Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

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6: The Trouble with Knowing

Essi > Mecorth Pieliar, Fair Isles

Essi shifted his seat on the dark, loamy soil of Mecorth Pieliar’s ornamental gardens and contemplated magic. He had wanted to be a magician as long as he could remember – since his first blurry memories as a ward at the Safehold. The kind-hearted chambermaid had hastened the young ones’ slumbers with lullaby-tales, and the dream had taken root. Berthold the Wise was the first Essi could recall. An advancing army of Trolls was halted by a few swirls of Berthold’s powerful wand – the soldiers’ boots captured by the stone beneath them. That had been the first of many magical stories to capture his mind. He imagined himself the hero in every one – powerful and brave.

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Master Thêndrall had been droning on with today’s lesson for some time now. His voice interrupted Essi’s thoughts. “And so, you must surrender to the magic. Imagine floating in a river’s current. Allow the waters to take you where they may.”

Essi wiped a crusted bit of egg from his sleeve, remembering this morning’s excursion to Mecorth Pieliar’s kitchens. The Head Cook was a plump and likable man whose white apron was spattered with bits of his recent preparations. He had handed Essi six fresh eggs and suggested he see what he could conjure up. Although the cook made a pretense of mentorship, he suspected the man simply liked his cooking. Essi had great skill and unequaled imagination in the kitchen.

The Master stood at the back of the gardens, where he’d instructed the youths to meet him for today’s lesson. The wards of the Safehold were seated on the ground in loose semi-circles around the Master. The evidence of Spring covered the garden’s flowers and shrubs with bright blooms and new growth. The Safehold’s high walls rose tall behind Thêndrall – only the highest crags peeking above the wall’s crest. Overhead, Aerlil herself seemed to follow the Master’s words – likely with better understanding than Essi.

The eggs had turned out marvelously – whipped to a froth with a bit of fresh cream and Spring onions from the gardens, cooked near a low flame, and stirred vigorously until the eggs pulled together in small, moist curds. He’d added garlic near the end and finished it with fresh herbs, a pinch of salt, and crushed peppercorns. He’d topped the dish with crumbles of fresh cheese, left to melt slowly atop the steaming eggs. Essi licked his lips. That was a dish he’d make again.

Sparrow, two years older than Essi, risked the first question of the day – a brave act Essi suspected would end in the girl’s embarrassment. “But how can we tell? How do we know it’s magic? Or when we have it?”

The Master’s head was framed by a large mane of dark, curly hair, streaked with the silvering of his years. The hair bounced around Thêndrall’s olive-skinned face when he spoke, as if to emphasize his point. “The magic will know you. And that will be a start well-made. Because you’ll have it, but it will have you, just as sure.”

Master Thêndrall talked in circles and vagaries, always leading back to the same questions: how did magic work? How did one use it? Were there words of power? Tools of the craft? In his fourteen years, no one had come close to satisfying Essi’s need to know. Maybe that was the answer: Thêndrall Elsar, Master of the Mystic Arts, simply had little skill in teaching.

While Essi dreamed of wielding great mystic powers, the actual craft of it confounded him. Cooking came more naturally. It made sense: ready the correct ingredients, combine them in proper order, apply just the right amount of heat – and done. If he could only reduce magic down to similar steps. Then he’d be a great magician – and an excellent cook.

He wanted desperately to understand how magic worked, and it eluded him with the tenacity of a child playing go-hide. That was the problem, laid bare. He didn’t understand. And the gap in his comprehension felt like a chasm.

Thêndrall held power – they’d all seen it – but never at the scale the old stories described. His workings were demonstrative – an instructive tool used to prove that a task could be done. But Essi still couldn’t ‘do’ magic – not even a little. And not just him. Few of the Master’s pupils had ever reproduced even his simplest works. Yes, maybe a poor instructor.

The Master crouched over the bed of morning glory in front of him, their soft, fleshy stems dotted by heart-shaped leaves as they rose to trumpeted, purple-hued blooms. He swept his arms above the flowers in a well-articulated gesture. “Take these stalks before me, for instance.”

Thêndrall reached down and gently stroked the closest stem. His eyes closed, and the rise and fall of his chest slowed visibly. All the seated youths – even Essi – leaned forward to watch expectantly. One of the youths closest to Thêndrall gasped, and soon they all saw it: new growth had emerged from the stem. The tendril uncoiled, reaching outward as it grew, almost random in its movements, but always outward and up. In a few breaths, leaves sprouted, uncurled, and a new bud began to form. Finally, the bud split itself open to reveal the bloom hidden inside.

“Something like that.” Thêndrall lifted his fingers from the plant’s stem.

“The sap holds no more magic than the blood in my veins. Yet we – you, me, the garden, and everything around – are magic to the core. The world is magic. The transformation wasn’t achieved by power – only a simple request. The plant did the labor. I asked, and the stem complied, because I asked well.”

Against the wall nearest to Essi, Pad, one of the younger wards of the Safehold, picked through loose pebbles in the dirt, searching for a hidden treasure that only he or another of similar age would recognize. He stayed out from underfoot and occupied himself. Pad didn’t bother anyone. Essi liked that.

Ferr, a frequent jokester, asked, “Can you make it grow whatever you want? Like an apple?” Questions had the awkward tendency to yield more laughter than learning – especially considering the source.

“An excellent line of inquiry!” Thêndrall sidestepped the intended joke. “Had I requested a tree, or a stone... or an apple – it would have been to no effect.”

Nikki, fifteen, with a skill for woodlore, made a more focused query. “But magic can be used to shape wood or stone beyond their form. Right? What you just showed us, on a larger scale…”

“I see your line of thinking, young woodsman. Everything responds according to its nature. Magic can’t change the truth of a thing. To alter it, you must first know it and its capacity. Its nature. Both requisite before the request is given. So yes, a thing can be shaped beyond its form: intricately detailed, transformed, expanded – sometimes to great effect.”

The Master spread his arms out toward the edges of the garden. “This garden is edged by the workings of my apprentice, Döss, whose natural affinity for stone and rock has provided our excellent statuary.” Thêndrall paused for effect. Essi and many of the others had sat and watched Döss work, holding his hands against the large, unshaped stone that would eventually resolve itself into another fine statue at the garden’s edge – it was agonizingly slow. “But always, its nature must be understood and the request phrased properly. And this... Stem and bloom weren’t asked. I merely offered a task it knew how to perform since its sprouting: Grow.”

Thêndrall reached down to touch the flower’s stalk again, and this time all the students gasped as the whole plant began to move. The long stems twisted tightly about each other, and then the entire thing began to wrap around itself – again and again – until it resembled the coils of a serpent, poised to strike.

Essi was impressed but still didn’t understand. Driven by frustrated ignorance, he risked a question. “What about spells, and wands, and potions, and all the other powerful magics?”

Thêndrall laughed, deeply – his bouncing hair mocking Essi – and the others followed suit. Essi’s cheeks flushed bright red, and he wished himself invisible – to no effect.

“You’ve all been misled.” The others stopped laughing. “You’ve read or been told grand tales of magics far beyond these. But words are only speech. Twigs and sticks are best left for kindling. Magic powders – seasoning, or balms. Even my title. There are no ‘Mystic Arts.’ All these are tricksters’ props. Bedtime conjurings and wonder-tales. The truth is much simpler – and, thus, harder to believe... The world IS magic.”

Essi shook his head dejectedly. “I don’t understand.” This time, no one laughed, and many heads shook alongside his.

“The lesson teaches itself!” In his excitement, Thêndrall’s mane fell askew, and he brushed the worst offenders from his eyes. “Lost reveals the quickest path to found. There may yet be some hope for you, young cook. If the world is magic, then we are magic as well. So magic is our nature. As much a part of you as your red hair, Sparrow, or Wren’s freckles, or Ghee’s musky smell.” Even Ghee laughed at that one.

“Most never recognize the magic. It simply exists. The root of their nature: witnessed every day in our mastery. Our passions. Things we are exceptional at. Like your talent for cooking, Essi.”

Essi’s flush grew again. He wanted no more attention. “Or your way with horses, Aed. People oft name it a gift, or a calling. They circle the idea but miss the truth. We ARE – every one of us – MAGIC.

“The world around carves its shape in us. A farmer’s skill with crops and growing things. A hunter’s ability to think like their prey. Magic lives, unnoticed, amongst us all. Lanil, consider your inexplicable draw to the mountains. That faint voice inside you that grows louder when amongst the peaks, and softer when you try to hear it.”

Lanil turned her head down. She clearly enjoyed her peers’ attention as little as Essi and seemed, for a moment, to flounder vulnerably outside her protective shell.

Thêndrall took her reaction and the growing lateness of the afternoon as a signal to usher the lesson toward its close. This was the worst part. The practical application, where each student was meant to attempt a modest feat of magic themselves. It always ended in failure for Essi. That, at least, was something the Master taught well.

“Let’s have a try at it for yourselves. If you fail – and most will – let failure’s sting be the first step taken on your path to success.” He grinned as he made several magical-looking gestures. “Begin!”

He still didn’t understand, but Essi scooted closer to the young jasmine beside him anyway. He gripped a woody stem firmly, trying to make sense of the Master’s lesson: something to do with ‘Asking.’

Essi squeezed his eyes shut and willed the vine-like growth to sprout a fragrant new stem. He felt nothing. He risked a peek and closed his eyes again after confirming his lack of progress. Still, he kept at it. His will was strong. He wanted to be a magician. His mind commanded, “Grow.” Another peek. Still nothing. Remembering his manners, he added, “Please.” Still nothing.

After what seemed like hours – a few moments at most – the afternoon bell rang out. Essi opened his eyes, hoping to see some change on the flowered stem before him. Nothing but the impression his fingers had left in the soft flesh of its bark. No change. No magic. Further proof of his own – or Master Thêndrall’s – complete inadequacy.

He stood, gave a frustrated kick to the compacted soil where he’d sat, and walked away – not with anyone, but in the same general direction as the Master and the other frustrated youths.

Pad lingered in his spot near the wall, where he’d spent the entire lesson – unnoticed, and appreciatively out from underfoot. After a few moments, the small boy rose from his pebbled playground – tiny treasures discarded. He walked slowly over to the jasmine.

