https://www.amazon.com/Sins-Cinder-Prophet-Book-Summerhost-ebook/dp/B0H1VXLLSD

ONE

Anshul felt his arms quake as the power of his spell craft began to wane, and the heat that had burned deep within him gave way to icy chill as he regarded his friends. “I…” he began, the words failing to form in his mouth.

Kotowar and Big C shook themselves in an effort to dry off. When that failed, Hunhow twirled his staff to blow away the excess moisture. Javari and Michael took a seat on boulders that lined the stream, giving the wizard and the sorcerer a modicum of privacy.

Stryg slowly approached Anshul, the amber gem atop his staff glowing with a faint white light. “Where is your wand, Anshul?” Stryg’s words were clipped, and despite the chill of the magic on his staff mixed with the cool autumn breeze, Anshul felt heat in the words regardless.

Moments before, Anshul and his companions had narrowly escaped death at the hands of a mad mage known as the Cinder Prophet. What began as a simple escort mission had quickly devolved into a trek through goblin strongholds, cursed ruins, and a harrowing journey through the heart of the Cinder Prophet’s lair. Undead beasts and haunted idols had chased the party from the depths of the wizard’s lair, and the adventure culminated in a battle between the party and the Cinder Prophet himself astride a black dragon. Anshul, already struggling with maintaining control of his pyromancy, had called upon all his might to hurl a miniature star at the beast, decapitating the dragon and very nearly destroying his friends in the process. Now, in the calm after the storm, his reckoning had come.

Anshul removed the broken wand from what remained of his scorched robes. “It broke while I was casting the earth magic earlier. I know I should have told you, but when Ziarius came to me in the dream—”

Stryg held up a hand and Anshul fell silent. “No. No excuses. You were given a tool to aid your control, and despite the loss of that tool, you used your power recklessly. Stars above, Anshul, look at yourself.”

Anshul peered down and examined his tattered, burnt robes. His chest was bare, and his already red-tinted skin had burnt a deeper hue. Burn scars etched across his chest, a reminder of the intense heat he conjured in the battle. He looked to the dragon, its head obliterated and its neck a smoldering ruin of flesh.

“Big C and Kotowar are lucky to be alive,” Strygcontinued. “Have you any idea how reckless that spell was?”The wizard pointed at the scorched earth around the dragon’s corpse; the ground beneath had grown so hot amidst the blast that loose soil had turned to glass. The Cinder Prophet’s corpse was little more than a pile of ash amidst scraps of cloth that had once been robes. Anshul looked then to his companions and took in the carnage: Big C, the hulking, simple-minded barbarian, bore scars along his exposed chest and forearms where heat had rippled from the fire blast and licked away at his flesh. The coarse hair along the half-orc’s chest had burned away, and the periapt he wore at his throat was blackened and warped. Likewise, Kotowar, the half-orc brawler, had his leather armor warped and peeled away from the heatwave. His greasy black hair was now layered in ash, giving the younger of the brutes a visage of great age.

Anshul knelt on his knees and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry. All of you, I’m so sorry.”

The wizard glared at his friend, his eyes burning with rage. Stryg took several deep breaths, then began to get a handle on his emotions. After a while, he knelt on one knee in front of the sorcerer. He spoke calmly, quietly. “Look at me.” Anshul did as instructed, though his eyes glistened as tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. “I know that you need help, but you must understand something. I cannot help you if you do not let me know how to help.”

“I know. But there was nothing to be done, Stryg. Could you have mended the wand even if I had told you about it?”

Stryg felt a tinge of pain in his chest as he reflected on his own state during the struggle against the Ancient One’s idolback in the Prophet’s lair. “No. No, I do not believe that I could.”

“It’s time we both allow ourselves to confront the truth. One day, this power will consume me,” Anshul rose to his feet, but the shame of his actions would not allow him to meet the wizard’s eyes. “No wand or spell can change that. And I am beginning to make peace with that.”

Stryg’s voice began to crack, the anger of the moment giving way to fear at last. “I cannot, will not, accept that. I don’t know what this staff will allow me to do, but I swear to you, I will do everything I can to help you overcome this burden.”

“You know how this ends, Stryg. You know what that nightmare queen told me. Only through immersion will you find peace. If that’s the way things have to be, I will accept it. I refuse to let this hellish power destroy my friends.”

