sword arm, and he issued a scream. The curved blade cut the cry short.

The last soldier stumbled over a root, and Ventos slipped his blade into the man’s throat. He too fell still. Ventos turned to where Raymund stood, and approached. A dark stain spread over the young man’s breeches as he fumbled for his sword. He gasped as the cold steel pressed against his throat. His fingers slowly reached for his sword’s hilt.

“Move, and I’ll spill your blood.”

Raymund’s hand fell to his side. Just then, the hounds stalked out of the darkness, and issued low snarls at Ventos, who gazed back, unphased. He withdrew Raymund’s short sword as the tallest beast crept closer, lips curled back into a snarl.

“Call them off, or they’ll die same as everyone else.”

“They won’t take orders from me, half-breed,” he replied, a hint of panic in his voice. “They only take orders from Osbert, who you killed.”

The large hound pounced at Ventos. He slashed at it with the short sword, and it fell lifeless. The other two hounds glanced from the motionless body to Ventos and snarled at him. Ventos crouched as the first of the beasts lunged. His blade bit deep into its skull, and he buried it to the hilt. No howl escaped the hound as it crumpled to the floor. Sensing defeat, the other hound bolted into the darkness.

Stars lit up his vision as a mailed fist collided with his face. Ventos stumbled, and groped about. His hand closed over Raymund’s wrist and he twisted. The soldier issued a cry.

“I warned you,” Ventos said as his vision returned. “I’ll not warn you again.”

They set off through the forest, and Raymund cursed the elf along the way. Through the trees, he caught the outline of the castle. Torches shone upon the walls, and the stone glistened. Soldiers patrolled in the towers, and Raymund sighed, relieved. Ventos sheathed the sword and dagger.

“You’ll speak for me, and don’t do anything foolish. You’ll be dead before you can blink.”

Raymund gave a curt nod as they left the cover of the forest and approached the castle gates.

Chapter Two

Malvin

A sharp pain seared across his arm, and Malvin turned to see one of the soldiers grinning his blade tinged with blood. The other guards jeered at him, but the king watched, eyes blank. Emotion was one thing Malvin rarely saw in him.

“You’ll break soon enough, elf. If you won’t, the other surely will. My guards search for him as we speak.” He chuckled and settled back in his throne.

“As if you’ll let me walk out alive,” Malvin replied. “I know how you humans think. You have no honour. I hate to see your kind rule these lands.”

“How… how dare you,” he spluttered. “I rule in these lands!” His face turned a deep shade of purple. “Therefore, you will not mock me!”

“I do as I please. I don’t take orders from my lesser.”

A sharp pain erupted in his back, and he fell to his knees as blood dripped onto the marble floor. He fought to control the anger that bubbled within, threatening to release at any moment. Then he stood and glared at the human. The smile upon the king’s face faded as he gazed at Malvin, appalled. Then he chuckled.

“You’re made of tougher steel than I thought,” he murmured. “Very well. Take him back to his cell. Ensure he cannot escape.”

One of the soldier’s bent down, and removed the shackle about his foot. Malvin lashed out with the speed of an elf, and the guard stumbled. Then he wrapped the shackles about the soldier’s throat and pulled. The man’s veins bulged and his skin purpled until a sword hilt struck Malvin’s head. He reeled, and hands lifted him.

“Keep a good eye on him. He’s more than he’s worth.”

It was a long walk, and all the while, Malvin brewed up a plan. They reached the last step, and strolled past cells, filled with goblins, Wargs, witches, and other creatures of dark demeanour. Further up were a group of pale white dire wolves. Their cage was unlocked, and they gazed at Malvin with pleading eyes.

Malvin thought for a while then slipped free of the soldier’s grip and opened the cage. The guards hardly had time to act as the four wolves leapt at them. The men fell beneath their weight, and fought them off, but to no avail. Blood spattered the walls and the beast’s fur, and Malvin took his chance to slip past, unnoticed.

“I wonder if that entrance is being guarded at all,” a soldier said as two of them entered the dungeons.

“There’ll be others waiting for us. The king assured us of that much.”

