Hi everyone! I'm revising my novel before I hit the query trenches. Just wanted to know if the first chapter is hooking you and hitting all the right notes! Are there places where you felt like putting it down? Does the ending make you curious about what happens in the next chapter?

Any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated! If you enjoy the works of authors like Rachel Gillig, Hannah Whitten, Kalie Reed, Allison Saft, and Erin A. Craig, you're definitely my target audience!
Thanks in advance!

CHAPTER ONE

I was ten when the Anointed King summoned me to the crypt.

With rising dread, I studied the crumbling urns mounted within shallow niches. Rainwater trickled down gray, cobwebbed walls. I hadn’t been brave enough to venture into the burial chambers beneath Willow Abbey before. Some of the novices swore the place was haunted. 

Have I misbehaved? My thoughts raced quicker than my blood. Did he call me down here to dole out punishment? 

Inside the torchlit chamber, three people loomed over me like towers cast in shadow: King Mordred, Queen Nerys, and Mother Angharad. Their eerie, black gazes tracked my movements the way some portraits did in dark, ghostly hallways.

When Nerys reached for my arm, I flinched. She turned my hand over to expose the tender skin of the palm. Small, rosy, unmarked.

“A Reaper is the Crown’s most precious jewel, yet there are many in the realm who seek to harm you,” Nerys whispered in a slick, unhurried tone. “A blood bond with the king will keep you under his watchful eye. You’ll be safe. Do you consent to it, Briallen?”

The hairs at the back of my neck stood erect. I swallowed hard before nodding my consent. Who better to protect me than the Anointed King himself? Yet an uneasy feeling sat heavy in my gut—the one that urged me to yank my hand out of her grasp. To run away.

Nerys unsheathed a small, ceremonial dagger from her hip. The inky blade—carved from a shard of black amber—emitted an unnatural, oily luster. Firelight glinted off its razor-sharp edge. 

“This will only hurt for a moment,” she whispered, angling the dagger to my palm. “Don’t move.”

Sweat dampened the bodice of my black gown. Tears flooded my eyes, but I refused to make a sound in the king’s presence. His hawk-like gaze surveyed each drag of my breath, each beat of my heart. I wanted him to be proud of me—proud of my ability to swallow pain in silence.

Be obedient, be silent, be useful, I whispered the sacred motto to myself over and over again.

Nerys’s dagger etched an X-shaped mark on my palm in two clean strokes. My muscles clenched. I gritted my teeth to contain the vicious, red sting. Warm blood wept from the shallow wound, trickling down my elbow in a crimson rivulet. The smell of iron clogged my nostrils and turned my stomach.

Mother Angharad stepped forward to hold a small silver bowl under my hand, letting the vessel fill with blood halfway. Her veiled face was creased with worry.

Mordred took the ceremonial dagger from his queen, and made a similar cut across his own large palm. He didn’t so much as wince. Then he fisted his hand over the silver bowl in Mother Angharad’s grasp, and let his blood mix with my own.

Eyes closed, the queen let her forefinger swirl the bowl’s scarlet contents in slow, lazy circles. Her incantation came out in Fiendus. The tongue of magic. Each jagged, long-drawn word sank into my bones like frost.

“In the eye of the tempest, when the spirit wanes, let the blood bond blaze and endure. In the thick of battle, if the feet do stray, let the blood bond remain unbroken and sure.”

The orange torchlights shuddered, throwing lurching shadows across cracked walls.

A boiling pain spread through my veins as the bond slowly, darkly fell into place.

The king grunted like a wounded boar, hunched, his fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists. Agony twisted his bloodless face. I felt a second set of eyes watching me from behind the veil of Mordred’s jade irises—ancient, mercurial. An inhuman cry scraped out of Mordred’s mouth, and echoed across the crypt.

I fell to the ground, screaming and thrashing. Sweat dotted my forehead. Darkness swallowed my vision.

I woke up to the glare of candlelight in my own chamber. The king and queen were gone. My bandaged palm roared with pain.

Kneeling at my bedside, Mother Angharad pressed a poultice to my fevered brow. Her eyes were soft with pity. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, child. The king is not a man who leaves fealty to chance.”

That’s when I realized the blood bond wasn’t just for my protection. Dread knotted my gut, leaving me with a cold, jarring certainty: the spell had chained me to the king. I’d never be free of him. 

Ten years later, that dread still sleeps within me, sharper than the memory of the pain.

***

Gwyn’s feral, one-eared tomcat hissed from a willow branch above me. 

I sprinted across the abbey’s immense garden, clutching the worn journal to my chest. My heavy skirts whispered against tall, dew-soaked grass. With a vicious yowl, the little gray monster launched himself onto my shoulder. I shrieked. Tiny claws found purchase in the collar of my black gown. The diary slipped from my fingers, and landed on the ground.

With a triumphant purr, the cat leapt off my shoulder. He settled atop the upturned journal like a hen brooding over her eggs.

“Petal, please,” I pleaded. “I’m already late.”

His yellow eyes narrowed with possessiveness. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Or deaf ear, in his case. As usual, I’d lost track of time while scribbling in my journal. Even the bells had failed to rouse me from my thoughts.

A damp autumn breeze stirred the silver primroses in the flowerbeds. Their petals looked iridescent in the pale, dappled sunshine. Low thunder rumbled against vine-strangled columns, announcing an encroaching storm. A bell clanged from one of the towers. Nuns wove through the cloisters to attend morning prayers. 

“Are you planning to strangle the poor creature, Bree?”

Gwyn’s gravelly voice made me jump. I whirled to find her approaching through the grass, lambent-eyed. Her wild, chestnut ringlets were a contrast to my own neat, raven-black braid.

I dusted the cat hair from my bodice. “Petal attacked me again.”

Petal padded over to Gwyn, meowing like a docile kitty begging to be loved. 

“You naughty cat.” Gwyn cast him an admonishing look—the same look Mother Angharad, the late abbess, would flash us whenever we misbehaved as children.

A familiar pang awakened beneath my sternum. The late abbess had been Gwyn’s great-aunt. She had brought Gwyn to the abbey at the age of eight, shortly after her family’s tragic demise in a flood. With the passing years, she and I had become inseparable as sisters, nurtured by Mother Angharad’s loving hand.

Until the king’s elite knights—the Basilisks—dragged Angharad away last year. On the afternoon of my twentieth nameday.

I shook my head to clear the memory, and bent over to pick up my journal.

Gwyn threaded her arm with mine, pulling me toward the shadowed alcove. “Lili is waiting for her lessons in the library.” Her eyes glowed impishly. “With Sister Olwen.”

I grimaced at the mention of Sister Olwen.

“The other day, I heard Olwen complaining about you spending too much time writing in your precious book”—Gwyn thrust her chin toward the diary in my hand—“while ignoring your chores.” 

My fingers tightened reflexively around the journal. Over the years, I’d made a habit of recording my life in the abbey: the quirks of various nuns, bits of gossip stolen from the novices, festivals, namedays, and small day-to-day occurrences of no significance.