Stryg was silent for a while longer. “I will not say that I understand, or even that I agree. But you are my friend, my brother, and I will be there for you when your time draws near.” He met Anshul’s gaze and sadness gave way to steely resolve. “But do not ask me to stand by helplessly in that moment. You may feel bound by fate to accept what comes, but I am under no such compulsion. I will seek a way to help you fight against this force. If the time comes that you lose all control and I do not have the strength to release you from this burden, I will stand with you, but I will also use my power to fight that which seeks to consume you.”

“I understand. And when that time comes, I expect you to do what you must to protect the others. Even if it means protecting them from me.”

Stryg nodded gravely. “We will cross that bridge once we come upon it. Until then, I would ask a great favor of you.”

“Name it.”

“Do not call upon your fire again. The more you lean on its power, the more it wields you instead.” Stryg glanced back at the ruined dragon corpse, at the smoldering battlefield and the wounded companions still licking their wounds. “For your sake, I ask this. And for theirs.”

“I will do whatever I can,” Anshul agreed. “But it can’t promise it won’t happen despite my efforts.”

Stryg accepted that in silence. As the sorcerer knelt by the stream to wash away the ash and soot of the battle, Stryg made a circuit of the clearing, checking on each of their companions in turn. Big C leaned against a rock, digging through his satchel for a balm to aid in soothing the burns. A young goblin, Gubal, hid behind the barbarian, only now deciding that the danger was gone at last. The barbarian removed a multi-colored cap from his head, adorned with a small wooden propeller, and passed the garment to the little goblin.

“Here. This is my favorite hat. I’d like you to hold onto it for me while I clean up.” Big C smiled wearily at his new friend, and Gubal looked down at the hat in confusion a moment before donning the hat himself. Big C continued rummaging through his pack, failing to find the balm he’d hoped for.

“Does it hurt much?” Stryg asked, gathering motes of amber light around the gemstone on his new staff as he paused in front of the burnt warrior.

Big C tried to keep a stoic face, but the winces betrayed him as he moved. “I’ve had worse. Fought enough Hellbeasts to know how to fix myself up. But I think I forgot my salve.”

Stryg allowed the motes to settle like fireflies on Big C’s chest and arms. Within seconds, the bubbling flesh and blisters began to recede, knitting healthy, green flesh together once more. Big C exhaled, releasing the tension and pain he’d tried to carry so stoically.

“That’s much better. Thanks.”

Michelangelo Huntington, a half-elf ranger, dropped from a tree limb and nodded to the wizard. Michael, as he called himself, was new to the party, and Stryg knew very little of him. The ranger showed little sign of harm in the attack, and Strygwas glad to see that at least one member of the group had come away unscathed.

Stryg turned to Kotowar, who had knelt by the stream and began washing the ash from his hair. “Are you well?” The wizard asked.

“Not too bad. Armor is slagged in a few places, but it’ll hold. I’ll be fine. Just need to clean the dirt from the wounds and I’ll be ready to leave.”

Stryg looked the young brawler over and, satisfied that the half-orc was not downplaying his wounds, made his way to Javari. A dwarven warlock, Javari had been on the road with his brother, Argo Ironshovel, to deliver a wagon of arms and armor to the city of Summerhost. Stryg and his companions had been hired to escort the dwarves, but arrived too late. Argo had been kidnapped by goblins, and it was the rescue mission to save Argo that had led to the confrontation with the Cinder Prophet. Javari was crude, gruff, and had no qualms in using his mysterious patron’s gifts to inflict pain on his enemies. But beneath the crass demeanor and unprocessed grief and rage, Stryg could sense compassion and love in the warlock, even if only a little.

Javari was leaning against a smoldering tree stump, running a stone along the blade of his axe. Stryg immediately felt an air of rage and fear swirling around the dwarf.

“Would you care to share your thoughts?” The wizard asked, a hint of trepidation in his tone.

Javari spat, refusing to look the wizard in the eye. “My thoughts? I don’t think you or anyone else are ready to hear my thoughts.”

Stryg winced, bracing for the impact of the warlock’s ire. And well he should; Javari had carried his brother’s loss with stoicism and crass humor, trying to hide his own anxiety beneath those masks. But with the Cinder Prophet now dead, the sole living lead on Argo’s whereabouts was now silenced permanently.

Anshul, noticing at last the dwarf’s agitation, walked over to address the situation. “Javari, I just want to say—”

“I could give a steaming shit what you have to say,” the warlock snarled. “We should have left him alive. You should have restrained yourself. There’s plenty more he could have told us,” Javari kicked at the mound of ash that was once the Cinder Prophet and scattered some of it in the breeze.