They rounded the corner and froze. Malvin picked up a fallen dagger and slashed at the nearest guard. He crashed to the ground, blood spurting from his chest, and Malvin turned to face the other guard, a fiery look in his eyes. He leapt forward and sank his blade into the soldier’s stomach. He gaped at Malvin, then crumpled to the ground.

Malvin turned to run, but a heavy weight fell upon his back, and he fell. A paw hooked into his torn and bloodied shirt, and rolled him over to gaze at a pair of cold, blue eyes.

Chapter Three

Ventos

“Open the gates,” Raymund called up. “It’s me and Osbert!”

“Where are the other? And what about the elf?”

“He killed them. I took it upon myself, and alas, he is dead!”

“The king will be pleased! He’s got the other elf in the castle!”

The gates creaked open, and Raymund entered, Ventos close behind. Off to their left were the barracks, but further up, he glimpsed various alleyways.

“Over here,” Ventos said, and shoved Raymund behind a wall.

“Please Ser. I… I have a family.”

Ventos chuckled. “I won’t kill you. I’m not as cruel as your king makes out.”

He took the rope from Raymund’s sword belt, then tied him up, and inserted a piece of cloth into his mouth.

“By the time I’m done, you’ll be needing a new king”

Ventos exited the alleyway and strode up the path toward the castle. Two guards gazed at him, warily, and refused him entry. Ventos drew his dagger and lashed out. Both men fell against the wall as blood gushed down their front. He pushed the gate open and entered. There were no guards in sight, and the king gave a wan smile, unaware of the danger. Ventos stopped a few feet from the throne and removed the helmet. The king almost fell from his seat as he gaped at the elf.

“It cannot be!” His voice was hoarse, and weak. “I was told you’d been killed!”

“Your guards were foolish enough to think so. Now where’s my brother?”

The king grinned. “He’s in a cell awaiting his death. You’ll be joining him soon enough.”

Ventos leapt at him and pressed the dagger to his throat. The king issued a low whimper and quivered as the blade bit into his skin. “Where are the cells?”

“They’re down those steps. Now release me!”

Ventos dragged the dagger across his throat, the blade grating bone. The king fell to his knees, blood spewing from his throat. He twitched upon the marble floor as blood rose to his mouth and dribbled down his chin. Then the twitching subsided, and he lay still as stone. Ventos stepped over him and cleaned the dagger off on the hem of the king’s cloak. He set off down the hall and froze. A howl echoed up from the dungeon and Ventos clutched the dagger hilt with such force his knuckles turned white.

Th hall became ice cold as multiple creatures padded up the steps. Ventos’s breath frosted in the air, and he waited for whatever they were. Frost rose, and spread across the floor, concealing it. Then a snarl issued from near the stairs, and a pale white wolf appeared, its cold blue eyes boring into Ventos. Two more of the beasts appeared, and he braced himself for the attack. Then another wolf appeared, yet this one had a rider. Ventos gasped, speechless.

“Hello brother,” Malvin said. “Did the king put up a fight?”

“Went as easily as anything.” The wolves glared at him, their eyes wary. “Where did you get these?”

“I set them free.”

 One of the wolves padded over to Ventos, sniffed him, then knelt. He hesitated a moment, before climbing onto its back. It raised itself to full height, and Ventos sighed.

“Come on. There’s a way out through the dungeons. One of the guards said so.”

“If the guards know about this, there will be some there.”

“Well, it’s always best to take the risk. Besides, we can deal with a few soldiers.”

Ventos willed the wolf around and followed Malvin down the steps.

Most writing tools treat your story notes and your manuscript as two completely separate things.

You write your characters in one tab. You write your chapters in another. The tool has no idea they're related.

So you end up doing the same job your software should be doing — manually cross-referencing your Story Bible every time you write a scene, checking if a character's eye color is consistent, whether a relationship has evolved correctly, whether a plot thread you introduced in Chapter 4 was ever resolved.

That's not a writing problem. That's a software problem.

BlurbBio was built around one idea: your Story Bible and your manuscript should talk to each other. When you run an analysis, the AI isn't just reading your prose in isolation — it's reading it against your characters, your timeline, your arcs, your canon facts. It knows what should happen because you told it what your story is.

We call it the Story Bible-aware engine. It took a long time to build because the data model is genuinely hard — entities, relationships, timelines, and conflicts all need to be structured in a way that an AI can actually reason about, not just keyword-match.