There was a chest full of old journals at the foot of my bed, every last page crawling with my tight, loopy scrawl. For a child who spent too much time in her head, writing felt like a tool to make sense of the world around her. A way to feel less invisible among the inhabitants of Willow Abbey.

I gasped aloud, hand clamped over my mouth like an actress in a miracle play. “Me? Ignoring my chores? That’s impossible.”

Gwyn flashed me a mock-stern look, mimicking Sister Olwen’s high-pitched voice. “You shall receive the severest punishment, girl.”

“What’s that, Sister?”

“Twenty lashes on your ample, round—” She paused as three glaring nuns passed us in the cloister. “Arse.”

I giggled, placing a gloved hand over my belly.

Gwyn’s presence was the only thing warm enough to cut through Morven’s near-constant rainy skies. The carefreeness came easily to her—perhaps because she was never held to the same standards as me.

I was the king’s ward. A Reaper waiting her turn to serve the Crown. There was never any hope of a normal life for me. Gwyn was blessed to have been born without magic. She was free to become a nun here at the abbey, raise a family, or even try her hand at becoming a dancing mistress. The world was her oyster. I tried not to envy her too much for these liberties.

“I’m riding into town with Sister Gladys today,” she chirped as we glided through the drafty, gray corridors. “Do you want me to get you anything?”

I flashed her a furtive look. “You already know what I need.”

“More paper and ink, my dove?”

Nodding, I fished out a coin pouch from my pocket, and pressed it into her hand. “And whatever volume of poetry you can sneak into your basket without the nun noticing.”

She winked. “I’ll do my best.”

“Oh, and get those lace ribbons you wanted last week,” I was quick to add. “And those buttons with—"

“There they are!” Sister Olwen’s voice blasted us from the library’s doorway. “The Scatterbrain Sisters.” Her glowering gaze landed on me. “You’re late.”

I lowered my gaze. “Apologies, Sister.”

Sister Olwen straightened her spine, staring at me down the bridge of her large, hooked nose. Tall and bony, she had all the appearance of a pale vulture. 

“It was the tomcat,” Gwyn jumped to my defense. “Petal attacked her in the garden again, Sister.”

The tops of Sister Olwen’s cheekbones deepened to a startling shade of scarlet. “I don’t need you to make excuses for her, Gwynevere. Now, get to the kitchen; the potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves.” 

Gwyn shook her head, sighing. “You’d think they’d have learned by now, Sister.” She sprinted down the corridor before the nun could react.

I pressed my lips to hide a smile.

Sister Olwen spoke through gritted teeth. “Impudent child.” She fiddled with the polished slate amulet around her neck—a habit she indulged wherever she was rankled, apparently. Decades ago, her father had procured the sacred amulet from the king to heal Olwen from bouts of catarrh. She hadn’t suffered since. 

The seething nun turned to me. “Get. Inside. Now.”

As soon as I entered the library, the scent of old parchment and cedar washed over me like a wave. Motes of dust swirled in faint, butter-colored patches of sunlight. Humming softly, Lili sat at our usual table near the eastern window, her curly head bent over a piece of parchment. My gown matched hers—deepest black wool embroidered with gold thread. The colors of a Reaper. 

“Good morning, sweetpea,” I greeted her.

“Bree, look!” She held up the parchment to show me her handiwork: a grotesque caricature of Sister Olwen sipping sherry. Through her flared nostrils.

I snatched the parchment from her, crumpled it, and threw it in the fireplace. “Are you trying to get us both into trouble?” 

She giggled uncontrollably, a tiny gloved hand clapped to her mouth. I pinched her round, rosy cheek. Eight years ago, the king’s men had brought her to the abbey as a baby, red-faced and squalling for her mother. Now that she had completed her ninth nameday, the girl was expected to begin her training in magic. Under my supervision.

I sat facing her, letting my fingers drum the desk. My elder, Lady Rhoswen, had been a natural teacher. I did my best to emulate her warmth and patience with Lili.

The girl grimaced. “We’re not using a subject today, are we, Bree?”

So far, she had only practiced once with a subject: a smelly, old sheepdog that belonged to the gardener. Lili had been terrified the whole time, breaking into tears right after the session.

“It’s Lady Briallen to you.” Sister Olwen strode into the library, wearing her signature scowl—the one that struck fear in the hearts of freckled novices. “Do not forget your manners in front of your elder, Lady Lili.”

Lili’s face fell. “Apologies.”

“As a matter of fact,” Sister Olwen announced, “I shall serve as your subject today.” 

Lili let out a low whimper.

Bricks settled in the pit of my stomach. “Are you sure, Sister?” 

“Magic is learned best through practice.”

“But—”

Olwen pulled up a chair to the head of the table. “The king has expressed his desire in the matter. He wants Lili to receive her training with human subjects.”

The protests died in my throat. I’d put off our practice for as long as I could. For Lili’s sake. But there was only so long I could justify it without raising the king’s scrutiny. His ire. There’s no way around it. 

I let out an exhale. “Take off your gloves, Lili.” 

The girl’s face blanched. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the oiled leather gloves, identical to my own. We wore them at all times, except during eating, bathing, and wielding our power.

“Now,” I instructed her, “place your palm on Sister Olwen’s cheek.”

“What if I get lost in there? What if—”

“Stop your infernal wailing, girl,” Sister Olwen scolded her. “It’s giving me a headache.”

I threw a venomous glance at the nun. “We’ll go together,” I assured Lili. “I won’t let you get lost in there.” While yanking off my own gloves, I tried my best to not look at the pink X-shaped mark on my left palm. The Reaper’s mark. Lily wouldn’t receive hers until her tenth nameday; the thought left a sour knot in my stomach.

Sister Olwen glowered at me. “You can’t handhold her if she has any hopes of making progress with her magic.”

“She needs someone to guide her.”

“You’re mollycoddling her.”

My cheeks burned with indignation. “No one in this abbey understands Lili’s magic better than me. In her current state of inexperience, it would be imprudent to allow her undirected access into your mind—into your memories.” 

Dread darkened the nun’s eyes. “Fine. Do what you must.”

Lili’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Would you mind focusing on a specific memory?” I asked the nun. “Lili shall study it.”

She grunted in agreement, letting her eyelids fall shut.

Lili and I pressed a hand to either side of Olwen’s bony face. The contact with another human’s skin—the feel of the nun’s warm, fuzz-lined cheek against my palm—was shocking at first. I was so used to experiencing the world through the confines of my leather gloves that touching another person was a novelty like no other. My magic swelled from the point of contact. I slipped into Olwen’s mind like a hot blade slicing through a block of wax.

The library faded around us.

Lili and I stood in the black, cavernous chamber of Olwen’s mind, its walls and floors twisting with white threads. Threads of her memories. The nun’s heartbeats echoed along the walls, like muffled beats of thunder. Some of the threads looked old and frayed that trembled at the slightest unseen current, while others appeared thick and strong as vines, coiled, anchoring the chamber with quiet, unyielding force. If I closed my eyes, I could feel them breathing. Moving. They stretched in every direction, crossing, tangling, diverging—an intricate tapestry of memory, will, and life.