“In a perfect world, we could have done that,” Stryginterceded, positioning himself between Anshul and Javari. The sorcerer did not fail to notice the amber gem atop the wizard’s staff glowing faintly. “But we are not in that world, I’m afraid.” The dwarf frowned at the ash, clearly displeased with the response. “I do not believe we would have learned anything useful about your brother, not from him at least.”

“I suppose we’ll never know.” Javari’s voice dripped with venom, and the cloud of negative emotion that surrounded him made small flecks of ice appear along the scorched earth beneath them.

“Did you not just tell the others in the heat of battle to let me have this?” Anshul retorted, the heat in his voice rising. “You can’t have it both ways, you know.”

“I didn’t expect you would kill him without letting us interrogate him. It’s one thing to make him regret his wickedness, but another entirely to reduce him to cinders before we get some use out of him.”

“Javari, please.” Stryg reached out to lay an arm on his friend’s shoulder, but Javari slapped his hand and released the energy around him. A small burst of icy force washed over Stryg, who raised his staff to dampen the spell’s power. Snowflakes melted as they bounced off the ward, but a shard of ice whizzed past the arcane defense and slashed across Anshul’scheek. Blood dripped from the shallow wound, and Big C and Kotowar leapt to their feet with weapons drawn.

Anshul held up his hand to the half-orcs. “It’s fine. Let him have his tantrum.”

Stryg held his staff in the defensive stance, but allowed the ward to fall. Javari did not speak again, but shoved past the wizard and sorcerer to sulk in the woods. Stryg glanced at Anshul’s wound and sent a wisp of amber light over the scratch, knitting the torn flesh.

“Thanks,” Anshul mumbled. “I think I’m going to clear my head a bit, maybe see if I can find Fenris.”

Javari stomped through the dense brush of the woods, hacking at fallen limbs and thick weeds with his axe. They had the wizard right there, could have overpowered him and chained him up. Argo was still out there somewhere, afraid and alone, and that damned Cinder Prophet could have given them all a lead on how to find the dwarf. Weeks of travel, danger at every turn, and still they were no closer to saving Argo.

Javari came to a small glen and stopped marching, only then realizing that he had been breathing raggedly. His knuckles were white as he gripped the axe and sweat poured down his brow as he gasped for air. Despite the exertion, his blood was cold in his veins and his heart pounded against his chest. A panic attack. He knew the sensation all too well.

You could kill the sorcerer, a voice echoed in his head. His dark patron, an eldritch entity known only as The Beyonder, often whispered dark thoughts into Javari’s mind when the panic attacks came. Whether one led to the other, Javari couldn’t be sure, but years of dealing with the sensations had at least given him a small amount of fortitude. He killed the wizard, and your brother is still lost. Why not take your frustration out on him? Does he not deserve it?

Tempting though the idea was, Javari steadied himself against a tree and focused on steadying his breath. One long breath in, hold for ten seconds, one long breath out. Repeat. As his heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal, his patron’s voice stopped clawing at his mind and his temper began to calm. Cool it, Javari, he scolded himself. You’re no use to Argo like this. Anshul has his own demons, just like you. Get a grip and have some compassion. He remained in the glen a few minutes longer, and when the panic attack was passed, only then did he begin to trek back to the party.

In the opposite direction, Anshul stumbled through the thicket, his mind ablaze with fear and self-loathing. He’d lost control, and it was a miracle alone that his friends hadn’t been blasted away in the heat of his attack on the dragon. Worse, the guilt he felt over burning Javari’s home as a child compounded with the shame of killing the Cinder Prophet without interrogation. Javari’s anger and fear were justified, and Anshulstruggled with the weight of his guilt and shame.

Peace through immersion. The refrain echoed in his mind as he replayed the images of the burning dragon, the wave of fire harming his friends, the memory of a burning city and a small child left alone in the ash. The noise thundered in his head, and his chest began to glow white hot. Sweat became puffs of steam as his body evaporated the moisture. It was going to happen again, and he knew in his heart he was not strong enough to stop it.

A yipping noise pulled Anshul from his self-induced penance. The heat receded, the noise in his mind quieted, and a lone wolf emerged from the tall grass. The beast carried a large bone in his mouth, the remains of a terrorsaur that the Cinder Prophet had reanimated to assault the party earlier in the day. Through much pain and effort, Anshul and his friends had slain the undead beast, and now Fenris began to gnaw at the massive rib to get to the marrow within.