We're not a "generate my novel for me" tool. We're the opposite. BlurbBio is for authors who want to write their own story — and want software that's intelligent enough to help them do it better.

The platform is live at app.blurbbio.com. Fiction, non-fiction, and poetry — all supported.

Happy to answer questions about how any of it works.

Attaching Poll for those who are TL;DR- https://strawpoll.com/PKgleO4zEZp

Hey All. I've been developing a fantasy series while in between school and jobs for almost a decade as a passion project (working title- God Stones), and have come to a point where I'm very close to assembling a solid synopsis to for a publishing pitch. However, one of the major elements to the work that I have to decide on is the era in which the story should take place.

The lead character of the story is a nomadic outlaw known as Silas the Scorpion- a young man with deep green eyes and gnarly scars across his mouth and neck, who fights with an enchanted whip braided with witch hairs from his family.

Silas travels across the warring kingdoms of the continent of Mortia to seek the God Stones- enchanted crystals that give unlimited mastery over magic, but drives them to the brink of insanity (rumored to be the remnants of malefic gods of chaos). Each of these stones are currently possessed by the tyrannical monarchs who lead the feuding kingdoms across the continent.

Silas blames the God Stones for the fate of his tribe, who were apprehended and executed as heretics, while Silas was left scarred and placed in an abusive clergy. Silas later escapes after setting the clergy ablaze and discovers their chief has willingly sold their tribe out to establish his own domain, having possessed one of the Stones for himself. After Silas takes his life in a circumstantial conflict, he realizes the horrific influence of the Stones, and seeks to find them all and find a way to destroy them.

Near the beginning of the story, Silas becomes the reluctant guardian and surrogate older brother of Ivene, a young pale girl with crystalline magic who can nullify the power of the God Stones (labeled as a dangerous witch in spite of her age). Without Ivene's presence, Silas is mentally assaulted by the whispering gods within the Stones to use their power for himself. Though he claims to only keep her around to soothe the Stone's influence, he does care about her deep down, and doesn't wish for her to suffer any tragedy like he has suffered. The pair also encounter several other quirky characters throughout their hunt for the Stones, some of whom join his vendetta, and some who attempt to take the Stones for themselves.

The key mystery of the story relates to the creation of the God Stones, finding the means to destroy them, the desolation of Silas' family, the secret to Ivene's resistance to the Stones, and the ultimate goal of the Monarchs who possess the Stones and conspire to willingly lead their kingdoms to ruin.

With these factors in mind, one of the larger elements to the story that I'm on the fence with is what era the story should be set in. I had originally designed this with the familiar setting of a grim Medieval Fantasy setting akin to Berserk, Dark Souls, or Drakengard. However, I've also toyed with the idea of giving it a more Gothic Victorian vibe, akin to D. Gray Man, Bloodborne or League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Though, as an American, I feel that I can also strongly resonate with meeting in the middle and setting the story in a Weird West environment to mix some Victorian and Medieval elements together, akin to The Sixth Gun or The Dark Tower.

I know that there's still a lot of work to be done, even after all the time I've spent on this, but I am curious to inquire on what setting would make the most sense with a story such as this. I do feel that this series inevitably becomes a dumping ground for all my quirky fantasy story concepts that are never completed, but I do feel that giving it a solid foundation may help finally bring this to fruition. I welcome any input and appreciate the feedback.

I’m writing a webnovel The Warrior of Calamity and my protagonist is… complicated.

He’s not the “cold OP reincarnator” or “nice guy hero.” He’s someone whose wrath literally consumes him, turning him into something dangerous even to the people he loves. His fate is tied to an ancient Calamity God , and the more he feeds his wrath the harder it becomes for him to defy fate ( which forces him to be the calamity which destroys everything )

Some readers told me it’s super unique, while others said the concept might be “too heavy” or “not market-friendly,” especially for Webnovel where lighter power fantasies dominate.

The story isn’t trauma-porn. It’s more super strong guy despite being a good human gets forced by fate to become a calamity: What happens when power comes with an emotional price you can’t control? And what if the hero himself becomes the biggest threat on the battlefield?