“It’s so creepy in here,” Lili whispered. “Oh, I hate this, Bree.”

“Every mind looks the same,” I reminded her. “Don’t be scared of the darkness. It’s the memory threads that truly concern us. Brushing a thread, even accidentally, will awaken a specific memory in Sister Olwen’s mind. If we hold them, we can—”

“—Look into a particular memory,” she finished. 

“And if we rip a strand?”

Lili’s shoulders wriggled in a shudder. “We’ll sever the memory from Sister Olwen’s mind.”

I gave her a reassuring smile. “It’ll be a long time before the king summons you to reap memories for him. You’ll probably be an old maid by then.” The Royal Reaper, Lady Rhoswen, had decades of service ahead of her before I’d be called to take her place. After me, it would be Lili’s turn.

Lili frowned and shook her head. “I don’t want to think about it.”

I let out a breath. “Let’s go find the memory Sister Olwen is focusing on.”

We padded about in the darkness. Searching. Careful not to touch or disturb any of the threads. A golden glimmer beckoned us to the heart of the cavern like a candle on a moonless night.

“There!” Lili’s index finger pointed at the light.

“Go ahead, sweetpea.”

She inched toward the flickering gleam, cautious and fearful, like a fledgling testing the air before its first flight. When her tiny hands closed around the glowing memory thread, Lili’s eyes glazed over. Her jaw slackened. 

“It’s Sister Olwen’s dog,” she whispered, “from when she was a girl. Rhun. Oh, he’s so cute, Bree!”

“Study it well.”

After a few heartbeats, she dropped the thread and jolted backward as if it had caught fire.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Wolves,” she whimpered. “They mauled Rhun to death. There was so much blood. He died protecting Olwen and her sister. Oh, Bree!”

The sight of her distress splintered my heart. “It happened a long time ago.”

“Please,” she squeaked, “I want to get out of here!”

I nodded. “Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and remove your hand from Sister Olwen’s cheek.”

I did the same.

The library returned, its silence broken by the snap of logs in the fireplace. Sister Olwen sat in her chair, breathing hard. Blinking rapidly. Tears clung to Lili’s eyes.

I pulled on my glove and gave the girl’s hand a squeeze. “It gets better with practice, I promise.”

The nun’s narrowed eyes found Lili. “Did you find the memory I was focusing on?”

“Your dog. Rhun.”

“And how did Rhun die?”

When Lili began to weep, the nun smirked with quiet, sadistic satisfaction. 

I ground my teeth. “Couldn’t you have chosen a different memory, Sister?”

Olwen got up from her seat. “Human memories are replete with pain and ugliness. A Reaper might as well get used to it.” She headed to the door, humming to herself.

Her words stung like a slap. I glared into the nun’s back. 

Lili stared out of the window, her eyes puffy and red. Rain lashed the glass in flashing tongues of silver. I glimpsed my own reflection in the blurry pane: gray-eyed and cherry-cheeked. Freckles dusted the slender bridge of my nose.

Out in the courtyard, a young novice rushed to greet her silver-haired father. The wind carried their laughter to our ears.

“Do you ever think about your family, Bree?” Lili asked.

“I don’t,” I lied. “It’s an honor to be the king’s ward—to be granted a home in this beautiful abbey.”

“Well, I hate being his ward.”

Something twisted inside my gut—an old, nameless pain from years past. “Don’t say that.”

“The nuns are allowed to see their families,” she complained in a wobbling voice. “Why not us?”

Not too long ago, I’d asked the same question to Rhoswen. The old X-shaped scar on my palm awakened with a phantom itch. The king expected absolute loyalty from his Reapers, undiluted by the ties of blood. The ties of the heart. We were to serve no one but the Crown. But Lili was too young to understand such things.

“It is not our place to question the rules,” I said in a level voice. “We must find comfort in simple pleasures.”

“Simple pleasures?”

“Like your sketches.”

“And your poetry books?”

A smile curled my lips. “Exactly.”

I dreamt of owning a library someday, stacked with endless volumes of poetry. A place where I could lose myself in a world of ink and parchment. Even for a little while. For me, it would be the closest thing to freedom. 

When the rain lightened, I took Lili out into the courtyard’s statuary for our chores. The gray faces of past Anointed Kings bordered the walls, wet from the rain, casting deep shadows on those who walked beneath them. Lili and I crouched on the gravel, scrubbing moss and dirt from the statues. Pebbles bit into my knees through the layers of skirt and petticoat.

The nickering of horses filled the air. Hooves thundered on the ground. 

Nuns rushed out of the abbey, muttering to one another. Lili and I sprang to our feet. A host of black-armored knights dismounted in the courtyard. Their cloaks were embroidered with the crest of Basilisks: a pair of serpents coiled together in the shape of a blade.

My mind flashed with the memory of their arrival from a year ago, when they had come to claim Mother Angharad. A chill snaked down my spine. Who have they come to take this time? 

One of the Basilisks, a hulking beast of a man with silver-threaded brown hair, strode toward me. It was Sir Blaidd, the Captain of the Royalguard. He accompanied the king on his monthly visits to the abbey. 

When the knight knelt before me, I forgot how to breathe. Lili peered at him from behind my hips.

“Lady Rhoswen is dead, may peace be upon her soul,” he declared somberly. “I’ve come to fetch you for the upcoming Reaping Ceremony, Lady Briallen.”

The shock was an icy splash of water, drenching every part of me.

“Blessed be the Reaper,” the men shouted, kneeling around me. “Long may she serve!”

i have tried to make a plot for a story that takes place on earth. In this world there are weapons that have been blessed by a mythical creature long ago. These weapons are created from when a being has a great passion for a specific activity or thing. this mythical creature will bless the being, causing it to leave a weapon filled with this specific passion as a power upon its death. however i feel like that would be too uninteresting so i want to add a specific curse to the users depending on the weapon they wield. i already have an idea for the curses but i dont know how to explain why these curses are so specific. for example, one curse is that the wielder of the blade is the target of the weapon, if the user where to let go of its weapon it would aim and fly at them in an attempt to pierce them. any ideas would be great

How do you guys feel about closing up a story in this way? I’m not talking about foreshadowing/outright detailing the ending at the first chapter, and then returning to that same exact situation in a circular manner. Rather, my intention is to have the MC return to a familiar location from the first chapter under different circumstances to demonstrate their growth as a person. In the first chapter, MC will be presented as a naive and vengeful person, whose rage towards a particular person (one of the antagonists) clouds his rationality. Fast forward to the end and the MC is back at the same place, and he encounters that same antagonist. Here and now he must decide whether he wants to kill the antagonist or spare him. The antagonist stands there knowing that his fate lies at the hands of MC, and he is prepared to accept either outcome gracefully. MC had learned of some hard truths along his journey prior to all this, and a sudden realization grants him the clarity of mind to finally forgive and spare the antagonist. There is absolutely a lot of context missing from this, but this is the basic idea I had laid out. I know for the most part that tropes don't truly impact a story and reader engagement if it's utilized well, but one can’t help but assume there are just some tropes overall that a reader might dislike regardless of how well written it is. Would like to hear your guy’s thoughts.