“Fenris!” Anshul felt his anxiety ease as the wolf dropped the bone and licked at his master’s face. “I see you made yourself scarce in the firestorm. Good thing, too. At least now I know there’s one soul out here happy to see me.”

The wolf yipped, returned to his bone, and began to gnaw hungrily. Anshul watched his pet wolf with pride, and thought of how he had rescued the beast from a band of goblins. Fenris and his vulpine brothers had been chained and kept in the pit of a cave, with only scraps dropped down to feed them. The wolf had nearly killed Anshul as he literally fell into the pit, but the sorcerer chose mercy and released the beasts to find freedom in the wild. Fenris, moved by the gesture, had chosen to stay with the party. Now he joined in the misadventures, and Anshul was glad to have him at his side.

Perhaps, Anshul thought after a while, Fenris sees more than I do. If a feral wolf can see my heart and choose to follow me, perhaps there is more than fire and shame to define me.

The wolf lapped at the last of the marrow and paced over to his master, licking his face once again. He sniffed the air, looked to the direction Anshul had left the party, and scratched expectantly at the dirt. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Come on. Time to rejoin the others.”

Stryg watched as Javari tromped one direction and Anshulin the other. He startled as footsteps approached from behind.

“What’s up with them?” Hunhow, a pale-skinned devilkinmonk jogged over to join Stryg, his youthful optimism somehow unperturbed by the thrashing he’d received from the dragon. Stryg noted that someone had tossed the boy a healing potion recently. He could smell the mixture of herbs and tonics on the monk’s breath, thanks in no small part to the fact that the monk stood much too close than necessary.

“Javari is afraid,” Stryg answered with a sigh. “He has every right to be. Give him some space for a bit, he’ll come around.”

“I’m afraid, too. Hells, I just gave a crazy wizard a concussion and then got slapped by a dragon tail, and I was chained up in a dark cell a few hours ago. This has been a terrifying couple of weeks for me.”

“Is there, perhaps, a point you are looking to make?”

“My point is that everyone has to deal with fear at some point. You just have to remember that fear needs you way more than you need it.”

Stryg pondered that for a moment. Hunhow hadn’t been with the group long, and his personality seemed far too cheerful for most of everyone’s tastes. Stryg was no exception, but even he had to admit that the monk had a point. “Learn that in your monastery, did you?”

Hunhow shrugged. “That was a key tenet for our order, but I really figured it out way before then. My dad always told me that fear needs permission to work on you. Like any other predator, it can be starved. No matter how scary things get, you can always do your part to take power away from fear.”

“That’s why you’re so upbeat all the time.”

“Pretty much. Truth be told, I’m probably the biggest coward you’ll ever meet. But every day I wake up, I get to prove myself a little braver than the day before. I’ll never stop being afraid, I know that, but at least I can make fear work for it.”

“I can respect that.” He stuck out his hand for the monk to shake. “I do not believe we have properly met. I am Stryg. I’m glad you are here with us.”

Hunhow beamed and shook Stryg’s hand vigorously. “Hunhow. Thanks again for saving me and Michael. Oh, and the goblin, too, even if he creeps me out a little.”

Stryg arched an eyebrow. “Do you consider him creepybecause he is a goblin, or is it something else?”

“I mean, all goblins seem to generally be pretty bad apples, but I wouldn’t really call them creepy. But this guy, I don’t know. It’s like there’s something extra just below the surface.” Hunhow shivered a little as his eyes wandered into the distance.

“That is great information to have,” Stryg mused. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I think that would be wise.” The rest of the group made their way over and joined the monk and wizard. Anshul returned just then with Fenris in tow, and Javari emerged from the woods across the clearing at the same time. The awkwardness of the recent events still hung in the air, and Anshul felt small under the scrutiny.

“Hell of a blast you threw,” Kotowar grunted, still fumbling with his armor.

“Yeah. Listen, I wanted to apologize about that. I shouldn’t have cut loose like that with you two so close to the blast radius.”

“Are you kidding?” Big C pulled Anshul into a bear hug that squeezed the air from the poor devilkin’s lungs. “That was awesome! How’d you get the fires that hot?” The barbarian’s reaction was a welcome turn of events for Anshul, and he felt his anxiety begin to ease away in the warmth of Big C’s forgiveness.