Bending down toward Essi’s unaltered stem, Pad swept his fingers gently across its delicate white flowers – a soft, slow movement that loosened none of the blooms. In the wake of his little fingers, the petals they’d touched slowly shifted their color. Soft white turned to pale lavender and then sought the same purple hue as the Master’s morning glory, still coiled and threatening nearby.

Pad grinned and offered himself a nod of approval – seeming to have confirmed the truth of a thing he had suspected but needed to be certain of. With that settled, Pad left the garden and skipped away across the cobblestones.

Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.

Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

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5: Edge of the Wood

Elëndria > Tig’s Knoll, Golden Kingdoms

She moved gracefully through the forest like a slow, wafting breeze. To an observer, she might have appeared as no more than a tall shadow, slipping almost sensually between the trees. Her passage, caught by the corner of an eye as she slid through one of the patches of light that filtered through the canopy above, would soon be dismissed. Written off as one of the wood’s small movements: birds fluttering through the branches, rodents scurrying about their business, or the trees themselves, shifting with the winds.

Her bare feet wove a noiseless path through the leaves and low underbrush of the forest floor. Worn, comfortable boots were looped beside the thin brown travel cloak that hung from the exterior of her narrow pack. A short, finely made Ellish bow and its quiver rode next to the pack – a longbow was useless in the woodlands.

Her slender, pale fingers flowed quietly from the shadows onto the trunk of an ash, tracing a slow and deliberate path across its silver-gray bark. She paused for just a breath, and then the hand resumed its journey, until it was once again lost in the shadows of the wood.

She was Elëndria of the Seïrath Woodlands, but she had only ever been called that once in her lifetime. Many years ago, when her name was scribed to the list of Keepers of the Woodland Compact, next to the name of a woodcamp: Tig’s Knoll. Since that time, the 40-strand swath at the forest’s edge had been her responsibility. Floating amongst the quiet shadows, she was simply Elëndria, and these were her woods.

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She glided forward across the dappled woodland floor to the next tree, a tall spruce, taking care that her hand’s caress was gentle enough to leave its flaky, reddish-brown bark undisturbed as her fingertips traced across its trunk. She paused, leaning gently forward – so close her breath ruffled the bark’s loose edges – and whispered in a hushed voice: “Aenwyth silai vēa.”

Elëndria held her palm against the tree for another moment, closing her eyes as she dipped her head to gently meet its trunk. Two breaths – the last one more a sigh – and she stepped back, uncapping a wide-mouthed flask strapped over her shoulder. Light glistened in patches across the surface of a thick, reddish liquid. The edge of a leaf protruded on one side, and she withdrew it slowly, allowing several red drops to fall back into the flask. Then, in one long, purposeful stroke, she drew the stain-laden leaf across the tree’s trunk, leaving a thick dark-red swash in its wake. She returned the leaf, capped the flask, and moved again into the shadows.

She flowed through the trees, like a slow brook with no sound, in and out of the shadows and across the sun-flecked woodland floor. She paused, next, at a fir, its blue-tinged needles climbing proudly toward its pointed apex. Then, another ash, the roundness of its foliage lost between two taller evergreens. At the third tree, a fine tall specimen of an oak with gray-brown bark and piles of acorns littering the forest floor, she repeated her ritual, leaning her forehead against the old tree. “Laethir aenu, silvēa.” She left another red swash, hanging her head for a moment before she moved on. Oaks were rare this close to the edge of the wood.

Her slow passage continued – fir, fir, marked spruce, fir, spruce, marked ash, ash, spruce. As Elëndria’s graceful passing brought her nearer to the wood’s edge, she began to hear the distant echoes of men at work. Axes fell, saws drew their edges against timber, and the muffled sounds of distant conversations caught her sharp ears. Elongated beams of sunlight reached deeper into the wood here, creeping, uninvited, with the rest of the outside world into the shadowy quiet of her wood.

She pushed forward through the smaller rowan and alder that lined the wood’s edge, patient and methodical in her tending – marked fir, ash, spruce, marked ash. The underbrush grew thicker here, encouraged by the sunlight. Although her passage remained silent, the thickets slowed the rhythm of her pace. Elëndria paused beside a tall elm, lonely amidst the conifers that surrounded it. Elms had been over-harvested here and were more common along the coastline.

A great bit of rustling and commotion arose from the scrub nearby, just inside the line of trees. Elëndria moved closer to investigate and was soon staring down at a clustering of five young children. A small boy was extricating himself from a tight press of brambles, his face and forearms already showing the beginnings of several angry red scratches. Wild comfrey would ease the sting and hasten the healing, but Elëndria remained silent.

The children stared up at Elëndria, and she stared down at them for a few breaths. None appeared to have passed eight years. Whispers were exchanged, and a girl with unkempt curls of red hair was pushed to the front of their group – their chosen representative. The girl hesitated, found her courage, and then spoke, “We’re sorry for the noise. We was trying to be quiet… but Pim got tangled up.” The small boy beside the brambles looked up at Elëndria and blinked, as if to confirm that he was, in fact, Pim – if she’d had any question.

Elëndria said nothing, and the girl raised herself up more confidently. “I’m Tippa. We was watching you for a spell. Are you dancing with the trees? It looks sad.”

Elëndria had never thought of her movements amongst the trees as a dance, but enjoyed the picture the words painted in her mind. Tippa didn’t wait for an answer and continued. “I’m sorry if we interrupted you, but the older ones wouldn’t let us play today. So we came exploring. What’s your name? Are you a real lady Elle? How old are you?”

Elëndria found a smile on her face. The child was charming – and disarming – in a way that only young ones could be. She placed a hand on her chest. “I am Elëndria, Keeper of the Woodland Compact for Tig’s Knoll.” It was the first time she had spoken to a Human in several years.

A towheaded boy, almost Tippa’s height, interjected with excitement, “I’ve heard of the ‘compac!’” He paused, realizing he’d interrupted, and then continued. “My Da says it’s where they get ta trees. Or somethin’ like that. But I think he’s funin wit’ me. Everyone knows trees come from ta woods.”

Elëndria chuckled and lowered herself to sit on a thick fallen branch nearby. Put at ease, the children moved closer. “You’re right, little one. And your ‘Da’ is too. The Compact is what lets them take the trees from the woods.”

The boy’s mouth pursed in a silent oval as he absorbed this new information, and Elëndria took the opportunity to return to Tippa’s questions. “It’s very nice to meet you and your friends, Tippa. I haven’t met many Human children, even in all my years… Which I’d put near 74 – to answer your last question first.” The children’s eyes went wide, but she doubted they truly understood.

“And since we started backwards, I’ll keep moving in that direction. Sometimes things work better that way.” She gave them a warm smile. “Yes, I am a ‘real’ lady Elle. And now, since I started with my name, I’ve turned myself frontwards again.” She held her arms out in a mock ‘ta-da’ gesture, and the children giggled. Elëndria did too. It felt good. She could not remember the last time she’d laughed.

Tippa put her hands on her hips – a sweetly precocious gesture – and said, “What about your sad dance with the trees? You never answered my first question.” The young girl’s lips pursed in a mock frown, but Elëndria could see the smile underneath, especially in her cheeks.

“You’re right! I didn’t. What bad manners I’ve shown my guests!” The smile hiding in Tippa’s cheeks broke across her face. “It’s not a dance, or at least I never thought of it like that before today. It’s how I choose and mark the trees that may be felled under the Compact when Autumn arrives.” Elëndria paused, waiting for another question, then thought to add, “And now that I’ve heard it called the ‘sad dance,’ I don’t think I’ll ever call it anything else.”

Tippa’s smile melted a bit. “But why does it make you sad? I love to dance!” The child demonstrated with a flourished curtsy.

Tears welled in Elëndria’s eyes, burning as she struggled against their release. “Because, little one, the trees are my friends.” Her tears broke then – beyond her control. And soon, little ones being prone to tears anyway, they all wept with her.

After a few moments of shared grief and a release that none of the children had the words to explain, Pim, whose scratches had turned a deeper red, wiped his cheeks and decided to ask his own faltering question. “Where… Where do you...”

The question was interrupted by the loud yelling of a man beyond the edge of the wood. The trees muffled the words, but his tone was clear, and the small group of children scattered toward the forest’s edges like a group of startled goslings.

Tippa paused near the tree line and took several steps back. She looked down toward the fallen leaves – squirming for a few breaths as she sought the words for what she wanted to say. “Elendra… My Da always says, ‘Don’t trust an Elle.’” Elëndria felt the sharpness of the words. They always stung. It still surprised her that four tiny words could exact such a heavy toll. A deeply rooted hatred she could feel even when the Humans didn’t speak it – a wound she had never earned and could never prevent.

Elëndria’s shoulders dropped as she shook her head sadly. “I don’t know, little one. I truly don’t know. And the words hurt, all the more, for my ignorance.”

Tippa smiled and ran to Elëndria, still seated on the fallen branch. The child wrapped her small arms around Elëndria – as best she could – and pulled the tall Elle into a firm embrace. Elëndria was caught completely off guard.

Tippa released her grasp and looked up into Elëndria’s dark eyes. “I don’t know either…” The child’s next words carried a sternly serious note. “But sometimes my Da’s just wrong.”

And with that, Tippa wheeled and scurried quickly through the trees – chasing after the departed children. Elëndria rose, standing for many breaths amongst the shadows and the trunks of her silent old friends. The woodland seemed hushed and quieter than it had been. In all her many years, Elëndria had never felt love – not for any tree or creature – the way her heart glowed for this child. She had made the beginnings of a friendship, and she wasn’t entirely sure that she liked the way it made her feel.

Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.

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Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

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4: Morning Lessons

Cauli > Mecorth Pieliar, Fair Isles

The nib scratched its way carefully down the page – a straight line, trailed by a flowing arc, then a final flourish before the quill was lifted – a precise duplication of the ornamented work on the page next to it. Cauli’s dark brown hand was rock-steady, but sometimes, as he transcribed pages from the Safehold’s extensive archive, he imagined the quill as a willful child, waiting for an unevenness in the parchment to excuse its disobedience – a spatter of dark drops or the sudden, unwanted release of his quill’s contents in a tragic pool of ink.