I’m starting my first fantasy, I’ve spent a while on world building and plots and main events. Ive started the first draft of chapter 1 and I just want to know any pointers. I’ve got the first scene down that I feel like sets the tone but also I feel I’m very biased on my writing when it could be utter nonsense on a doc. But I’m also proud of what I’ve done world building wise. I haven’t spent so long on it but got what I wanted down. I’m also new to reddit, I’ve quite literally joined five minutes ago because I don’t have a community to ask. I have read through some posts and you all seem so helpful. Thank you guys in advance.

Context: my story starts with the main character on a mission. He runs into another character that’s fighting something, becomes unbelievably intrigued by something he did, and decides to diverts his mission wanting to know more about him.

However, my power system is like an actual system, with its own terminology and stuff. My original intention was to have the mc somewhat introduce the basics as he carries out the mission and analyze the fight that happens, but I really don’t know how to not info dump while still making the audience understand what’s happening. Especially when the power system is somewhat tied to the revelation the mc has. How would you do it?

Hi!

I'm working on a novel idea and I've written myself into a corner that I can't think of a way out of. The setting is very DND. POV character is an assassin who has only ever been treated as a weapon to be used, not really a person with any agency. First chapter shows he's cold by killing someone in cold blood. Second chapter, he sees the target and marvels at how happy she is surrounded by friends. He then begins to want that aswell. He gets cold feet and doesn't kill her and leaves. He winds up leaving his assassin guild and kingdom in search of a life that's his.

I'm really proud of this idea and think it could be fun to right.

Problem: I am writing this in a DND style, so he needs a group to adventure with (probably a total of three characters so as not to inflate the story to quick). I really want the target he let live, a sword dancer named Elise, to be a member of it. I want the connection to be interesting but I can't think of a decent meet cue. I've tried a few tweaks but nothing feels quite right.

Any suggestions?

A glowing crystal chandelier hangs over a grand table filled with delicacies that would make even an angel’s mouth water. A large, seasoned fish wafts its garlic aroma through the smoke, with several smaller cuts around it. Savory meats, various breads, colorful desserts, and fresh vegetables sit across the rectangular table as five figures sit opposite each other. Ganymede is accompanied by his youngest, Brenda, and they quietly and solemnly eat their roasted duck with a silver fork and knife, ignoring the shirtless man at the end of the table chomping on a cooked bird leg and letting strips of half-devoured meat rain onto the table.  Laura sits silently, staring solemnly at an empty plate as Resten, in his formal uniform, slowly cuts into a steak with a knife and fork. He worriedly eyes his mother, whose vacant gaze is fixed on the empty plate before her. Worried that Sylvester will notice, Resten gently puts down his utensils and taps Laura's leg under the table.

“Mother,” Resten whispers, “Please, you need to eat something.”

Laura doesn’t respond, staring at her empty plate as if her mind isn’t present. Ganymede, slowly chewing his roasted duck, cautiously glares at Laura from across the table, trying to get her attention. He picks up an olive from a small plate of salad and glances at Sylvester, who’s gulping steaming soup from a large bowl. Planting an olive between his thumb and index finger, Ganymede flicks the olive across the table, pelting Laura in the forehead. The platinum-haired woman slowly raises her head and looks at Ganymede, who’s silently mouthing ‘EAT SOMETHING’ to her.

Resten recognizes Ganymede’s silent words, picks up his utensils, quickly cuts a chunk of steak, and raises the fork to Laura’s mouth.

“Here, mother,” The young man whispers as he inches the savory meat close to her mouth.

The steam wafting into her nose doesn’t faze her; she continues to stare vacantly into the empty plate, ignoring everyone around her. Resten pokes her mouth with a piece of meat, but she turns her head away.

“Is the food not to your liking?” Sylvester says, wiping grease from his face with a towel.

Laura sits quietly, staring at her empty plate, her hands resting on her legs. Ganymede silently eats his morsel, eyes cautiously ping-ponging between Sylvester and Laura.

Sylvester strips a turkey leg from a cooked carcass and tosses it onto Laura’s plate, where gravy splatters across the table.

“Your finest cooks have slaved to make this feast. Eat.” Sylvester sits back into his chair.

Laura sits quietly, turning her head slightly away from her meal in hidden spite, while Resten nervously and gently shakes her legs.

“Mother, please,” Reston whispers under his breath.

“Oh, don’t be so glum, Laura,” Sylvester smiles. “Don’t think of this interaction as prisoner and warden, although that is exactly what this is; I like to think of it as a family gathering. We’ve known each other for years, and I wanted to commemorate these years of peace and stability with a celebration. So why don’t you be a good girl and pick up that bird and eat it.”

Laura clenches her white dress, and her jaw tightens as she gazes at the turkey leg unceremoniously placed on her plate.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” Sylvester says, smiling at the Queen. “I’m guessing you’re refusing to eat so you won’t have the strength to fight when the time comes to entertain me, aren’t you?”

Laura doesn’t answer.

“She probably isn’t well,” Ganymede says.

Sylvester turns his head and glares at Ganymede with threatening eyes.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Sylvester says, a menacing growl beneath his sharp tone.

Ganymede shrugs and continues eating his meal.

The warlord turns his gaze back to Laura and leans on the table.

“Eat,” Sylvester commands, glaring daggers at Laura.

The queen glares back at Sylvester and lifts her nose.

“No,” She says in a soft, defiant tone.

Glaring at the woman, Sylvester’s jaw tightens as he clenches his spoon so tight it bends under the pressure. He glares into the woman’s defiant eyes before his angry glare morphs into a smile. Dropping his bent spoon, he rests his back in his royal chair, picks up a red grape, and plops it into his mouth. He chews for a few moments, gazing at Laura with amusement, who keeps her defiant nose in the air.

“Guard!” Sylvester shouts.

A few moments pass before a lady Cugarian guard enters the room holding a spear. She leans in, bringing her smooth, dark-skinned head near his mouth as the warlord whispers in her ear. She smiles, then turns and exits. Sylvester picks up another grape and eats it as he calmly taps his finger on the table. A few moments pass, and the lady guard enters, holding Laura’s rapier in both hands. Sylvester takes the rapier and places it on the table. A short while later, the same Cugarian guard returns. This time, he returns with two Casternean men, horns protruding from their foreheads, dressed in white cooking clothes, and a Casternean maid, wings protruding from the sides of her head. The three stand beside Sylvester, sharing confused, worried looks.

Sylvester stands and clasps Laura’s rapier.

“Your Queen doesn’t like the food you’ve prepared,” Sylvester says before thrusting the blade into the man’s gut.

The man wails in agony as he falls to his knees with the rapier in his gut.

“DADDY!” The maid cries as she falls near her father as he screams in agony.

“HOW DARE YOU!” Enraged, Laura jumps from her chair and charges toward Sylvester.

 Resten springs from his chair and wraps his arms around his mother’s waist, stopping her.

The maid cries as she tries to console her father while Sylvester coldly glares at Laura, her face filled with unbridled rage.