Anshul coughed a few times and Big C loosened his grip. “It just sorta happened. I’ll do better from now on. I don’t want to hurt anyone in the process of helping.”

“It’s alright, kid. Shit happens. We’ll be fine.” Kotowarstuck out a fist, and Anshul rapped knuckles with the brawler. “That said, I’d consider it a personal favor if you quit meltingmy armor.”

“I think I can maybe arrange that.”

“Good.” Kotowar looked to the sky and noted the moon rising behind the trees. “Come on, might as well get moving.We’ve got a dwarf to find.”

You can find the rest of the book on Amazon; it’s free to read on Kindle Unlimited! https://www.amazon.com/Pact-Nightmare-Queen-Book-Summerhost-ebook/dp/B0H34DXTCG

And so the wheel spun.

And so it always would.

Hello everyone! I figured I'd take a moment to share the first chapter of my epic fantasy novel with everyone. It's gotten some high praise over on Amazon, but I figured I'd let you all decide for yourself if Chapter One is enough to keep you reading. So, without further ado, please enjoy the first chapter for free here:

ONE

The cool air of the early autumn afternoon kept the underground chamber cool, if not musty. Deep beneath the ruins of an abandoned settlement sat a sorcerer, clad in robes of black and scarlet that draped above his head and obscured his features. Across from him sat a wizard, the wear and ruin of long years etched into his face. The two mages sat amidst the wizard’s laboratory, separated by a feeble old table laden with scattered scrolls, potion bottles, ink bottles and other paraphernalia.

“The dwarf must be alive when he reaches the mine,” said the sorcerer. “The Ancient One was quite firm on this.”

The wizard, known only to his associates as the Cinder Prophet, perused the stack of scrolls and parchment until he found the letter he had been searching for. A disgraced member of the Mages Alliance of Neverfell, it was the Prophet’s duty to serve as advisor to the town master of Summerhost. It would be all too easy to lure the dwarf into Summerhost if the town master offered much gold in exchange for service.

The wizard grabbed his staff and clapped it on the stone floor thrice. A door on the eastern wall opened, and a haggard man of perhaps 40 summers entered. His eyes were glazed, and he moved with an awkward gait, as if invisible strings maneuvered his knees and feet.

“Lord Tommen,” the Cinder Prophet mused as he enclosed the letter in an envelope, pouring hot wax at the seal. “If I might trouble you for your house seal, I must send word to Spiritgulf.”

Tommen removed the signet ring from his right hand and the mage stamped it to the wax. The image of a lion atop a throne embedded the wax, and the Prophet handed the letter to the town master. All the while, the sorcerer kept his face covered by the scarlet cloak.

“Excellent,” the Prophet said. “Now, see to it that this letter is delivered to Spiritgulf posthaste. There is a Cleric of Vhaldrik in the city. You will find her in the smithing district. Ensure that she is the only one to open this letter. Send your lightest rider on your swiftest horse. Time is not our ally.”

The enthralled town master let out a grunt and exited from the same door he had entered. Two guards clad in red, tattered robes entered as Tommen departed, moving to close and bar the door.

“Send Rottmaw in,” the Prophet barked. The guard on the left nodded and rushed down the dark hallway.

“I assume you have a preferred location to keep the dwarf?” the Prophet asked the hooded mage.

“Have him brought to the mine. I have some agents skilled in coercion that have gone too long with dry blades.” The sorcerer took a dagger from somewhere in his sleeve and balanced the tip on the table, his index finger on the hilt. The dagger twirled idly. The Cinder Prophet noticed the handguard was finely crafted into the shape of a squid’s tentacles, the bulbous head of the animal forming the hilt. “Of course, I expect there to be stops along the way.”

The two mages sat in silence a while, the only sound the scurrying of a rat as it ran across the floor of the laboratory.

“I trust you are ready to handle whatever guards the dwarf will bring with him?” The sorcerer asked.

“Nothing that Rottmaw and his hounds can’t handle,” the Prophet chuckled. “Besides, dwarves are greedy. If they aren’t killed for foolishly rushing into a skirmish, I can always buy their loyalty for myself.”

The sorcerer nodded. “Very well. See that the trap is ready when the dwarf arrives at it.”

The table rattled as a stone fell upon it from the open doorway. The Cinder Prophet startled in his seat; the sorcerer made no move. The Prophet reached to the stone to inspect it. Only, there was no stone.