Cauli swept his ungainly black locks to the side, restarting their slow, drooping journey across his field of vision. They’d return. He stretched his tall, lanky torso, then hunched down to his work again – height had its disadvantages. He compared his transcription and the ornately illuminated page he’d been duplicating. Tight work. The fine detail work would be next. He’d been taught, early in his training: ‘A superior scribe always captures the structure first. The rest is naught more than ornamentation, text, and color. And always color last.’

Cauli worked at a tall, sturdy table, covered by the tools and trimmings of his current labor. There was comfortable space for the stool he perched on, and a low shelf of supplies set against the stone-and-mortar wall behind him. His scribe’s desk and its empty counterpart across the room faced the chamber’s west-facing window to take best advantage of the light – far enough back to avoid disturbance by the winds of the high mountains surrounding the Safehold.

The latch on the door screeched open, announcing a new arrival. The entry was set into the back wall, breaking the cluttered rhythm of mismatched bookshelves that lined the chamber’s edges. The door’s aged joints complained loudly as it swung slowly open. Master Sietsi had arrived.

Jordain Sietsi was a scribe and scholar of some renown by the time he reached his middle years. The renown had now dwindled, and the years piled upon him. He moved slowly into the chamber, struggling against the lingering aches of his slumber. He would become increasingly spry as the day wore on. “Good morn, Caulkaan. How fare your scribbles?” Only the Masters and keepers of Mecorth Pieliar ever used their wards’ given names.

Cauli lifted his parchment for the Master’s inspection. “Just the bones, so far, Sir. But I believe well captured. I can see why you suggested Brishelfōrth. His work is a challenging transcription.” Sietsi leaned in to inspect his quillwork. The Master’s burgundy knit-cap, edged with a stripe of burnt yellow, brushed against the page. Cauli continued, “The composition of his pages is excellent, and the fine nib he chose for the detail will be a good study.”

Sietsi smiled and nodded his agreement. “Yes. Fine bones. I’d almost guess the work to be Brishel’s himself. You’ve a rare talent… but you’ve heard those words pass my lips before. Practice makes better. Carry on.”

Cauli did his best not to choke on the ball of pride that formed in his chest. Sietsi made his way to the window, peering out into the Safehold’s main courtyard and the high mountains beyond. Aerlil had begun her slow climb, pushing lazily past the snow-capped peaks.

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Sietsi sought the comforts of his deep, cushioned reading chair. The low, round table beside it was littered with manuscripts. “The Cerulean Lady joins us this morn, young scribe. And I believe her return demands a recitation of the Telling of Bowaen and Aerlil, to honor her magnificence.” He adjusted himself to his better liking. Cauli held a deep love for the Master – as he imagined a grandchild held for their grandsire, although he’d never known his own family. He listened with fondness as the Master spun his rich tale:

Fair Aerlil, the forests roamed
Her kingdom glade and shady glen
With flowered crown and mossy throne
Her beauty cherished by gods and men.

Bowaen, her love, ruled the seas
Sending pearls and shells on breaking wave
And lover’s songs on gentle breeze
But passion’s fire did Aerlil crave.

To Emendon in his barren skies
The forest queen did stray her gaze
She heard, at once, his lonely cries
And saw his yearning desire; ablaze.

Then Emendon with outstretched arms
To join him there, did pleading cry
And seduced at last by his sweet charms
She leapt to meet him in the sky.

Unsure of foot when not on land
Her mistimed leap carried her past
Emendon’s frantic outstretched hand
Which could not save her in its grasp.

And in the heavens, she came to rest
No more the forestlands to roam
Forever to mourn in loneliness
Weeping for her wooded home.

Bowaen called from the seas below
Then plunged heartbroken into the depths
Aerlil, his love, to ever follow
While oceans of tears the sea king wept.

And so, he strides beneath Aerlil’s gaze
Arms outstretched to her above
His cries heard softly in the waves
“Forget me not, O foolish love.”

Sietsi grew quiet in his chair – lost in thought or simple appreciation of his recitation. He was a Master of lore and literature and often spoke in stories that made sideways or adjacent connections. “Foolish love. A theme favored by history and literature.” Cauli switched to a finer-nib quill for the detailed scrollwork of his transcription.

The Master transitioned to his next tale. “I had my own experience with foolish love when I was a lad not much beyond your own sixteen years. My balls and my voice had just dropped, and I found myself suddenly noticing the qualities of the fairer sex. In my family’s employ was a scullery maid – herself possessed of a striking beauty, plump, round teats, and a manner that quickly earned my interest.

“She, as I recall, had encouraged the affections of an older stable hand for some while. The established love, a second suitor, and my pending departure to pursue my studies abroad – offered all the necessary complications for a tale of this kind.”

Cauli drew in a breath but said nothing. Over the past two years, the aging Master had begun to conflate details of his own life with those of published works. This was the tale of the Foolish Scullery Maid – a story often told to children. Sietsi’s sharp mind was growing muddled in some places as he aged. The Master recalled the stories, but their pages were becoming increasingly stained by the ink of Sietsi’s own life. Cauli’s silence about the matter was an act of kindness and love. No correction needed to be offered.

The Master’s story was interrupted as a bell tolled loudly across the Safehold, echoing into the mountains beyond.

“Second bell,” Sietsi noted the event flatly. “Best get going. Or you’ll be late for your studies – again.” Cauli held no love for numbers, and it showed in his frequent tardiness.

Cauli carefully drained the quills, cleaned their nibs, and then secured them safely with the rest of his supplies on the shelf behind his desk. His source manuscript found a respectable home on a nearby bookshelf, and a protective cover, weighted against the winds, was set carefully atop his unfinished work.

Only then did he turn to the doorway. “Thank you for the stories, Master. They passed the time well.” He meant it. “I’ll see you on the morrow.” He turned his head back toward Sietsi. “Unless you need me still?” An absence, excused at a Master’s behest, was a completely different thing from a late arrival.

Sietsi waved his hand dismissively. “Nicely tried. But Numbers and Measures, I’m sure, will come to serve you in adulthood.” Sietsi didn’t sound convincing. “And you’ve only a short break to meet your mates and reach your destination. Besides…” The Master’s arm swept across the rest of the chamber. “These manuscripts aren’t going anywhere.”

He smiled warmly. “Go be young. Eat frogs. Chase squirls. Be a child while you may.” The Master was chuckling to himself as Cauli turned and hurried out the door and down the spiral stairway, just off the hallway beyond.

Down the stairs and through the main corridor, Cauli emerged into Mecorth Pieliar’s stone-cobbled main courtyard, lined by a wide swath of grass. The Safehold’s mortared stone walls curved securely around the interior, three stories tall. The morning sun had warmed the air, and the sounds and fresh smells of a mid-Spring day welcomed him. He drank in the scents before moving to join the other youths who milled about near the tower’s base.

Cauli nodded to Thom – a boy of sixteen years, like himself, with lightly tanned skin, shimmering green eyes, and long, curly black hair – always well-maintained. Thom had long been the most popular of the youths at the Safehold, and the others had gathered around him, as usual. Nikki, Ferr, Pad, Wren, and now Cauli – all clustered in Thom’s proximity. Lanil, her usual, distant self, leaned against the edge of the doorway Cauli had just exited, a few strides away, but within earshot if anything interesting came up. They often loitered here in the courtyard for a few moments before moving to their next lessons.

Wren, at nine years, was the youngest ward at Mecorth Pieliar – no more had arrived since. She was recounting a story to Pad, a quiet boy of ten, who was always near but never underfoot. Cauli recognized her story. It was similar to those he’d told at a similar age – long since abandoned. “Then my Mum kissed me on the cheek and held me in her arms until I fell asleep.” Pad’s eyes widened a bit. He believed her words – or wanted to.

“The next morn, I helped bake sweet treats for my Da and…”

Wren’s tale was cut short by an outburst from the doorway. “Pshaugh!” Cauli cringed, anticipating what was to come. This wouldn’t be the first heartbreak delivered by the half-Elle Lanil. Wren had stopped, waiting for Lanil to explain the interruption.

For a moment, it looked as if Thom might step between the two – spare Wren a hard lesson for a while more – but the opportunity passed untaken. Thom had run the calculation, weighed it against the currency of popularity, and decided against intervention. Thom looked away from the young girl.

Lanil stepped closer. “You’ve never met your mother, Wren. Same as the rest of us. It’s a lie we all told ourselves when we were your age.” Wren’s young shoulders slumped. “Do yourself and the rest of us a favor… Give up hope.”

Large tears welled from Wren’s eyes, streaming down her pink-hued cheeks as she began to sob. Cauli thought the trails left by the tears were actually quite beautiful and wondered whether he could capture their essence in an illumination created for some unwritten manuscript. Probably not. That sounded like a dream, and those could be dangerous.

Lanil’s candor held no intended hurt or any love – only her own sense of mercy: spare the child a greater pain later at the cost of a painful honesty delivered now.

The truth was clear, as it had always been. None of the youths at Mecorth Pieliar had ever known the love of a family.

Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.

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Finding serial fiction on Substack can be a hit-or-miss endeavor. Breakfast Serials is a lightly curated digest of serialized fiction, conceived to help the reader discover serialized works of fiction in a centralized location.

Add your Serial Fiction to the digest

Adventure

Fantasy

• The 11th Heir - M. Clements - An epic multi-POV fantasy of intrigue, exile, and the raw cost of survival.

Historical Fiction

• The Price of the Frontier - Ray J. Gans - Page-turning, historically accurate storytelling drawing on personal letters, newspapers, and museum collections.

Horror

• Not Like Other Girls - V. Nightingale

Literary Fiction

• The Day I Stopped Being a Person and Became a Number - Tomas Blazo - A raw, true story from a man wrongfully locked up for 4 years in two countries. No filter, no spin.

• The Three Sheep Rebellion - Laurie Macintosh - Scotland, spring of 2026 – amid a global food crisis – a seven-year-old asks a question that changes history.

Mystery/Crime/Thriller

• A Chime for these Hallowed Bones - Jou Montfort - Manipulating the dead is within her power, but can honor survive in the face of a man who has none?

Romance

• Teresia (18+) - Rita Quill - A dark coming-of-age romance about desire, power, shame, obsession, and the cost of wanting freedom more than forgiveness.

• Accidents Happen - Jen St. Germain - Alexandra Black has it all. A brilliant career, a new friend. A dead husband. Things are looking up.

Sci-Fi

• Tretaxis Dispatches - J.D. Bawn-Lavery - Caught between the stars and a planetary war, a rebel pilot watches Mars transform.