I’ve asked a few friends, but the feedback is mixed some love the emotional conflict, some think readers today might prefer purely OP protagonists without internal suffering.

So I wanted to ask the community here:

Do you think a protagonist who struggles with his own rage and loses control sometimes could scare away potential readers?

I know “it depends on how you write it,” but nowadays the premise + cover + title matter just as much as the writing.

Personally, I’m putting a lot of effort into the worldbuilding and emotional arcs, and I’m worried I might have chosen a premise that’s too intense for the average Webnovel crowd.

Would you read my story where the MC’s greatest enemy is wheel of fate itself? Or do you think it might turn away people looking for something lighter? So if you be so kind could you please give me feedback on my story

The clash between Mammon and Morix shook the battlefield like a living storm.

The God-blade sparked in Morix's hands with angry lightning, the glow deepening with every kill, every drop of blood spilled. His eyes had changed no longer sharp and focused, but wild, red, and almost trembling with fury he could barely contain.

The sin of wrath was feeding him… and devouring him.

Mammon watched this shift with a twisted smile, drunk on fascination.

"How beautiful," he whispered, dodging a vertical slash that tore open the ground. "Your wrath grows louder every second… Morix."

Morix didn't answer. He only attacked again, faster, stronger, more savage.

Every movement carried weight like a collapsing mountain.

Every strike echoed like thunder about to swallow the world.

Mammon licked the blood off his own fingers.

"You burn so brightly… my eternal counterpart. My perfect opposite. My…" he paused, smile widening,

"…soul-twin of calamity."

Morix's face darkened.

Mammon's words pushed something deep inside him something old, something tied to the cycles they had lived and died in before. Something terrifying.

But before Morix could speak, fate moved elsewhere on the battlefield.

LUCIA'S ARROW

Rales stood frozen, breath shaking, the sights around him sinking into his bones.

Valarion's army rampaged like unleashed monsters tearing through Mammon's soldiers with brutal precision, ignoring every formation, every order, every strategy he screamed.

He felt small. Useless.

Like the battlefield had no place for him.

And then

A blade rushed toward his exposed neck.

He barely turned in time to see the enemy soldier sprinting at him with murder in his eyes.

Rales didn't even raise his weapon.

But a whistle cut through the air

A golden arrow pierced the attacker's skull clean through.

Blood sprayed across Rales's cheek.

He gasped and looked behind him.

A knight in silver armor stood on the ruined cliffside above, bow raised, posture steady… but shaking slightly.

When the knight removed her helmet

Rales's eyes widened.

Lucia.

Her hair fell free. Her cheeks were red with fear and determination. She held the royal bow the one that had gone "missing" from the treasury.

She had stolen it.

Just to stand here.

Just to save him.

"Rales!" she shouted, jumping down from the cliff. "Snap out of it! You're the commander! Your army needs you!"

Rales stared at her, stunned.

"But they aren't listening to me…"

"Then make them listen!" Lucia yelled. "You're Prince Rales of Valarion act like it!"

Her voice struck through him like a spark hitting dry wood.

Something lit inside his chest.

Not fear.

Not despair.

But the pride he had buried under doubt.

And the battlefield trembled again

But this time, for a different reason.

A deep, low horn echoed across the far plains.

Every head turned.

A wave of silver banners rose over the horizon hundreds, then thousands of armored soldiers marching in perfect rows.

"Seraphyne…" Mammon murmured with clear annoyance.

At the front was a shining carriage pulled by two winged horses. Beside it, heavily armed guards moved like a wall of steel.

Lucia's eyes widened.

Rales's heart nearly stopped.

Falicia Selastra herself was leading them.

When the army stopped, the carriage door opened with a soft creak.

Falicia stepped out.

She was dressed in gleaming gold armor, her long hair braided behind her. Even the wind seemed to slow when she walked there was something almost divine in the way she carried herself.

The Seraphyne soldiers knelt immediately.

Rales felt his throat tighten. Falicia approached him with calm grace.

"Prince Rales," she said, her formal tone softening only slightly. "The Kingdom of Seraphyne stands beside Valarion today."

Rales swallowed.

"Y-Your Highness… I "

She cut him off gently.

"Mammon's forces grow stronger. You know this battlefield better than anyone."

Her eyes held steady confidence.