Ganymede and Brenda stand to see the wounded man's state. Blood pools beneath him as his eyes roll around in his head, with cold sweat pouring down his face.

Ganymede and Brenda exchange glances and nod. Brenda quickly circles the table, grabs a white towel, and rushes to the dying man to tend to his wounds.

“Eat that turkey!” Sylvester demands, pointing to the plate.

“You coward!” Laura screams, fist balled in rage, while Resten uses all of his strength to hold Laura back. “You’re not my lord,”

“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT I AM TO YOU!” Sylvester screams back. “IF YOU THINK YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO YOUR OWN WILL, THEN CHALLENGE ME AND DEFEAT ME FOR IT. OTHERWISE, DO WHAT YOU ARE TOLD TO DO, OR I’LL HAVE EVERY CASTERNEAN HERE SLAUGHTERED RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!”

Laura, seething, teeth clenched and fist balled, glares menacingly at the Warlord as he lifts his nose. Everything in her screams at her to accept his challenge, but the trembling arms of her son wrapped around her waist make her relent. Tears roll down her cheeks as she swallows her pride and rage and slowly sits in her seat. Resten pants in exhaustion as he sits in his chair, his uniform now disheveled from the struggle. Laura picks up the utensils, stabs the fork into the savory turkey leg, and cuts off a piece. Her fork hand trembles as she brings it to her lips. She opens her mouth and eats the morsel.

Watching Laura eat the turkey leg, Sylvester slowly sits in his chair and scoots closer to the table. He picks up a bundle of grapes and resumes eating. Brenda dresses the man’s wounds on the floor before picking him up in her arms and carrying him out of the dining area, followed by his loved ones. Ganymede shakes his head, then sits in his seat as everyone finishes their dinner.

Later, in the fancy halls of Mainstay Castle, Ganymede paces back and forth on the crimson rug while Laura leans against her door. Ganymede glares at Laura as he walks past her, while Laura keeps her sullen head lowered.

“What the hell was that back there!” Ganymede says angrily, pointing toward the dining hall, but keeping his voice down. “Have you lost your mind!”

“Shut up, Ganymede,” Laura spits back angrily. “What would you do? I have to sit at that godforsaken table with that monster and listen to that disgusting beast eat like a pig day after day, all while he taunts and tortures me and my people?”

“Yes, Laura! Yes,” The chieftain spits back. “It’s been keeping us and our people alive. You almost got a man killed because of your antics.”

“Look at you.” Laura steps to Ganymede, head tilted up. “The mighty chieftain reduced to a man who eats from the hand of the very man who enslaves his people.”

“Oh, stop it,” Ganymede says. “You think I don’t want to crush his skull and pound his corpse into dust? I’ve tried hundreds of times. But time and time again, he manages to beat me. We need a better plan, Laura. We can’t keep this up much longer. Another battle between us might be the last, and you know what happens then, right?”

Laura lowers her head, worriedly stroking her own arms.

“That’s right, Brenda and Resten will take our places. You think they’re ready for what Sylvester has in store for em?”

“Resten is my precious son. I can’t lose him,” Laura’s voice trembles at the thought of her son’s suffering. “Not to him. Not like this.”

“Then it's best to put your petty emotions aside and cooperate.”

Laura nods in agreement.

“Forgive me.” She wipes a tear from her face.

Ganymede sighs in frustration, turns towards the stained-glass window, and rests his arm and forehead on it. He mulls over ideas, but nothing useful comes to mind.

“I haven’t seen my wife nor my daughters in a long time,” Ganymede says. “I’m happy to watch Brenda grow despite being imprisoned, but I wish things were different. I spent so much time fighting you; I feel that I know you better than my own family. At one time, I thought all that mattered was winning the war, but all I got out of it was this.”

“I haven’t seen my husband in years,” Laura says. “Sometimes I worry if I’ll ever see him again. We used to take Resten to the prairie fields and prance together under the evening sun until we fell asleep.” Laura wipes a tear from her eye. “I miss those days.”

A solemn silence settles between the two as they reminisce about better times at home.

“You think we’ll be able to return to those times, Laura?” Ganymede asks, still leaning on the stained-glass windows.

Laura stays silent, leaning against the door and nervously stroking her arms as she thinks about the answer.

“I don’t know.”

I want to write an urban fantasy story that's a shout-out to old pulp heroes in general, and The Shadow in particular. So it's a black-clad vigilante in the night, with spooky superpowers. Except this one would have powers mostly related directly to darkness: Ie, can meld with shadows to become invisible, can cast his voice out of different shadows to freak people out, can see perfectly in darkness, etc. I feel it's a nice way to always have him skulking dramatically in darkness, while also giving him a simple and straightforward weakness: His powers only work at night.

I was planning on naming this character The Raven, and also giving him the power to communicate with ravens to some degree, and see through their eyes. Maybe even make him able to shapeshift into a raven. All the better to get the jump on crime, you see. Also a good way to reach rooftops.

The intended backstory was that he's descended from a long line of people with a mystical connection to a tometic raven spirit, which embodies dark, vengeful justice. It feels appropriately pulpy, I think.

Then I started doing actual research, and it turns out that ravens (and crows, for that matter) don't have night vision. They are daytime birds. But they are just so damn cool...

I know owls are cool in their own right, but I don't think they work as well as a vigilante symbol. There ARE black owls, but only in South American and Australia, I think.

Am I overthinking this? Or does the fact that Ravens aren't nocturnal undermine what I'm trying to do? I mean... I feel bats as a vigilante symbol are kind of taken...

Hi everyone!

Just as the title says, how do determine when the worldbuilding you have is sufficient enough to use for a first draft? What do you consider essential before you start?

I'm very aware that getting lost in the worldbuilding sauce is an easy danger to fall into, and I especially want to avoid it because I know the story will change in ways that are currently unimaginable to me since I haven't written it yet.

At the same time, I'm finding that character work or plot work can only really move forward and come together if there is a solid world with lots of tension points in it to create conflict, spark motivations, etc. So where would one draw the limit?

For example, I'm debating on whether to start developing the faith-system(s) in my story's world, or to wait until I'm writing to figure out where it would work best.

Any genuine input is super appreciated :)

Hi everyone, I really appreciated your feedback last time I posted my blurb. I've revised since, and would greatly appreciate any thoughts so I can finalize this!! Thank you so much!!

A WEARY SORCERESS. AN UNWILLING WARRIOR.

AND A DESPERATE REBEL WHO HAD LONG LOST HOPE

In a distant city, Rahena Ansary finds refuge as a maidservant at the Royal Scholar’s Tower. Long besieged by powers she does not understand, she buries her identity to escape persecution. But when her questions lead to the masked rider who destroyed her home, Rahena will have to face the past she’s fled. Yet there is something greater at stake than her own vengeance, as visions call her to a fate beyond anything she’s known. The last of an ancient Order is waiting for her, and she will have to embrace that which she has always feared.

As a tyrant hunts Adnan’s family and the city heralds him as a warrior, the son of the ‘savior of the realm’ faces a task he’s long shunned: to rise up for his people and join the rebellion his parents began.