• The Crystal Dragon - Layla - a light-hearted, 10-chapter space adventure.

• Specterframe - Eric N. Lard - Stuck navigating competing versions of reality where the greatest threat appears to be a version of herself forged from her worst fears.

Western

Suggestions are welcome:

The goal is to make this a useful digest for readers - like me - who are interested in finding Serial Fiction on Substack. Author promotion is a very distant second, although I believe the added exposure will be helpful to us all. Suggestions that may improve this digest for the reader are much more likely to gain traction. Drop your suggestions for improving the digest in the comments (free or paid subscribers).

Leave a comment

Finding serial fiction on Substack can be a hit-or-miss endeavor. Breakfast Serials is a lightly curated list of serialized fiction.

The rules:

1. Must be Serialized Fiction on Substack - no exceptions

2. Submissions that don’t meet the criteria won’t make the list (or be cut later)

3. Provide all required information - this takes work, don’t make more

4. Listings, for now, are on a first-come, first-served basis

5. Minimum requirement: five (5) installments. You’re welcome to submit if you’ve only got the first chapter done, as long as your target is five or more. Submissions that don’t reach the minimum may be removed later

6. Navigation requirement: at minimum, chapter-to-chapter linking, but an Index or Table of Contents post is highly recommended - help your readers navigate

7. Allow time to make the list - this is a service, not a job

8. Don’t ask for special treatment - the digest is for readers first

9. Don’t submit the same work twice - it’s a good way to get blocked

10. Wasting my time is a good way to get blocked

11. Keep it friendly. Don’t be a dick - enough said

Required information:

1. The TITLE of your Serial Fiction

2. DIRECT LINK to the Index/Table of Contents or Chapter 1 of your work (no images or rich text, just the link)

3. One (1) MAIN CATEGORY in which you work falls:

   1. Adventure

   2. Fantasy

   3. Historical Fiction

   4. Horror

   5. Literary Fiction

   6. Mystery/Crime/Thriller

   7. Romance

   8. Sci-Fi

   9. Western

4. A one-sentence HIGH-LEVEL DESCRIPTION of the story - 100 characters or less (optional)

How to submit your work:

For now: send a message using the link below with ALL REQUIRED INFORMATION. Don’t drop it in the comments.

Best practices:

1. Serial fiction requires navigation. Make it easy for your readers. Just because someone clicked on Chapter 11 doesn’t mean they’ve read the first 10

2. Create an Index / Table of Contents post with links to all the chapters you’ve posted so far (and keep it updated as you add more)

3. Add a link to the next chapter, if it’s available, at the end

4. Establish a release schedule and stick to it - your Index / Table of Contents is a great place to post your schedule so readers know when to expect the next installment

Suggestions are welcome:

The goal is to make this a useful digest for readers - like me - who are interested in finding Serial Fiction on Substack. Author promotion is a very distant second, although I believe the added exposure will be helpful to us all. Suggestions that may improve this digest for the reader are much more likely to gain traction. Drop your suggestions for improving the digest in the comments (free or paid subscribers).

Leave a comment

Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

Table of Contents | Map: Golden Kingdoms | The Moons | Numbers & Measures

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3: The Council

Froerig > Adain Andür, Golden Kingdoms

The thrust had to be clean, and strong enough to sever the sinew in the neck to reach the main artery. And there were the bones – they seemed to take a particular delight in deflecting a blade in unplanned, but frequently interesting ways. It was a matter of precision, really. But what? A sharp blade – with two crisp edges, and long enough to do the job? Leverage? The blade needed the support of a proper grip to do its work. And the angle was certainly important – he’d learned that for himself, many times over. That was it then. To do himself in proper and quick, there was only one answer: he’d have to fall on his sword.

Froerig stood at his post – one of two King’s Guardsmen assigned to the Hall of Council – and contemplated quick ways to die. Strength was an equalizer and could often finish the job if precision were in short supply. A clean thrust or a strong thrust. In the end. Dead was dead. And, as the Council droned on through the day, dead sounded better and better.

He glanced across the entryway at his counterpart, Rüch, who held his post at absurdly stiff attention. Froerig shifted his weight to his left leg, gently stretching out the right, and eased the firm muscles hidden beneath his armor in the ways a Guardsman learned to find comfort after hundreds of long hours spent immobile. It was Rüch’s first posting to the Council, and the younger man had stood proudly erect through the morning. He would learn.

Where was Larim Pfeidril, anyway? The Guardsman, two years Froerig’s senior, had been absent from morning inspection, and Rüch had been assigned his duty. Froerig had heard the word ‘unwell’ used to explain his absence but was skeptical. Unless “unwell” meant the aftermath of several nights spent in the cups with too much drink and unremembered women – no rumor, that – Froerig had been there himself.

Rüch cut a fine figure of a Guardsman, shoulders back and chest out, the ornate golden cape of the King’s Guard flowing off his shoulders and down his back toward the floor. His gray surcoat – the crest of the Kingdoms emblazoned on the front – and trousers hung crisply pressed and with no awkward folds or drapes. The black belt – polished to a shine – made a fine presentation of the gold-trimmed scabbard and hilt of the deadly-sharp Guardsman’s blade. Identical to the one hanging at Froerig’s waist.

At 26 years, Rüch was the youngest member of the King’s Guardsmen currently in service – having sworn the Gray Oath only a year prior. It was the oath every man swore before being elevated from a soldier to the elite King’s Guard. After swearing the Gray, the colored uniform and cape of a common soldier – tied to one’s kingdom of birth – were traded for the sharp gray uniform and golden cape of the Guardsmen.

The gray uniforms meant something: no allegiance beyond the King. A visual symbol of the oath Froerig had sworn himself, more than six years ago, now. All foresworn oaths abandoned, former allegiances renounced. The Gray Oath meant unwavering loyalty to the Crown and Kingdoms. Every member of the Guard felt it deeply – sixty men of loyalty and resolve. Never more. Never less.

On the Council floor, several tiered steps below Froerig’s vantage, Nedrom Intikai, the Prime for the kingdom of Aerohim, rattled on about some point he’d been trying to make for too many moments now. By the look of the King and the rest of the Council, they held similar opinions. Intikai’s Shadow and Aspirant sat to his left, both unreadable. Froerig considered his sword again.

Guardsmen, especially in larger settings, weren’t held to a strict expectation of silence, and he’d shared many a whispered conversation across this entryway over the years. Froerig leaned toward Rüch, still at rigid attention. “I’d sooner fall on my blade than bear another moment of this prattle.” He added, “If you like, I’ll do you first as a courtesy to a fellow Guardsman.”

Rüch, surprised by the conversation and the joke, couldn’t help himself and belted out a sharp laugh. A reaction caught too late – and immediately regretted – as evidenced by the darkening of his cheeks in the telltale flush of a brown-skinned man. Heads turned toward the entryway with annoyance. Low conversation was tolerated – expected even – but interruption was not.

Rüch snapped back to attention, squaring his jaw behind its tightly groomed chin-beard, and made no visible acknowledgment or apology for the outburst. Had Froerig been the offender, he’d have likely offered a ‘Him, not me,’ turn of the head – a final punchline to the joke. Rüch might be alright, on consideration. He simply needed some mentoring – an evening’s distractions with the younger Guardsman in tow at one of Froerig’s favorite taverns.

His gaze returned to Intikai – a pretty man, olive-skinned, with long flowing black hair and a reputed popularity with the ladies of the court. Froerig often caught the King in some stage of frowning when the Prime spoke. Intikai was widely known as a plotter and as a Prime who openly sought advantage for Aerohim, often to the detriment of the other two kingdoms. Froerig could confirm, from long experience: the man liked the sound of his voice too well.

On the wall behind the King hung the crest of the Golden Kingdoms – a large, ornamented banner with far more detail than the one on Froerig’s chest, but the same in what it depicted. Outermost, the sun itself. Inside that, a shield. The shield divided into three sections. The symbols of Eilidrim and Aerohim above, and Liariador below: Baer, Lion, and Swan.

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Intikai’s ceaseless oration battered dully at Froerig’s consciousness, like an engine of siege, until it finally gave way. He’d practiced not hearing for many years – all the Guardsmen did – and oftentimes it worked. Today, however, Intikai’s droning became words, and words: speech. “…which is why I must insist that we be given leave to sell our surplus grain through the Kingdom’s Trade.” Froerig yearned for the peace of his blade. “I therefore move that Aerohim be granted official leave to do just this.”

Froerig watched as the King’s jaw squared – displeasure, maybe a hint of anger, too – an immediate tell as to King Ander Elethi’s stance on a matter. The King had been a fine swordsman in his middle years, but his regular presence at official dinners and too many Council meetings had softened him. Now, his belly pushed over his belt, his arms softened at the back, and his cleanly trimmed, shoulder-length hair carried a silvering painted by years of the worries of the Kingdoms and the unwelcome advances of age.

Intikai’s voice grated at the inner walls of Froerig’s ears. “I call the motion to an immediate vote.” Froerig wished he could choke the man with his own tongue – he didn’t think the King would mind – but there were witnesses. Instead, his mind drifted to a distraction he and Larim had played at many times – a game of soldiers. He ran his eyes across the King again – this time, truly assessing the man’s ability to put up a good fight. Yes, Froerig could take him. True, the King was rumored to have been lightning-quick in his day, but at 49 years and in his current state, Ander Elethi would provide little sport.

Froerig shifted his gaze to the man who frequently occupied the seat beside the King, Willaem Pendau, the Shieldbearer. Now that would be a proper contest of arms. Pendau, although similar in age to the King, carried the frame and musculature of a man kept hard by years of training. Pendau’s eyes caught his, and Froerig froze, feeling like a child caught stealing a handful from the pie his mum had left on the sill to cool. The Shieldbearer turned back to the Council’s proceedings, and Froerig decided, after a breath, to continue his fun. His eyes wandered around the room.