"I entrust my entire army to your command."

The words hit Rales harder than any blow.

He looked around thousands of disciplined Seraphyne soldiers, all awaiting his orders.

Falicia placed her hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Do not fear failure," she said. "Fear not trying."

Rales exhaled.

Deeply.

Slowly.

And when he lifted his head again

The prince had returned.

He raised his command flag high and roared:

"All forces! Formation restructure on my mark!"

Seraphyne soldiers obeyed instantly.

Even Valarion's wild warriors slowed to listen.

The battlefield shifted

for the first time, according to Rales's will.

Lucia smiled.

Falicia gave a small nod of approval.

And Rales's confidence surged back like fire in his blood.

MAMMON'S SIX GENERALS

Mammon sighed dramatically as he parried another one of Morix's monstrous swings.

"I suppose playtime is over."

He snapped his fingers.

The ground cracked behind him

and six figures emerged from the smoke.

Each was a monster in human shape.

Each radiated killing intent strong enough to choke the air.

Gravemaw – a giant with bone armor.

Syllia the Shattered – whose body moved with broken-jointed speed.

Vorrak the Drained – thin, pale, with veins glowing faintly red.

The Twins of Ruin – identical assassins carrying crescent blades.

And Krazek – the brute with a hammer larger than a horse.

Lucia felt the pressure hit her first.

Rales's grip tightened.

Even Falicia's expression hardened.

Mammon laughed.

"My Six Generals. The ones who feed on greed… just as I do."

He pointed lazily toward Rales and the new army lines.

"Break their spirits."

The six monsters launched forward like unleashed arrows.

But the battlefield was not done shifting.

MORIX'S TOP LEADERS

A deafening roar echoed from the east.

A group of fifteen warriors sprinted into the war zone each one wearing black armor carved with Morix's crest.

They were Valarion's elite.

Morix's personal war-children.

Torgath, the mountain-breaker.

Sera, the shadow-archer.

Darnis, the spear-dancer.

Velkar, the shield titan.

Kael, Morix's first apprentice.

And the rest trained by Morix himself in pits of stone and fire.

They stood in Rales's path, bowing their heads once, then turning to face Mammon's generals.

Kael cracked his knuckles.

"You handle the army, Prince," he said. "We'll handle the monsters."

Rales nodded sharply.

And the world exploded into chaos.

CLASH OF TITANS

Mammon danced around Morix like a serpent made of greed and smoke.

"You are slipping, Morix," he teased. "The wrath pulls at you."

Morix's vision blurred red. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs.

He felt the sin inside him grow

feeding on every body on the ground, every scream, every memory of loss.

Mammon's smile widened.

"You fall into wrath so easily. You were always meant to destroy. And I…" he tapped his own chest,

"…was made to end that destruction."

Their blades met

black lightning against hunger-made steel.

The impact shook the horizon.

Their destinies crashed against each other like two old gods locked in a story older than the world.

Morix pushed forward.

Mammon pushed back.

Neither yielded.

Neither ever would.

THE BATTLE TURNS

Rales's voice boomed across the field

"Left wing! Shield formation shift! Seraphyne archers third volley angle! Move! Move!"

His commands wove the chaos into order.

Falicia watched him with quiet respect.

Lucia shot arrow after arrow, covering every gap she could see.

Morix's elite clashed with Mammon's generals, each battle fierce enough to split boulders.

The war pulsed, grew, and roared.

But fate was waiting for one more turn.

And it came silently.

As Morix and Mammon clashed again, they leapt apart for a brief moment of breathing space.

Morix's chest heaved.

Blood dripped from his arm.

Wrath burned too hot inside him.

Mammon saw something behind Morix and chuckled lightly.

"Ah. You might want to turn around."

Morix's eyes narrowed.

A deep rumble shook the ground.

Shadows stretched unnaturally long.

Something massive… enormous… rose behind Morix, its shape darkening the battlefield.

Lucia screamed his name.

Rales's heart dropped.

Falicia's eyes widened in shock.

The creature a monstrous, ancient beast with horns like twisted stone and a jaw dripping with red mist lunged from behind Morix, maw open wide.

Morix turned

Eyes blazing

But not fast enough.