But the rebel leader has long disappeared. Vilified and pursued, the enigmatic rebel seeks absolution for his past. With what little faith he has left, he answers the call for resistance once again; and this time, he must do things right.

As the three paths converge, their own darkness follows them at their heel. Their war will change the earth itself – and their own souls – forever.

I have always had a creative fire burning inside, and have written short stories and poetry. I never did any with them, and was always extremely critical of them. As they were mostly me dealing with my emotions and mental health.

But I have now decided with some encouragement from my wife, to write the story I have.

So I have a couple of questions starting out:

How do I determine my style and flow. I am extremely inspired by Tolkien, and wish to mimic him but adding my own design to make it my own.

How do I keep myself from being overily critical and allowing myself to be happy with what I create.

What you recommend for a good pace to set for someone who has never written anything before.

Are there any questions i should ask myself or think in when writing and critquing my work?

If you have any general advice or places to look, I gladily recommend it.

Thank you for you time and consideration.

H.F Blackthorne

Hey everyone! I just joined this subreddit so please let me know if this is not appropriate for this space. Essentially, I’ve always been into writing and have always wanted to write and I did so for quite some time. But then I became an adult, started working, and writing just got pushed further and further into the back burner. Now, just writing a couple of paragraphs feels excruciating. I don’t feel the same magical wonder I felt before. I feel like my imagination has deteriorated as well. I struggle coming up with ideas, thinking of magical settings, thinking of worlds. It used to come so easily before and now it all feels so disjointed and clunky, I don’t really know how to explain it. I’ve kept reading fantasy, albeit much less than I did before, but it just feels like the magic is gone.
So I was wondering if anyone has any ideas or insights into how I can get back into it. I know practice is a part of it, but I was wondering if anyone has any other suggestions like maybe some YouTube channels that inspire you, subreddits, even just music or small practices to get you into the flow.
Thank you!

A little brainstorming and a question (I think?)

What is your definition of an annoyingly overpowered/weak character? What gives you the ick? What are the details that make you say, "Oh, this one is too overpowered" or "This one is far too weak and vulnerable"

I have thought about giving many of my characters great power, BUT pairing it with great weakness to become realistic and maintain balance.

These are the draft ideas

1. Super strength, but using it would require stamina, or you will be exhausted, the body can explode if the stamina is not enough before exertion
2. Mind reading, but lasting more than 5 minutes would cause fatigue and even severe hallucinations
3. Summoning of creatures using dark magic, but every use will eat your lifespan, and soon death will come
4. Blood manipulation, but it would make you crave blood, so the longer you use it, the further you are from being human

I want to make them powerful but not too much, so they wouldn't be out of place

I have tried' chosimg origin fir my elved byt I don't lniw what to chose. The themes of my world revolve around how each race copes with the Industrial Revolution—with factions both for and against it—and how a nation's past shapes the individual. I also want to show where each race gets its food and how they create tools, homes, clothing, and so on. The elves are based on fey, but without the usual human (or sapient) sacrifices. Magic is based on manipulating positive and negative energies associated with the elements—fire, earth, water, and air—if that information helps. Origin 1: Created by the fey to protect the forests. In this version, the fey are manifestations of the world's soul; they needed another race for protection because they are naturally wild, unorganized, constantly shifting in form, and confined to their zones of manifestation. Origin 2: Elves are fey who were banished from Faerie after a great, chaotic war. In this case, the fey act as a mirror to the beings of the material world—saturated with life, where every emotion is thousands of times more intense than in mortals. The elves have tempered these wild emotions, though they remain stronger than those of humans.

I'm writing a political romance story where a young prince is taking back a kingdom that has been in stewardship for a few years. Prince George proposes to Mireya, his childhood friend who works in a famous mercenary company the prince fought together with back in the day. Mireya has been very supportive of his claim and has been helping him find a wife - so she's pretty surprised when he asks her!

Instead of an enthusiastic yes, she asks if she can give her answer after a fortnight of her accountants and lawyers looking over how such a decision would change her life.

My five reasons why they don't get together in chapter 1 are:

1) How marrying him will affect her business and family estate, as she is an owning family member in a powerful mercenary company. What will her family be restricted from doing? How will this change everything for them all? She is accustomed to doing work in three different countries across a typical year. And her family serves as security for several organizations, as well as performs expeditions and charts dangerous dungeons.

2) Does she want to make her life about being humanitarian and hostess? They challenge each other's expectations on what public service means. Does HE think he'll get to do whatever he wants or that he'll be as free to move about the country? If the rest of his life is just spent moving from county to county being a guest at abbeys, what does he hope to accomplish besides hearing everyone complain about small matters?

3) The judiciary who supports Prince George's claim to the throne approves of Lady So-and-So as a better match. The entire last story before this one was him trying to choose between some very spectacular women who are amazing supporters for the kingdom... And then this story starts with him springing a proposal on his childhood friend. XD

4) Insert here a family scandal that affects the public's perception of Mireya's family and company. My stories are all murder mysteries, so I imagine this is where that will come into play.

5) Insert here a lapse in judgement they will have to make up to each other later. "Mr Darcy keeping Bingley and Jane apart" level issue.

Any feedback would be appreciated. It's entirely from her perspective, since she'll be investigating the murder mystery. I have researched some of my favorite stories about commoners becoming public servants: first ladies, presidents, and princesses.

As a younger author this is the first part of a 7 year long project and after much procrastination finally wrote a timeline. Please remember this is very rough it is unrefined but step one. Please do ask questions and help me help you understand it because I am just hoping for info, advice, anything. Even if you just like it tell me.

1  The Great Cold: Frost releases his full supply of life force and is stopped by Ethan, freezing part of the world as well as allowing cultist to kill Apollo’s wife and separate Dollin. 

2 The Fields Of Plenty: Ethan brought Frost to the fields of plenty to heal, Matchithew and him fight leaving Frost alone before he wakes up. 

3 Grim’s introduction: Grim rushes Frost however his attempt is proven useless leading to a begrudging temporary allyship.  

4 Apollo’s introduction: Apollo tracks Frost down and fights him and Grim, cutting his arm off and leaving them to die. 

5 A way home: Frost and Grim recover and spot a ship of vampires, they sneak on and meet another stowaway child (Dollin) 

6 The Stowaway: Dollin assist them in staying hidden from the vampires and his identity stays hidden. 

7 The departure: The ship docks and Dollin goes a separate ways while Grim and Frost begin their journey. 

Mid point 

8 The journey: Grim and Frost head North in order for Frost to understand more 

9 The encounter Apollo finds Grim and Frost, Frost runs and later Grim after “fighting” returns. 

Build Up 

10: The betrayal: Grim again tries to take Frost’ life however fails and leaves him to die in the forest. 

11 The mysterious boy: Dollin again reunites with Frost, now traveling North with him. His identity remains hidden while he tells his story. 

Climax. 

12: The castle: Apollo’s castle becomes visible through a thick fog. Grim returns to pin Frost down while Apollo makes his final entrance to kill Frost, 

13: The reveal: Dollin reveals his identity and clears Frost of the crime he wasn’t aware he was being executed for. Apollo recognizes Frost is merely a child just like his son and spares him. 