A few seats to the King’s left, Aldren Brisël sat, listening somewhat intently, in the chair normally occupied by Liariador’s Prime. Brisël in the Prime’s seat meant that the Aspirant was acting as Prime in the absence of his seniors. Froerig had learned that much over the years. More than he cared to know – but known anyway. There’d be no contest in a duel with the young politician. Now, Boriath Eldor, the absent Prime and former Minister of War – he was an intimidating warrior that Froerig would not choose to face, even with his age and rumors about the man’s pained back. The empty seat to Brisël’s left would normally be filled by Liariador’s Shadow, Iraenor Solmere. Froerig would never willingly fight a woman, even if she had served with the military – it held no advantage. If you won, it was ‘because she was a woman,’ and a draw, or loss – he couldn’t fathom the shame.

On the far side of the room, Intikai waited coldly for the vote he had called. He was leaner, and clearly more fit, than most of the Council members in the room. Although there’d be no real contest there, Froerig would genuinely enjoy the opportunity to reduce the man’s pride – maybe a scar given as a reminder of the lost contest.

Intikai frowned, visibly baring his teeth as Taevrol du Kemp, the Prime for Eilidrim, spoke out against his motion. “I stand opposed to this motion, as it might well drive down the price of grain, and possibly other goods across the Kingdoms. Its repercussions could be far-reaching and cannot be fully predicted.” Intikai’s teeth still betrayed his ire. The man’s pride needed more reduction than the loss of a single contest.

Froerig returned to his game, sizing up du Kemp, a burly mountain of a man from a kingdom that seemed to favor men of his build. Froerig might best him in a duel, but du Kemp would crush him in a contest of strength. It would be fun to try, though.

The Officiant running the Council meeting spoke, snapping Froerig’s attention away from the game. “All have spoken. The motion before you is to grant Aerohim leave to sell their excess grain through the Kingdom’s Trade. Three kingdoms, three votes – one vote per Prime or acting Prime. How vote the kingdoms?” The Officiant paused for a few breaths and then continued, “First, the ayes.”

Intikai immediately cast his vote in favor of the motion. Just a breath later, Aldren Brisël gave an “Aye” as well. Seeming to feel a need to justify his vote, the young politician quickly added, “I believe it only fair, and just, to permit them the sale of the excess grain.”

Across the room, Intikai’s face registered genuine surprise, and a note of something else – unreadable. He hadn’t anticipated Liariador’s support.

Froerig registered what he thought was a flash of surprise from the King. Ander Elethi would likely pull the young Aspirant aside for a few words after the Council ended its business – the new ones always needed teaching. He glanced toward Rüch.

“And, the nays, for the official record.” Du Kemp voted in opposition, and the Officiant made notes in his journal of the meeting. “The motion is carried at two for, and one opposed. Let the official record reflect that…”

The King coughed loudly, interrupting the Officiant. It was a manufactured cough and spoke as loudly as any words: “I have something to say.”

Elethi rose from his seat, as was his way when he had official words for the Council. He cleared his throat – real this time – parched by many long hours of silent observation. “As King, I invoke my right and overrule the Council’s decision.” Intikai sneered at the King, and Froerig smiled inwardly.

Elethi offered no more words – the matter having been settled in his mind. Kings owed no explanation for their choices.

The Officiant nodded, made an overly articulated gesture of lining through his previous notes, jotted a few new ones, and then announced, “The record will reflect that the King has overruled a non-unanimous vote, as is his right by law. The matter is closed.”

Intikai’s eyebrows seemed to knit themselves together as he hung his head. His feelings on the matter clear but unexpressed. A wise decision. Froerig enjoyed the man’s rage for a few breaths and flashed him an unfriendly grin from the entryway. Not sorry for your trouble.

The Officiant returned to his proceedings. “Before Aerohim yields the floor, have you any other matters to bring before the Council?”

Intikai stood, and Froerig resisted the groan that struggled in his chest. Would the man ever shut his gob?

The Prime held up a small curl of paper for the Council to see – a pidgen’s message by its look. “Just this morn, I received word of an attack on the port town of Färenmouth, east of the Lion’s Veld.” A few murmurs from the Council. Even Froerig listened intently. “Details are limited, but a few facts are clear. Much of the town was burned.” Intikai looked around the room, enjoying the unforced attention. “And many of the town’s citizenry murdered.”

Questions flew from the Council floor then. Who attacked? To what purpose? What aid might the Kingdoms offer?

The inquiries continued with little elaboration, and Froerig turned to his own thoughts. Murder, at scale, was a massacre. That wasn’t the Warrior’s Code – the creed drilled into every soldier before they were offered a sword. His mind began recounting the code, unasked. “Never kill when ye can but maim…” Froerig ended the ancient recitation there.

The Code, distilled down, taught every soldier one central precept: “Do only as much harm as necessary.” They learned to live by it. Breathe it. Obey it. It was the first thought a soldier should have as they readied their weapon: “How much harm must I do?” But massacre didn’t live by any creed. It was slaughter. Pure and simple. No Code. And no mercy.

The discussion, having no reachable destination, was concluded. Intikai yielded the floor, and Froerig’s attention turned to matters more pressing than news from the far side of the Kingdoms. A terrible itch had flared on his right shoulder, near the inside edge of the golden epaulet that held his cape in place. He took a step back and gently pressed the epaulet against the stone wall behind him, using the leverage to ease his discomfort quietly. A learned skill. One of the many hundreds of things a Guardsman needed to know that were of no consequence to a common soldier.

His shoulder’s distress satisfied, Froerig stepped forward to his post and returned to his game. On the far right of the Hall of Council, the two Ellish Envoys sat as they always did: silent and unreadable. Pale-skinned and tall, with lithe but powerful-looking bodies. He’d never faced an Elle in combat. A truly unknown and unpredictable adversary. That would be a treat.

The Council meeting droned on through the afternoon, and, before its end, Froerig considered the peace of his blade several times more.

Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.

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Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

Table of Contents | Map: Golden Kingdoms | The Moons | Numbers & Measures

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2: Duty

Darim > Färenmouth, Golden Kingdoms

Darim rode east, along the road to Färenmouth, a coastal town and a minor port for shipping between Aerohim and Haüthia. He was on ‘The King’s Business.’ He liked the weight of that. It sounded important, although he doubted whether anyone else felt that way. ‘Darim Vel, Trade Inspector for the Crown, here to inspect your books and inventories.’ No one ever stood up straighter or tipped their head when he spoke those words. Maybe improved delivery was required? He deepened his voice, a medium tenor at its lowest, and tried the line again.

Definitely not. He was glad no one accompanied him on the road. He was a Trade Inspector for the Golden Kingdoms, three kingdoms united, although many in Aerohim seemed to feel that they had been relegated to the status of an unwanted third child. He had no opinion on the subject.

It wasn’t a bad road, he thought, as roads went. Wide enough for two carts to ride abreast – or pass, heading toward differing ends. He was close now, a few strands through the light coastal drizzle.

He shook away the moisture that had accumulated on his shoulder-length black hair, pulled up the hood of his travel cloak, and craned his neck to survey the road behind him. On the western horizon, far across the Lion’s Veld, Aerlil was on the rise, the clouds parting in her path, as they always did.

Home was back there too. He longed for it every day he spent on his assigned route: the First Circuit. A lofty-sounding name for an inspection route that wound its way around most of the southern half of Aerohim but never went anywhere important – except his home. No one cared where the Circuit started, only that its inspections were made. Several birds dropped through the soft underbelly of the cloud above him: 3 gulls making for the sea.

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He rode through the last of the Veld’s farmland – green shoots of grain still creeping toward their ripening. Soon, the fields would yield to the sandy scrubs and grasses that lined the coast, and then the town. Home pulled at him. The loving arms of his wife, Renn. The happy laughter of Shara and Brinde, their children. He longed to be with them.

Seven days before, Brinde – an easily upset boy of three, but just as easily delighted – had cried in his mother’s arms as Darim rode off. Thirty days more – if all went well – until he returned home. He always knew the days. Ticking them off, one by one, until his return home. He was good with numbers, but a Trade Inspector ought to be. He inspected ledgers, tallied the inventories, looked for inconsistencies. And all the while – the longing.

The duty wasn’t a burden. He enjoyed numbers, a love he’d carried since his youth. It was the love of understanding. Numbers made sense. A stand of trees pushed its way out of the coastal fog ahead: 5 elms behind the town marker.

He’d arrived.

Beyond the town marker, simple houses dotted their way outward, spaced widely on either side of the road, signaling the end of the farmland: 7 farmhouses at the edge of the fields.

These were older structures, from the early days before Färenmouth grew its shipping interests – wooden sidings stained dark and warped by many years of coastal moisture.

Further into town, he knew from prior visits, the homes transitioned to two-story structures – newer, certainly nicer, whitewashed in the more affluent areas, but all pressed closely to one another.

Past the farms, he scanned for a line of single-story homes to emerge from the dense mists. These structures ringed the town’s exterior – except for the coast. The dwellings of unskilled laborers and the less well-to-do. And soon, their forms began to resolve through the fog – darkly indistinct at first, then coalescing into more solid forms. But their shapes were wrong. The crisp edges of walls and rooftops were distorted and dark with a consistency his mind couldn’t comprehend.

He softened the reins, and Tally, his dappled pony, slowed her steady trot, edging toward a tall patch of grass at the road’s edge, as was her way. It dawned on him then. Fire.

The mare began to nibble at the coastal grass, oblivious. There had been a fire. Not one home, or a few. For as far as the fog allowed him to see, all the homes were burned. Fire had swept through these buildings, leaving a chaotic jumble of burnt homesteads in its wake.

It had been inconsistent. In some cases, only the sturdiest bones of the structures stood, charred and misshapen. In others, a side or a corner of the home had been left untouched – like an unfinished artwork – the blackened remnants crumbling in sharp contrast. No fires still burned. No coals smoldered. No tendrils of smoke curled in final remembrance. It had been several days since the devastation.

Darim tugged at the reins, and Tally abandoned the sweet grasses, turning back toward the heart of the town. She plodded slowly forward – her pace set by his sense of caution. More destruction revealed itself as they continued, and his dread grew with each forward step. It was eerily silent. The fall of the mare’s hooves on the packed dirt the only sound.

All around him: devastation. He’d reached the two-story homes – once charming and bright – now, only their blackened remnants. Here, a few people moved about, but their motions were dull and forced, as if their spirits had been charred as deeply as the structures. There was no idle chatter, no laughter shared, no vibrant life. Ahead, a man struggled as he dragged a charred body from the rubble of a burnt house – a woman, by the shape of the blackened corpse. He laid his burden down next to two others and moved to the next home: 3 bodies waiting at the side of the road.