It was the severed head of the red cloaked guard.

A heavy stench of soured ale, dried blood, and matted fur filled the laboratory as the massive goblin, Rottmaw, stood in the doorway. The remaining guard dangled from his left hand, desperately kicking and squirming, seeking precious air to fill his lungs.

“You interrupted my supper,” the monster growled.

The Cinder Prophet sighed and pointed his staff at the monster’s hand, the one holding the struggling guard. A whispered word set the tip of the staff aglow with blue and white light. The temperature of the already cool laboratory dropped enough to put a thin layer of frost on the scattered potion bottles, and a beam of ice zapped the goblin on the knuckle. Rottmaw winced, more in shock than in pain, dropping the red cloaked guard.

“That is enough,” the Prophet bellowed, absolute authority in his tone. “There will be time enough to sate your gluttony. Until that time, take a band of your goblin clansmen and make for the Bay of Pendergad. You will find a ship waiting for you. Within a fortnight, you will see a dwarf and his entourage sailing this way from Spiritgulf. The loot is irrelevant to me, but the dwarf must be captured alive.”

Rottmaw snarled as the guard began to crawl back through the doorway, none too eager to stay at his post. “The hells with this,” the Prophet heard the guard mutter.

“And his entourage?” Rottmaw asked.

“May you and your kin dine well. But know this: should the dwarf die in your possession, I will rend more than your pride when next we meet.”

Rottmaw growled, adjusted a circlet of jade and silver atop his head, and acquiesced. He may not be the smartest creature in the room, but goblins don’t live as long as him without a few self-preservation skills.

“Very well, Cinder Prophet.”

The Prophet turned to the sorcerer. “Am I to expect you at the mine, master?”

The mage sat silent for a moment, thinking. “No. I will be on an assignment of my own. I must see it done.”

“Very well,” the Prophet nodded. The sorcerer rose from his seat, darkness obscuring nearly every detail of his face, save for the white tattoos of tentacles around his eyes.

“Do not fail me.” The sorcerer warned. “The Ancient One has many eyes, and his reach is long. To fail me is to fail him. I need not remind you where you would be without his, or my, influence.” The shrouded mage vanished without another word. The Cinder Prophet stared at the empty space where his master had just stood, the agitation on his face evident. For nearly a century and a half he had worked to learn the secrets of the cosmos. He had begged, bartered, borrowed, stolen, and murdered his way to the upper echelons of the Mages Alliance, and still he hungered for knowledge. When he was put on trial as a suspect for the untimely demise of the lore-keeper of the alliance, it was the shrouded patron who intervened on his behalf. It was peculiar, really, how the jury all seemed to reconsider the death penalty in favor of probation in Summerhost so quickly. When the sorcerer approached him, offering him a seat at the proverbial table when the Ancient One rises, well, the Prophet was only too eager to accept.

It occurred to him in his agitation that the sorcerer had never given his name. Names are of power to a mage, the Prophet knew, so it was no great shock that his master’s lips were sealed. It unsettled him regardless, receiving threats of death, and perhaps worse than death, from a mysterious, unnamed benefactor. \*Fret not,\* he thought to himself. \*Soon the Ancient One will rise, and I shall be free of the life debt.\*

Rottmaw still stood in the open doorway, awaiting further orders. The Cinder Prophet had nearly forgotten him, then recalled the guard who ran away in fear.

“You are dismissed, Rottmaw. But one more thing: I do not suffer cowards to live. Dine well.”

You can find the rest of the story on Amazon; it's free to read with a Kindle Unlimited subscription!

https://www.amazon.com/Sins-Cinder-Prophet-Book-Summerhost-ebook/dp/B0H1VXLLSD

#epicfantasy #fantasy #magic #wizards

The Cinder Prophet is defeated, but victory has come at a terrible cost. One of their own is still missing, an ancient darkness is awakening, and every spell Anshul casts brings the fire inside him closer to consuming him.

The search for answers leads the company into a forgotten mountain settlement where the dead still whisper, impossible bargains shape the living, and Ziarius—the Nightmare Queen—offers salvation wrapped in ruin.

When tragedy forces one of the companions to choose between loyalty and unimaginable power, the bonds that have held the party together begin to fracture.

As undead armies rise and horrors descend from beyond the world itself, Anshul must confront the truth he has feared since the prophecy began.

The fire within him was never meant to save his life.