Context: Frost, Ethan, and Matchithew are brothers, and Matchithew is inherently evil while still keeping their magical  nature hidden from Frost. 

The great cold separated Apollo from his wife and son allowing her to be killed by cultist and Dollin to end up taken away. 

Grim is trying to kill Frost so he can prove himself worthy as a reaper so he  can return to his father 

The fields of plenty is a perfectly balanced magical island uninhabited full of recourses 

The continent grim and frost land on is full of vampires and is ruled by Apollo secretly  

Apollo is an old True Vampire remaining “the strongest” for the whole series and his name “Apollo” only be revealed much later. He is often referred to as a legend and only called The Immortal Knight by the narrator. 

3^rd person omniscient POV 

Fantasy world much larger than our own 

Medieval  

Hard Magic System

F.Y.I I have tried to make this as simple as possible as this is the first book in a series but I am not great at writing just small journeys like this.

{Fantasy}

So I've had this idea (or a similar idea, but the years do change things quite a bit), and I've actually started to write down the basic outline, and well, I can't really decide where my story is going; and trust me, I've tried but the ideas are blocked. So I figured you guys could give me suggestions based on my story. Do note that I haven't read Harry Potter, but I did see the first movie a few years back, which is likely where I got this idea.

The basic themes: Degradation of what schools teach will always lead to bad outcomes. Abstinence from violence isn’t peace.

Anyway, the basic concept is that a boy (named Aemulus) attends a secret magic school and learns magic, but throughout his time there he is told that magic is largely learned for tradition's sake, for honor, or medicine. This is until he decides to manipulate magic to its limit and becomes that world's equivalent of Sukuna (from the anime, not folklore). But he isn’t our MC.

A boy (named Antaeus), about 1000 years later, in the modern age, is walking home from school when something happens that sends him deep into a rabbit hole that leads to him being enrolled in a magic school in a secret worldwide magic society.
After class ends one day, he’s roaming around the school when he goes a bit too deep into the library and finds the Archives, a place where dangerous magic artifacts are stored. Among the stored artifacts are two wands belonging to one sorcerer (two wands are thought to have been impossible). Not thinking much, he takes the set of wands, which feel really heavy for some twigs.
Some time later, Aemulus is freed from his Evergaol and runs from the school without his wands. The school expelled Antaeus and placed him in the middle of the forest.
Thing is, Aemulus doesn’t need wands to cast magic because during his reign he was so magically in tune that he could just do that shit bare-handed. He also has a preference for fire magic and summoning magic. His favorite creature is one that he made that can absorb any magic attack and redirect it back at the dude.
Some plot later, Anteaus is in another country battling magic officials. Anteaus is a wanted criminal in the magic world.

I'd also appreciate questions; those might get my gears turning a bit. Also, just general thoughts on what I have.
Reupload because the last one got taken down for not having "I have tried" or something.

Talismans charms amulets. Why wouldn’t they work when you’re just in the vicinity? Would a magic necklace work if you put it in your pocket? Are there any rules like “it has to be touching the wearer’s skin”? Or it set off by something external? Can the wearer “turn it on and off”?? Can it detect being worn? Is it aware in any way? Or maybe it just *works*

In my story I have the magic item be near the characters almost at all times, but it doesn’t have an effect until it’s on them. I have thought of unique ways how different characters go about having it, so two of them wear it proudly around their neck, but there’s also a third guy who would rather keep it tucked away. He’s actually the one who get the most use out of the thing, even though he’s keeping the biggest distance from it. I’d love to hear someone else’s thoughts on the trope, and how they’ve felt with it :D

I've posted on here before asking about something with the design on the left, but I want critique for which one would work better within the bounds of my story, and don't just choose the left design cos it's more fleshed out as a design.

The character is question is a guy called Joseph who's my protagonist. Long story short, he gets killed and then the rifts basically reform his corpse and he gets #revived (winner winner chicken dinner) and now he's walking about in a fresh new bod but he's like crazy deformed (ruh roh).

But I need help choosing which route to go down ...

Here's a brief overview of the mechanics of my story just to get this out of the way: • Rifts optimise/stabilise organisms, allowing life from different eras to coexist despite differences in atmosphere, pressure, temperature, diseases, etc. Essentially, every organism becomes adapted to the shared modern environment.

• Humans are affected too. The optimisation isn't inherently harmful

• Rifts can occur on land, underground, in lakes, or even in the sky, and they area they can be found in is roughly the size of large towns before you find another, the portal itself is the size of a horse height wise, but stretch to accomodate. They're more densely distributed around heavily populated areas.

• There is immense vegetation growth around rifts, making their presence especially obvious.

• Getting extremely close to a rift for too long can cause a dead organism to mutate and be reanimated (the rifts are so energy dense that it's basically just like 'yo bro here have a soul'

• it could cure diseases such as cancer, it could potentially reverse global warming, and pushes organisms toward a "perfect organism" state although that doesn’t necessarily mean predator/prey relationships are disrupted. But you will have wolves hunting dinosaurs and giant insects going after household cats.

Okay which is better as a concept:

If the rifts optimise everything, when something dies near one it doesn’t know how to optimise it considering it’s not living and can’t distinguish between multiple different mixed DNA due to contamination of the body after death (ie animals eating bits) (left design)

Or

The optimisation creates a completely new species out of the different DNA’s and optimises that too (right design)

So we got captain clark or nina tucker chimera which is it

My character is a highschooler. He takes a ~20 mins train to school everyday. There are also a part-time job and buying foods. Once day, he somehow got a teleportation ability that allows him to instantly go anywhere, does not require additional energy source(like mana), does not have a cooldown time and he want to make use of it in everyday activities.

I have thought about a few scenarios that could expose him:

- Someone learned of the fact that he were at 2 different locations simutanously. This could be either from a surveiliance cameras or infomation from other witnesses.

- People may question him of his super fast arrivals.

- Someone saw him suddenly appears.

- Someone with an ability to see through wall or an ability to detect nearby life force saw him suddenly appears.

- The MC being mixed up in some police investigation that they would ask for his whereabout at the time of his teleporting usage.

Most of these can be avoided if the MC do research and prepare some hidden spots to teleport to and from beforehand. Also avoid using it in the case when people know when you are going to depart and arrive, or just use the time difference for other activities. However, what execuses can he use in the case of being inverview by police? And how would he hid himself from these other ability wielders?

What other scenarios that can potentially expose him?

Many thanks for your inputs in advance.

For context, I’ve written fantasy before, but never pulled on that romantic thread. Has anyone here gone from fantasy to romantasy? Did you learn any lessons on the way?

I have tried my best to research the genre, but it still feels pretty nebulous. For example, I’m not entirely sure what difference there is between a “fantasy with some romance” and a “romantasy”. Even The Lord of the Rings had some romantic subplots, but presumably Tolkien wasn’t an early pioneer of romantasy. 

I considered posting this in r/RomanceWriters instead, but I decided that this would be a better place for it. I may be totally wrong on that though, as I really don’t know what you think of the romantasy genre. If this question is an insult to everything you know and love in this world, please chase me away with a pitchfork.