The scene repeated itself, again and again, as he moved into the business district. To his right, the inn was a ruin of crumbled and charred timber – no bed for him tonight. The tavern next door had been consumed as well. Many bodies were gathered by the road there. Several men worked at loading the deceased into a two-wheeled cart. They moved in slow silence. It was a dark labor, and the dead had no schedule to keep.

Tally snorted. She’d caught the damp stench that now engulfed them. More bodies along the roadside. The mercantile’s colorful entryway and the sign above stood untouched as a cold shrine to the thriving business that had once been – the rest burned to its foundations. A blackened corpse lay on the road before the building. The shopkeeper?

On the left, the two-story trade house crumbled in on itself. And beyond that, the town’s warehouses lay in ruins – grains and goods consumed by the flames. There would be no inspection. There was nothing left. No ledgers to reconcile. His mare had grown uneasy, and he had to urge her forward.

He was nearing the docks. On his right, a man Darim recognized stood hunched before the remains of the chandlery; its ropes and sails had been easy tinder for the greedy flames. Tally drew to a stop – she needed no urging. Darim swept his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.

He was grateful to recall the man’s name. “Elder Herstön.” The older man turned toward Darim, pale skin rendered ashen by loss and grief – his tears lurked near the corners of his eyes. “The town…” Darim faltered. He had no words for the devastation.

The Elder hung his head. “Inspector Vel. Well me…” The man choked on the formality, cut short by grief. There was nothing ‘well met’ this day. The scale of the loss demanded a degree of solemnity that courtesy could not satisfy.

Darim slowly surveyed the devastation and finally found his voice. “What happened here?”

The Elder sighed deeply. A few small coughs – likely the smoke and soot. “Three nights gone…” He took another breath and coughed again. “A dark night. Riders – many of them – swept the town, slaughtering most and setting torch to all you see.” He coughed again, phlegm rattling in his chest. “The Constable and able-bodied men who resisted fell first. Then the rest.” The Elder choked up some of what rattled in his chest and spat it to the ground.

He gestured toward the docks with a trembling arm. “Most of the ships in the harbor made sail and escaped the flames with what crew they had aboard. The rest…” The Elder glanced at a nearby gathering of bodies. “The crews on leave, all dead.” The darkened husks of several ships – one large, a merchant vessel, and more light craft – drifted near the docks: 5 burnt ships floating in the harbor.

“Who did this?”

Elder Herstön shook his head sadly. “None know. The ones that did… All dead. Slaughtered or burnt. The few of us who survived hid or fled the flames, taking shelter where we could.” He was wracked by a spell of deep coughing and hunched over, trying to catch his breath. He spat again, raised himself back up, and continued, “It was fast. So terribly fast…” The Elder’s eyes drifted for a breath. “And brutal. The likes that I have never seen.”

Darim questioned further, seeking a cause that could make sense of the massacre – banditry, rivalry, a grudge. But there simply were no answers. The Elder concluded his recounting. “A few of Sam Toller’s flight of pidgens survived. We sent word to the capital of these atrocities on the morn after... But no word yet.”

Darim nodded, but he’d long surpassed his mind’s capacity to hold the dark details. He had heard, seen, and smelled as much as he could bear. He needed to leave the town. Find fresh air. “I must take my leave.” He took the Elder’s outstretched hand and grasped the man’s shoulder with his other – a physical expression of empathy shared for several breaths.

The Elder made an expression that might have found its way to being a smile on another day. “Those that live have set up a camp beside the river.” He glanced upward. The sun had passed its zenith, and the fog had thinned to a misty remnant of its former self. “Past midday. There’ll be a bite to eat still and supper just in the pot. I doubt much levity in the company, but you’ll find some shelter from the night’s damp.”

Darim accepted without a second thought. His whole being was weary – far beyond the morning’s efforts. “Thank you. Your kindness means much.”

The Elder nodded. “Two half-full bellies are better than one full, one empty. And together is always better than alone.” He pointed toward the northern side of the town. “They’re along the closer edge of the river, not far from the bridge. You’d have to work at it to miss them.” And with that, the Elder turned and walked slowly toward the charred shell of the Dockmaster’s office, hunched with the weight of his grief.

Darim reclaimed his saddle and rode north, past lines of the dead and the fire’s devastation: 4 bodies waiting for burial.

Near the bridge, he spotted the encampment as the Elder had promised – there were no structures left to hide it. The camp was a muddle of makeshift shelters: rescued sailcloth with a charred corner, several canvas tarps, various lengths of colored fabrics, and anything else that could offer a bit of covering. There were no walls. Privacy was a luxury they’d been forced to abandon.

Darim pulled short near the encampment’s edge and hooked a corner of Tally’s reins under a boulder. There was room for the mare to graze, and he could always find her in the grass if she slipped loose. He gave her an affectionate pat and strode toward the cookfire where others were gathered – women and children, mostly. The Elder had been right. He smelled food and, despite all he had witnessed this morning, he was hungry.

He woke some time later, fighting the grogginess that followed an afternoon nap. He’d shared a bite with the townsfolk around the cookfire – a simple but satisfying meal. As a stranger, his offer of help in cleaning up had been politely declined. Tally had been happily shortening the grasses on the outskirts of the makeshift shelters. He should have unsaddled her then, but the weight of the morning had drained his energy. He had laid his bedroll out under an elm near the camp, and the burbling song of the river had eased him to his rest.

He rubbed his crusted eyes and turned to look behind him, against his better judgment. The fog was gone, and the devastation stretched out clearly in a palette of charcoal and ash gray: heartbreaking. Darim turned away. He might never fully forget what he’d seen. It certainly didn’t need refreshing.

The smell of the cookpot tickled at his nose from the camp. Tally had nibbled her way to the grasses on the riverbank, and he led her back to the tree. It would be a passable shelter for the night. He removed the saddle, dropping it near the tree, then her bit, bridle, and reins. With her halter secured to a low branch, he moved toward the beckoning smell of supper.

The men had returned from their grim day’s work in the town, and a crowd of survivors milled around the cookfire waiting for supper. There was little conversation, mostly the sounds of children, and even those were muted. Children. Darim missed his family. Thirty days more.

A few men spoke to each other of their days – who else could understand what they’d seen? “Mrs. Ambleson burnt up with her babe still clutched in her arms.” Darim surveyed the children moving amidst the survivors. One woman held an infant against her shoulder. Another small child bumbled their way between the legs of the adults. The remaining children looked to be past their ninth year. He grimaced – only those who could flee unaided and knew they couldn’t hide from the flames.

His shoulders shook involuntarily, and he turned his ears to another conversation. “… must have been professionals. Those that weren’t burnt died efficient-like. One thrust per. Always a killing stroke. From horseback, or by tallish men – wounds to the chest or above.” This conversation offered little relief, and he willed himself deaf.

Soon, the woman given charge of the cookpot deemed its contents ready for consumption. Everyone received a share of the plain stew. As he sipped the scalding broth from his wooden bowl, Darim wondered which of the townsfolk had paused to rescue a stack of bowls as they fled. Probably a generosity from the farmers whose homes had survived.

Most of the townsfolk were light-skinned or tanned by years under the coastal sun – the rest a diverse mix. Darim looked down at his forearms: his skin warm and brown since birth. The color of one’s flesh didn’t matter – a trick of parentage, nothing more. Now, Trolls and Elles, they were different in a way that meant something. He wasn’t sure what. Movement caught his eye: 2 children playing on the riverbank.

After he finished his supper, he sat quietly for a spell – as did the rest. A few low conversations, but sparse. Darim, who had found a seat near the center of the group, could not hold back his morbid curiosity. “How many, all told?”

One of the women replied, “Fourteen able-bodied men. Three partly burned – on their way to dyin’ or healin’, only time will reveal. Nineteen womenfolk. Fourteen young, including the babe. The Elder and two others of some advanced years.” She nodded toward an aged couple. “The Stroüders. Who missed the tragedy entirely – them both being weak of ear and havin’ been sitting on the river’s edge gazing at the stars.” She paused a moment. “Although I still think they was rutting.” A few laughs, weaker than they should have been.

She continued, “All told. Fifty-three still drawing breath. And grateful of it. Fifty-three left of…” She stopped and turned expectantly to the Elder.

He completed the thought for her. “Three hundred twelve... By my last total.” He added, “Not counting the sailors on leave and any travelers.”

One of the men in the circle spoke up, “Thirty-two unclaimed so far. But I expect there’ll be a few more before we’re done.”

Darim’s mind quickly ran the figures – unasked. Close to five of every six: dead.

He asked no more questions and returned to Tally and his elm soon after.

Aerlil climbed upward through the night sky. Her pale blue light was more than enough to move about by. He led the mare down to the river’s edge where she quenched her thirst, then drank his fill as well.

Tally’s halter again secured to the tree, his gear stowed, and his bedroll returned to its spot under the elm, he stretched out and longed for home. His lids soon crept downward, and his awareness faded into darkness. Fires burned in the starless night of his slumber and the dying screamed.

Darim woke in a sour mood – wearied by his troubled dreams. He stretched and made his way to the cookfire. He’d be on his way soon. Twenty-nine days until his return home.

The morning’s porridge was already steaming in its pot, and one of the women served him a generous bowl along with a steaming cup of roastbrew, made from roasted grains mixed with crushed tea leaves and herbs – a common beverage in the grain-rich kingdom of Aerohim. Darim found a seat on the ground and set the bowl beside him. He clasped the steaming cup between his hands, enjoying the moist aroma of the steam, and took a deep drink. The night’s troubled sleep melted away.

He had turned his attention to the porridge when the Elder approached with a purposeful stride – another of the men in tow.

No pleasantries were offered, and the Elder spoke immediately to his purpose. “A pidgen arrived early this morn from Adain Thüragia.” The capital. Darim was curious but wondered at its import to him.

Rather than reading the message aloud, the Elder handed him the loosely coiled strip of paper and waited. Darim took the curled note and read the short address on its exterior:

To: Highest Crown’s Agent in Färenmouth

He clearly hadn’t made the connection, so the Elder did the work for him: “The Constable and all others – are dead.” Darim didn’t like the direction this was going. “The ‘Highest Crown’s Agent’ – the only agent – is you.”