It was meant to save everyone else's.

Pact of the Nightmare Queen is the second novel in The Summerhost Saga, an epic fantasy adventure filled with dangerous magic, unforgettable companions, impossible choices, found family, and world-ending stakes.

Perfect for fans of Dungeon Crawler Carl, The Blacktongue Thief, and party-based epic fantasy adventures filled with unforgettable companions, dangerous magic, and impossible choices.

What Readers Are Saying:

“What I enjoyed most was how earned the relationships felt. These characters fight for one another, stand beside one another, argue over who is allowed to risk their life for someone else, and bicker constantly, yet their loyalty never feels doubtful. Each character is given space to develop, and it is through their sacrifices for one another that we want to see them succeed. They all have flaws, secrets, and abilities that may eventually cost the group more than expected, but they accept one another despite those dangers, at least for now.” - Amazon Five Star Review

Read Pact of the Nightmare Queen for free on Amazon today!

https://www.amazon.com/Pact-Nightmare-Queen-Book-Summerhost-ebook/dp/B0H34DXTCG

Not familiar with the Summerhost Saga? Check out the audiobook of Sins of the Cinder Prophet: Book One of The Summerhost Saga on Audible, Amazon, or Apple Books: https://www.audible.com/pd/B0HF1TJMB1?source_code=ASSORAP0511160006&share_location=player_overflow

Three years ago I was bloated, miserable, and unhealthy. Today I’m in a much better place. If I can do it, so can you. You got this 👊🏻

“A Brotherhood Worth Fighting For”

Some pacts save lives. Others claim souls.

The Cinder Prophet is defeated, but victory has come at a terrible cost. One of their own is still missing, an ancient darkness is awakening, and every spell Anshul casts brings the fire inside him closer to consuming him.

The search for answers leads the company into a forgotten mountain settlement where the dead still whisper, impossible bargains shape the living, and Ziarius—the Nightmare Queen—offers salvation wrapped in ruin.

When tragedy forces one of the companions to choose between loyalty and unimaginable power, the bonds that have held the party together begin to fracture.

As undead armies rise and horrors descend from beyond the world itself, Anshul must confront the truth he has feared since the prophecy began.

The fire within him was never meant to save his life.

It was meant to save everyone else's.

Pact of the Nightmare Queen is the second novel in The Summerhost Saga, an epic fantasy adventure filled with dangerous magic, unforgettable companions, impossible choices, found family, and world-ending stakes.

Perfect for fans of Kings of the Wyld, The Blacktongue Thief, and party-based epic fantasy adventures filled with unforgettable companions, dangerous magic, and impossible choices.

#epicfantasy #darkfantasy

https://www.amazon.com/Pact-Nightmare-Queen-Book-Summerhost-ebook/dp/B0H34DXTCG

“A Fantasy with Bite,” “A Rollicking Good Adventure” - 5 Star Amazon Reader Reviews

A simple escort job. A stolen dwarf. A prophecy written in fire.

Anshul has spent most of his life being judged by his horns, red skin, and dangerous gift for flame. Traveling with an owlkin wizard, a good-hearted half-orc barbarian, and a halfling thief with very flexible morals is not exactly safe—but it is the closest thing to family he has ever had.

Then a cleric offers the party a fortune to escort a dwarven smith and a shipment of supplies to the struggling town of Summerhost. The pay is too good. The timing is too strange. And before they can even reach their target, a bog hag brands Anshul’s mind with a prophecy of goblins, dragons, liches, ancient gods, and a mysterious Heart that must be found before the world is lost.

What begins as a desperate job on the Iron Road soon becomes a race through ambushes, burning taverns, haunted ruins, ancient magic, and the schemes of a rogue mage known only as the Cinder Prophet.

To save a kidnapped dwarf and stop the rise of the Ancient One, Anshul and his companions will have to become more than hired blades and accidental heroes.

But the deeper they go, the more Anshul fears the prophecy is not just warning him about the darkness ahead.

It may be warning everyone about him.

Sins of the Cinder Prophet is the first book in The Summerhost Saga, a fast-paced humorous epic fantasy packed with misfit heroes, dangerous magic, monster battles, found family, tavern trouble, and world-ending stakes.

Listen now at https://www.audible.com/pd/B0HF1TJMB1/?source_code=AUDFPWS0223189MWT-BK-ACX0-525560&ref=acx_bty_BK_ACX0_525560_rh_us