Mine is "Cannibalism as a metaphor for love"

I believe cannibalism is the highest act done to show intimacy and yearning to be with someone, to the point of wanting to have a piece of them inside you. To be somewhat closer to them than anyone else. A fragment closer to their soul.

For me, cannibalism is a much more intimate and a stronger act than sex, it is much more intense and indulgent, especially when paired with the act and behavior of making love.

I'm writing a book with this theme, where it explores unhealthy acts, perspectives, thinking, manners, and behaviors of expressing their affection and love for someone and something.

I have tried talking to my friends about it, but sadly we do jot have the same taste. I want to hear your characters' most toxic, twisted ways of showing affection and genuine love or care.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1gaHWfHoaLSIqsBXfWf0ZC19thI0lI0YVeUYjORcXwrA/edit?usp=sharing

Working title and still unfinished.

The story follows Pax and Augustus a retired duellist and her student, as they try to gain patronage from one of the great noble houses. In doing so, the pair become embroiled in estate politics, both with the house itself and with their fellow duellists.

In the first chapter, the two arrive at the estate of House Gaius, meet some of their fellow duellists, and explore the grounds a bit before recieve the news that Augustus's first match has already been scheduled. In the second, Augustus fights his bout against Corin, one of the Gaius's duellists, and loses. In the third, we see some of the consequences of Augustus's wound before both he and Pax are invited to dine with Gaius that evening. And in the last chapter, Pax and Augustus dine with members of the Gaius family, and Pax learns how Augustus's first match was a setup for him to lose. In the last chapter, growing tension between Pax and Augustus comes to a head during training and Lady Aurelia offers to finance a surgery that could aid in the recovery of Augustus's arm.

I'm interested to hear any general feedback that people have on this chapter. Thanks!

I know this is a controversial topic, and would like the community thoughts on this. For some background, I'm a software developer and that industry is incredibly AI heavy at the moment. Towards the beginning, I avoided using it at all, then to keep up/for some job security I started leveraging it. Now I'm trying to get away from it, and am feeling very disillusioned again. When it comes to writing background, ive done a few one off short stories, but most of my experience comes in terms of a custom dnd campaign (more of a interactive storytelling vs novel writing). So, now onto my conundrum.

I used AI to help plan out a book, and as a writing mentor. It did not generate any of the actual content for me, everything I have so far has been 100% written by me, by hand. What kt has done, is prompt me. How does X character react. What happens as a result of this. Where does this path lead. So on and so forth. I finished all the way through what could be considered Act 1 of the book, then took a break from writing. Im wanting to pick back up, but now face the question of whether to keep what I have but don't use AI any further, or, ditch both AI and the current draft and start fresh with an idea that AI has never been involved in at all.

I dont disagree that AI is bad for the world, I've seen and experienced how it can influence people and industries. I've been close enough to the tech industry layoffs to feel the impact. I'll admit that I have used it both professionally and personally, but now Im trying to break the habit. Its a weird duality of knowing most of my work can be done by AI, and trying to keep up with others who use it to increase there output, but also not wanting to use it anymore. Looking forward to everyone's thoughts on this. If folks want, I can also try to share some snippets of what the threads looked like with the AI, as well as snippets of the writing itself.

Personally, i have thought about it, and am leaning towards just starting completely fresh, or picking up some old short stories and continuing them.

Hello r/fantasywriters. This is my first post on Reddit. I'm starting to write a novel. Under this explanation is a finished scene titled with an act. Under that is an explanation of what each act means. Under that is a summary of the whole novel. The summary is more than 444 words. Before I write the whole thing does anyone think this novel has any potential? I'm worried Act 2 won't turn out. Does anyone have any thoughts and feedback?

Act 2

Wren walked into the tent as a fox as rain began to fall, filling the air with the scent of earth. Wren’s head felt like it was covered in molasses. They entered to find Jack lighting the oil lamp. They stepped onto the dry grass in the recently set up tent. Their legs felt like noodles, they could barely stay upright. ‘You alright?’ Jack asked, laying the warm glowing lamp down in a small dirt clearing.

‘Yeah. I’m. Fine,’ Wren assured him as they settled beside the lamp, their front paws slowly lowering them into a crouch. Their whole body felt like a heavy stone they had carried all day.

‘Okay, then,’ Jack agreed, taking a seat beside Wren. The rain tapped in a steady thundering rhythm on the waxed canvas. It felt like the whole world was at rest. In the cozy glow of the lamp Wren curled up and rested their head on their warm bushy tail. Eyes heavy, they let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. And slept.

Act summaries.
Act 1, starts with Wren and Jack in their Industrial Revolution home city. It ends when Wren and Jack start their journey in the forest. Act 2, is about Wren and Jack getting to the Port by walking in the forest. Act 3, consists of Wren facing the hunter in the forest, leaving the port, and living in their new home.

Novel summary

Concept:

The protagonist activates a recessive genetic trait. Causing them to shift into a fox. In this form they can speak with concentration. They can shift to their human form, but the fox form is the default form. It takes concentration and energy to maintain their human form. To put the required energy to scale, it's like an introvert getting tired at a party. They can do it for a few hours on a good day. But if they're tired, injured, or emotionally drained, then they can't hold it as long. They also turn back into a fox when they’re asleep or unconscious.

Summary:

Set in the Industrial Revolution. After the condition is activated, a hunter discovers them. Then they must journey through a forest with their friend Jack to a port, where they can sail to safety. Initially Wren hates what they are. Through the forest with their Jack's help, they come to terms with it and accept it. In the climax they have a confrontation with the hunter. Then the two find out that the hunter has been getting the blood of fox/humans to remain human themselves. In this confrontation the hunter has been hunting for them for so long that they run out of the blood. Slowly, painfully, they shift to their fox form. Which is scarred and battered from his shame and use of the blood. The hunter offers the protagonist to join him and help them remain human the way the hunter does. As Wren's turning point, they refuse. Wren walks away to the port with Jack. While the hunter must endure the fate of living with themselves as they are, in the forest. Meanwhile after years of living in a house at the edge of the forest Jack catches feelings for Wren. A few months later he confesses that he likes them. Wren says they like him too. The end.

Protagonist’s name: Wren. Gender neutral.

Hazel eyes. Short brown hair. Freckles across their face. Brown waist coat containing an old pocket watch. A cream shirt. Dusty grey trousers. Brown work boots. Has an expression like they’re calculating what they should finish next.

Wren is the kind of person who would refuse to ask for help and struggle for hours. Simply because they don’t want to realise, they were capable of doing it themselves all along the second someone starts to help. They’re the worker who doesn’t want to fall behind anyone else, not to be the best. But because they don’t want to be a burden. They hate it when people don’t honour their word. They’re the worker who would direct the new hire to an unimportant job during a late closing. So, they can shamelessly finish the new guy’s job faster to get everyone else home in time. But they wouldn’t dare be caught dead being in the new hire’s position.

I've fleshed out more detail for Jack and the other acts but this is a summary of what I have so far. By the way the Jack and Wren dynamic is 100% platonic until after the port.