The weight and meaning struck him then, heavy in his chest. Whatever was written on the inside of the message, whatever it asked, would become his duty as soon as he read it – his obligation. Darim’s mind raced with possibilities: weeks or months of service added to his assignment. Forty days until home. No fifty. Sixty wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility. His eyes welled, and rather than suffering with uncertainty, he opened the coiled message and read:

Message received. Town razed, many slaughtered. Further detail requested. Origin, method, & timing of attack. Numbers: dead & living? Plan & immediate needs? – Taehlia Mïnte, Crown’s Rep., A.T.

The message began with a summary of known facts. Nothing asked of him. The request for ‘Further detail’ asked for information that wasn’t available – he had little to offer there. Then, ‘Numbers: dead & living?’ He knew those already. Quick work. ‘Plan & immediate needs?’ He’d have to ask the Elder, but he imagined the answers would be simple, “Plan: Survival. Needs: Everything.”

And signed by Taehlia Mïnte. He’d seen her once – never met. She was the highest representative of the Kingdoms in Aerohim, stationed permanently in the capital as the voice and hand of the Crown. He’d bowed his head deferentially as she strode past him down the hallway without acknowledgment.

So that was his assignment. His duty. A report – and not a long one at that. He was skilled at writing reports. He might not be important, but he’d been tasked into service to someone who was. Nothing close to the scope his worry-filled mind had imagined. The details – at least the ones anyone knew – were all available. He’d do his duty, write his report, and be on the road before midday. A minor delay. Still twenty-nine days until home.

Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.

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Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

Table of Contents | Map: Golden Kingdoms | The Moons | Numbers & Measures

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1: The Turn

Korvyn > Arenford, Golden Kingdoms

The two moons played at their lovers’ dance. Aerlil paraded through the clear skies high overhead, full and proud in all her glory as she surveyed the world below. Emendon, small and yellowish orange, and ever the trickster, seemed to tease her as he crested the horizon. Sometimes their paths crossed, and the two would move in step. Her immense blue sphere, patched with greens, would eclipse his lesser orb before he again slipped her grasp. Aerlil’s cycle was predictable: consistent and unchanging. 3 days from horizon to horizon – west to east – as she traversed the Kingdoms. Then 3 days gone.

Korvyn liked predictable. It was the Troll way. It was his way. He might be boring, but who would care? No one ever put quill to parchment to tell of a Troll’s great adventures. Fancy-tales were best left to Humans and Elles.

It was early Spring, the season still in its fledgling stages, but new growth could be seen all around him. Korvyn knew this road, and all the roads along his Turn, with the familiarity of a lifetime spent traveling them. A patch of primrose near the roadside was already showing pale yellow blossoms.

He leaned over the side of his cart and pointed out the blooms to his gofer, Broc. “Over there, boy. Early for primrose by a few weeks, at least.”

“Not boy! I’m almost a man fully grown.” Broc slowed his pace – likely dropping back to chat with the sell-swords driving the two additional carts that made up Korvyn’s small caravan. He’d hired the Humans: three guards and Broc, the gofer, at the first stop on his Turn. He did the same every Turn. Every 90 days.

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Korvyn’s cart carried his most precious items: the money box, gems and jewelry, some of his most valuable wares, a sack of hard candies for the children, and bags of deliveries marked for the stops on his Turn. Those bags had overtaken his thoughts many times as the caravan made its plodding journey – some held messages, sorted from a stack of identically sealed parchments given to him by Tovahn Reyk. The strange messages had come with a disproportionately large pile of coins, just before Korvyn departed for this new Turn. There was something off about the business. He pushed the thought from his mind.

To the caravan’s left, as far as he could see, stretched the green fields of the Golden Veld – interrupted only by the river that flowed to the southeast and the low, lazy hills that randomly broke the expanse of green. The Veld continued westward, to the right of the road, until it finally gave way to the low foothills of the Eobraesch Mountains in the distance.

Ahead, between the river and the road, the rooftops, and then the boxy homes and buildings of Arenford began to peek over the low, rolling hills. Arenford had first started, as many small towns did, as a waystation. A stop along the road to somewhere else – with a reliable water supply and workably level terrain. The town had grown with its purpose, driven by the townsfolk’s needs and the potential of its economy. Korvyn liked that. It made sense. Profit-driven. Efficient.

Korvyn pulled his cart to a creaking stop at the edge of the common area beside the waystation. The children were on him before the two carts behind had come to a full stop. They were always first to arrive. Excited little foxes swirling around a cornered hare. Raucous, laughing, screaming – ready for their prize. Candy!

He grabbed a fistful of the hard treats from the bag he kept within easy reach and stood, the cart’s baseboards squeaking almost as loudly as his stiffened joints. “All right, my little ruffians. Here’s the rules.” The children quieted. “Line up so I can count you well. No need to push. A sweet for every child… But only one.”

The children complied, the youngest squirming in anticipation, and Korvyn tossed a candy to the first in line. “One.” He always counted aloud. The child beamed, popped the treat in his mouth, and called a hurried ‘Thank you, Sir!’ over his shoulder as he ran off.

“Two… Three…” He continued distributing candies, the numbers keeping track of themselves as he reflected. The generosity had been Korvyn’s idea, some years ago. A free candy for every child. On its surface, a horrible idea. But what sounded like a sure loss had yielded excellent returns. Every child given a treat became a loudly vocal advocate for the purchase of more. “Twenty-three. And done!” He tossed a final treat and grinned. Should sell at least four sacks, based on his current average.

Broc unpacked the other carts while Korvyn had his fun, and wares that required seeing were forming an organized spread in front of the carts. Two of the three guards, per usual, had dismissed themselves to the waystation to quench their thirst – guards didn’t hire on for manual labor. The third guard, Dannick, had drawn the short lot and remained with the caravan to ensure that all goods were paid for.

Korvyn’s gaze swept across the carts, partly emptied now, painted in muted yellows and blues – a bit of color, but not enough to earn the attention of thieves or bandits. Townsfolk began to arrive before the spread was fully laid out. They always came. Part of a predictable and profitable cycle. He greeted each one by name – the recall a favor of the Long Memory or his own gift, he couldn’t be sure.

Every transaction was personal. A new, larger cook pot and a sack of candies for Saam Binglow’s wife, whose youngest had damaged the previous one beyond fixing. A bolt of colored fabric for Ana Winslè – yes, still a spinster, but always hopeful. 2 bags of iron ingots and 1 more of copper for the town’s smith – whose shoulder ached fiercely once his day’s work had ended. On second thought, a jar of healing balm for him as well.

His sales continued well into the afternoon before the fervor waned. Korvyn kept the goods in his carts compact, with a high value relative to the space they occupied. For every item he sold, he found something new to replace it. Empty space earned him nothing.

He sold one last sack of candies and gave Broc a sharp nod. The youth quickly set about packing and stowing away the remnants of their spread. “Good lad!” Korvyn was glad for the care the boy took: broken wares cost you money twice. Broc cast him a glance that spoke plainly, ‘Almost a man!’ As the wagons were reloaded, Dannick stepped away to retrieve his fellow sell-swords from the waystation. They’d had their rest, and it was their lot to guard the carts for the balance of the evening.

Korvyn walked to his cart and fished through the bags of deliveries under its heavy tarp until he’d located the one marked for Arenford. He stopped. This bag held one of the ornately sealed parchments. The coins had been the first thing to raise his caution – three times the sum that Reyk normally paid. While Tovahn Reyk was wealthy, overpayment always came with unspoken expectations. He’d heard rumors about the Troll merchant, never confirmed or refuted.

His unease had grown on the two-day voyage between Haüthia and the Golden Kingdoms – the messages were different than any he’d carried before. He wondered as he sorted the messages if they portended something darker. Korvyn had shrugged the feeling off and dropped the messages into sacks marked for their destinations. Taking relief in the comfort of his routine and the extra coins in his money box.

A bit of twine held the tag that marked the sack’s destination: Arenford. Korvyn pulled the twine open and reached inside. His hand easily found the sealed message – there was none other like it. He tucked the folded parchment safely away beneath his cloak and resealed the bag. He needed more time. A slight deviation from his routine would afford him time to think.

Korvyn turned to Broc, who’d finished packing up for the evening and waited, a few strides distant, to be released from service for the night. Korvyn smiled and placed his hand warmly on the youth’s shoulder. “Supper’s my treat tonight.” Korvyn guided the surprised youth toward the waystation – worries set aside, if only for the moment.

The smell of food filled his nostrils as soon as the door swung wide, and his stomach growled. He was ready for a good meal. Two rows of round tables – roughly half claimed by early diners – filled the waystation’s dark wooden floors. Having been converted for the service of food and drink some years back, the station didn’t hold the character of an inn that had grown up serving patrons. Its crude beginnings still showed, but it also lacked the sour stench of floorboards soaked with years of spilled ale.

Near the entrance, Dannick sat astride a narrow stool, licking his lips expectantly as the station’s proprietor drew him a cup of ale. Korvyn pointed Broc to an open table and walked to the front counter, which doubled as a small bar top. Beside him, Dannick paid for his drink and dove in eagerly, drops of foam falling to the bar top. Korvyn moved closer to the high counter and, after confirming the open space before him was dry, deposited the sack of deliveries.

Lōrn Tillsom, the station’s proprietor, grinned and greeted Korvyn in his usual fashion. “What news, my friend?”

“The usual. The road is always the road. Autumn is done, and Spring is begun – the primrose having already started to bloom along the roadside.” They were friends of many years and traded light banter for a few moments. Korvyn’s stomach again complained at its state of emptiness, and he surrendered. “I’m grown hungry. But first, the deliveries.”

Korvyn had already pushed the sack toward Lōrn when his worries returned. Sharper this time. He’d removed the message but hadn’t decided its fate. If he thought better of it on the morrow and chose to pass the message along, Lōrn would know he’d removed it. Korvyn would be betrayed by his own predictable routine. He’d acted too quickly and only now recognized the unforeseen consequences of his actions.

Lōrn retrieved a similar but less full sack of messages from under the counter and placed it in front of Korvyn. “Outbound.” The bags were quickly exchanged. They’d made this swap a hundred times before, and Korvyn fled his fears to the safe comfort of this shared routine, taking the sack of outbound messages and looping it over one of the hooks sewn into the lining of his travel cloak.