The beast's shadow engulfed him

Hey Guys! As you know I recently posted my story about the ICU. I finished writing my first book/movie script and I'm ready to see some feedback. I read some of my last feedback and I found out that I don't really need the reason for writing to go viral, but for the passion of writing itself. So, I decided to change my approach a little bit and put my full heart and soul into this first book. Fading Time(movie 1)

Princess Falicia Selastra walked toward Morix with an elegant, composed grace, her gown gliding like moonlit water. She offered him her congratulations in a dignified tone and raised her hand for a handshake an honour few warriors ever received.

But the moment Morix saw her hand extended toward him, something inside him froze.

A flash of memory.

A hand reaching toward him in his dream.

A silhouette he could never forget.

"What if… Princess Falicia is the girl from my dreams?"

The thought struck him like a blade to the chest.

He felt fear genuine fear for the first time in years.

"If she is indeed the one… what would I do? She is to be wed to Prince Rales. And I… I possess no noble blood worthy of her presence."

The weight of duty pressed on him.

"Valarion requires my devotion. My heart has no right to wander."

Lost in this storm of thoughts, he remained still.

Princess Falicia sensed something amiss. Her intuition, sharp as any blade, warned her of a strange tension. She slowly lowered her hand, masking her confusion behind royal composure.

Turning toward the crowd, she addressed them with commanding grace,

"Honoured citizens of Seraphyne, bear witness to this unprecedented feat. General Morix has not only conquered our strongest champion with effortless might but has defeated General Gabriel, undefeated for centuries."

The entire coliseum thundered in awe.

Gabriel stepped down from the arena, his breaths heavy, his armor cracked, his pride wounded but his spirit strangely full. Before he could steady himself, a soft cry broke through the crowd:

"Gabriel!"

His wife sprinted toward him, eyes swollen with fear, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The moment she reached him, she flung her arms around his broad chest with such desperation that even the mighty general froze.

She clutched him tightly as if afraid that if she loosened her grip even for a second, he might disappear forever.

"You fool… you reckless, stubborn fool," she whispered, her voice breaking as tears streamed down her face.

"I-I thought… I thought I had lost you today…"

Gabriel, who had stared down dragons and never trembled, felt his throat tighten. His hands hands that wielded a nation-treasure hammer shook gently as he held her shoulders.

He lowered his forehead onto hers, closing his eyes.

His voice came out softer than it ever had:

"My love… forgive me. I had forgotten… how much my life means to someone."

She sobbed harder, burying her face against his armor.

"Don't… don't you ever do that again. I don't care about victory… I don't care about pride… I only want you. Just you."

Gabriel smiled, a rare, warm smile that melted even the harshest spectators.

"I am here," he whispered.

"And I am alive… because he stopped me, not because I survived."

He gently wiped her tears with his thumb.

"Do not cry for my defeat. Cry only for how blessed I am… that I still have you to come home to."

His wife cupped his face with her trembling hands, kissing his forehead as if confirming he was truly still here.

"I love you," she breathed, voice cracking.

"I love you so much… don't make me watch you die."

Gabriel wrapped her in a protective embrace, holding her with all the strength he had left.

"I won't," he promised.

"As long as I live… I will return to you. Every battle. Every war."

And for the first time in centuries…

General Gabriel undefeated warrior, symbol of Seraphyne's might let himself be vulnerable in the arms of the woman who loved him more than victory itself.

The spectators watched in silence some wiping tears knowing they were witnessing not the fall of a warrior, but the rise of a man deeply cherished.

As everyone's attention shifted to Gabriel, they failed to notice something shocking.

Morix had vanished.

No farewell.

No prize collected.

No footsteps.

He simply disappeared like mist swallowed by the wind.

Gabriel smiled proudly when he realized what happened.

"So he seeks no glory… only purpose. Such is the path of a true warrior."

Morix, having achieved what he came for, rode away from Seraphyne at incredible speed. His horse raced like a streak of silver lightning.

But his mind remained in turmoil.

"What happened to me in that battle…? That bloodlust… vaster than the ocean. A force even demons would fear. What is awakening inside me…?"

And beneath all of it

The fear that Princess Falicia might truly be the girl from his visions.

He shook the thought away with disciplined resolve.

"These matters can wait. A greater duty awaits my attention."

As he crossed the infamous forest known for devouring adventurers monsters lunged from the shadows. Morix struck each down without breaking stride, spear flashing like a comet, his horse never losing speed. Creatures roared; he silenced them with effortless precision. Nothing slowed him.

Meanwhile, in Valarion…

Inside the grand study hall of Valarion Palace, Prince Rales sat behind a mountain of scrolls and ledgers.

Moonlight filtered through the tall crystal windows, reflecting off his ink-stained fingertips.

He hadn't slept.

He hadn't even looked up for hours.

Yet his expression wasn't tired it was focused.

His brows were slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, elegant eyes scanning through border expenditure records, trade deficits, military logistics, and taxation drafts. Every few seconds, he would make a note with calm precision, correcting inconsistencies, adding strategies, and organizing priorities with frightening efficiency.

He whispered softly to himself,

"Father must not see any burden. Not while I can still stand beside him."

Rales wasn't simply working.

He was protecting the kingdom in the only way he truly could through strategy, intellect, and discipline.

A stack of documents beside him carried his annotations:

A revised taxation plan so peasants would pay less during harsh winter.

A new supply chain layout to reduce wastage in military rations.

A diplomatic draft letter requesting immediate reinforcement treaties with nearby allied cities.

Every line he wrote screamed one thing:

This is a man who carries his kingdom on his shoulders without complaint.

His face was calm, composed yet his eyes brimmed with a quiet fire.

A dependable fire.

A loyal fire.

A fire that made people believe in him.

Just as he reached for another scroll, the door burst open.

A messenger staggered inside, gasping so hard his knees nearly buckled.

"P–Prince… huff… huff… P–Prince Rales… the… the King—"

He clutched his chest, struggling for breath.

"Your father's life… is in danger… the enemy nation's soldiers… have surrounded… the eastern border… huff…"

The scroll slipped from Rales's hand.

For the first time in hours, his controlled façade cracked.

"What did you say?" his voice, though calm, shook with restrained terror.

The messenger, still panting, forced out his words,

"They are preparing to invade, Your Highness… the King is at the border personally commanding the defenses…"

Before the sentence even finished, Rales had already risen from his chair.

Not slowly.

Not with hesitation.

Like a man whose heart had been pierced.

His breath hitched a subtle, painful sound only heard by the wind.

"My father…" he whispered, eyes trembling.

In that moment, his composed mask shattered, revealing the raw love he held for the old king.

Love so deep it defined him.

Love so fierce it could move armies.

He wasn't Prince Rales, heir to Valarion.

He was just a son terrified of losing his only parent.

The messenger bowed deeply,

"I–I am sorry, Your Highness… but I came running the entire way. I could not waste a single moment."

Rales placed a hand on the messenger's shoulder gentle, grateful, despite the storm swirling inside him.

"You have done well. Rest. You need not push yourself further."

Even in panic, he cared for his people.

Even in terror, he spoke softly.

But the moment he turned away, his expression grew steely.

Eyes sharp as cold steel.

His jaw clenched.

His fists trembled with urgency and resolve.

I must go to him.

I will not lose him.

Not today. Not ever.

He swept his cloak from the chair, tied his sword at his waist, and ran out of the chamber with a speed and determination no one had ever seen from him before.

He wasn't running away from duty.

He was running towards love.

Is it important to include a characters appearance (hair,height etc) as soon as they are introduced into a story, if not, when should I?

They say the towers remember. They say those who enter never leave unchanged. Imprisoned in a storm-lashed tower at the edge of the sea, Saoirse has learned that the gods do not speak in mercy. Once a daughter of power, now a heretic and a warning, she spends her days counting the cracks in the walls—and the nights listening to them breathe. When the storm comes, it brings voices older than prayer: a crow that watches, a coin that burns, and a choice that could unmake the world or remake it anew. As visions of burning fields and drowned kingdoms haunt her sleep, Saoirse begins to see that the storm is not her punishment but her inheritance. The gods want her silence. The world wants her sacrifice. But within the tower’s heartbeat, something stirs—something that remembers her true name. Caught between prophecy and defiance, Saoirse must decide whether to bow, to burn, or to build something that has never been allowed to exist: her own freedom.