Lōrn pulled off his barman’s smock, dropped it with a flourish, and stepped around the counter’s end. “Ready for a bit of supper?” He liked to join Korvyn for a bite, more often than not.

Korvyn nodded. “For the lad, too.” He gestured toward the table where Broc sat waiting. Lōrn pulled three cups for them while Korvyn took his seat.

Korvyn, Lōrn, and Broc had seated themselves loosely around the table by the time the cook emerged from the kitchen. His hands were laden with three steaming bowls and a crusty loaf of bread – the bowls quickly distributed and the crusty loaf dropped, somewhat ungently, in the middle of the table.

The steam rising from Korvyn’s bowl teased him enticingly. Large hunks of roasted meat sat atop a brownish stew: local vegetables, roughly chopped, meat trimmings for flavor, with bulk added by kernels of local grain, swollen as they drank up the savory broth.

Korvyn made a pretense of paying for their meals, but Lōrn shook his head and declined, as he always did. “You know what I want.” And Korvyn did. The waystation had been owned and run by Lōrn’s family since its humble beginnings many generations prior. Lōrn wanted the Memory.

“Tell me about my Da’s Pap.”

Korvyn nodded, breaking a chunk of bread off the loaf between them and dipping it in his stew before he popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he reached back into his mind for the Long Memory, scrolling backward along the mental collage. He scrolled quickly at first, and the years melted away: Lōrn as a younger man, Lōrn as a child, then an infant. Korvyn was seeing through his own father’s eyes, before he’d ever ridden a Turn alongside him.

Korvyn scrolled on. Lōrn’s father aged backward, 90 days at a time, through the lens of the Long Memory, as he sought Lōrn’s grandfather. He slowed his mental scrolling and found a vibrant remembrance.

Korvyn sliced a bit of meat from one of the hunks, slid it between his lips, chewed – savoring its juices – and swallowed. “Your grandfather – Torreth was his name – but mostly went by Torr – was a broad-shouldered man like yourself. Fully a head shorter than you stand, but burly and well-muscled, with a full brown beard, and – the beard having claimed all of the hairs on the man’s head – a shiny bald pate that was tanned dark by years of burning in the sun.” Lōrn leaned back in his chair and took a drink from his cup. Listening.

A full bite of stew. More bread. “Mind well. I can only convey what my ancestor witnessed.” Lōrn nodded with understanding. The low chatter of the station’s patrons had lulled – others were listening. Some even pulled chairs closer to better hear the tale.

Korvyn downed another bite of stew. “He was arguing with my own Grandfather: Kaéll. A proud, gray-skinned Troll with puffy gray hair that grew out like a dandelion.” Korvyn chuckled. “It was a disagreement over the price of a pair of halters.” More stew. Some meat. A drink.

“Now, remember, the station was a good bit less developed back then. Torr had recently added the stables – not even a stablemaster to service them at this point – and he had a price in mind that Kaéll refused to meet.” Many of those listening nodded in understanding. Korvyn didn’t haggle, as a rule. If you gave a customer a discount for no good reason, the rest soon came to expect it.

Several bites of stew, chewed and swallowed with little hurry. Dramatic pauses – well placed – always made for better storytelling.

“Now the disagreeing continued for quite some while, and sharp words were traded by both man and Troll in the course of it. The frequent tendency of one to push for discounts unearned. The questionable profession of the other’s mother.” Another small bite. “Well, at some point, Torr had simply had enough of the verbal sparring and, his temper being well-known, drew his fist back as far as he could and popped Kaéll right in his bulbous gray nose.” Eyes widened amongst the listeners. While Korvyn had no love for flowery words, he was skilled at their deployment in furtherance of a good story’s telling. “Knocked him straight back on his fat arse.” Some chuckles from the room.

The meat was finished. He lifted his near-empty bowl and slurped down the last of the stew. Very tasty, on the whole. A final bit of bread. Another drink. A second.

“Well, as you might guess. The disagreement ended there. And both men, given a few moments to allow tempers to cool – and Kaéll’s nose to be straightened.” More laughs. “Both men soon retired to the station’s porch for a few cups, as was their preferred end to the day.” Korvyn gestured around the dining area. “Mind you, this was all business and no seating, in that day.”

He continued, “And in the way of friends, they shared their drinks, and some jokes, and remembered that they actually liked one another quite well. A price was agreed – partway between what was asked and what was set – and the halters sold to Torr.” He took a deep breath for the conclusion. “And in the morn, they embraced, as good friends often do at partings, and Kaéll rode off toward the next stop on his Turn, Aerlil climbing up over the mountains just in time to watch him depart.”

Lōrn sighed and smiled happily. There was some applause from the audience. Broc, wide-eyed and certainly groggy, seemed to be viewing Korvyn in a newly amended light. A first exposure to the Long Memory often had this effect on those who had no experience with it.

Some patrons returned to their tables – to partly eaten suppers, unfinished drinks, and conversations left midway. Others would soon find their courage, and a few loose coins, and ask for stories of their own ancestors – it was the way of things. The stories continued into the evening, and it was late when Korvyn finally took his rest in one of the station’s few guest rooms.

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The sun’s first light had already shortened its long shadows when Korvyn woke. The message lay amongst his other personals on a small table beside the bed. It was time to decide.

He retrieved the message and inspected the large wax seal and the stamp pushed firmly into it: a flame with a desert skiggle inside. A simple thing to the eye, but a complexity his mind struggled to unravel. That stamped seal was an oddity. The messages Korvyn typically carried were sealed with a simple dot of wax. Stamped seals were a luxury of the wealthy and government officials.

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The idea of breaking the seal had occurred to him – first on the ship, and several times since – but he’d fled from his curiosity. A broken seal was obvious, and no accident of travel. If he was honest, he held some fear for the intrigues the message’s interior might reveal. Ignorance was his alibi.

The overpayment concerned him too – seeming to whisper, “Don’t ask questions.” That had been the payment’s purpose, without giving the order outright. It carried an implied threat.

Korvyn read the address marked on the outside of the message, as if the text would set his mind on a course of action.

Arenford. Hold for Prëston Childé

The words offered no help. The recipient was unknown to Korvyn, and he suspected Lōrn knew nothing of the man either. But it was not uncommon for a message to be left at a stop for a traveler who would be passing through sometime later.

Korvyn longed for the simple regularity of his routine. And in that, he found his answer. He had strayed from his path. The easiest – the safest – course was to restore the structured normalcy of his routine. Provide a reasonable excuse to Lōrn: a message set aside for individual delivery because of its unique nature. That wasn’t even a lie, but it lacked the full truth.

That was it then. An excuse and a merciful omission, offered to his friend with the message. A small act of cowardice, and then back to the safe regularity of his Turn. Not forgotten, but added, with no ceremony, to the drifting collage of the Long Memory.

Later, as Korvyn drove his cart southward along the road, his mind turned uneasily, and he could find no comfort. The buckboard of his cart seemed unusually firm. The message had been handed off. His predictable routine – he hoped – had been set right. In the eastern skies, Aerlil was waning, and he imagined a note of judgment in her cool gaze.

Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.

Next Chapter >>

Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.

Map: Golden Kingdoms | Map: Fair Isles | The Moons | Numbers & Measures

PART 1:

Chapter 1: The Turn

Korvyn > Arenford, Golden Kingdoms

Chapter 2: Duty

Darim > Färenmouth, Golden Kingdoms

Chapter 3: The Council

Froerig > Adain Andür, Golden Kingdoms

Chapter 4: Morning Lessons

Cauli > Mecorth Pieliar, Fair Isles

Chapter 5: Edge of the Wood

Elëndria > Tig’s Knoll, Golden Kingdoms

Chapter 6: The Trouble with Knowing

Essi > Mecorth Pieliar, Fair Isles

Next Release: September 8, 2026

Chapter 7: The Missive

Froerig > Adain Andür, Golden Kingdoms

Chapter 8: Mountain Echoes

Lanil > Mt. Aldea, Fair Isles

Chapter 9: The Waiting

Vorath > Harrowport, Golden Kingdoms

Next Release: September 15, 2026

Chapter 10: What Numbers Reveal

Darim > Garenhölm, Golden Kingdoms

Chapter 11: Trader’s Dinner

Froerig > Mecorth Pieliar, Fair Isles

Chapter 12: Fires in the Night

Rüch > Mecorth Pieliar, Fair Isles

Every POV switch can feel like jumping into a new personality.

That’s not a bad thing. There are no hard rules for how an author uses POV to tell their tale. Some writers treat POV like camera operators filming the scene, following the character without much interiority. Others dive deep into each POV character - we’re looking through their eyes and privy to the character’s thoughts, feelings, and internal conversations. Opposite ends of the spectrum, but a choice, rather than a directive, with a world of subtle variations in between.

The case for POVs as camera operators.

The technique is a solid way to tell a widespread story without the burden of diving deeper into each POV’s persona and thinking. Need to shift the story to another location? Pick a new POV who’s on-site. They’re a witness or an on-scene reporter. Any internal thought or feeling can be revealed as a writer’s expository: “Bob smiled to himself as she left.” You tell the reader what you want them to know, and no more. It might be the safer treatment if Bob’s internal conversation risks revealing too much. “Glad she’s gone. She came close to finding the housekeeper’s body too many times.” There are characters in my novel whose POVs I won’t risk, because I decided their internal conversations would reveal details I don’t want the reader to know yet. Yes, I’m the writer and have sole say of what goes on the page, but I think a character who’s worried about something is going to think about it; anything less would risk feeling fake or contrived. I could switch to the exterior camera, but the other POVs are more internal. I’m going for consistency. I think the reader would notice the shift.

The benefits - and challenges - of internal POVs.

While external POV is a lens on what happens around a POV character, internal POV offers the opportunity to delve deeper into a character’s inner conflicts and thought processes. And just like the camera operator, POV can be deepened by internal expository, outside events can be framed as expository without breaking the framework. The benefit of an internal POV is also the burden - you’re listening to the radio, there will be noise. To maintain the internal view, you have to convey at least some of the chatter.

Writing internal POV can feel like switching personalities. Here’s how I navigate the sometimes jarring change.

My writing goal is a chapter per day. Some days that’s ambitious, other days I’ve written two chapters and started on a third. Unless the POV character is already well-established in prose, the required shift can be a roadblock. If I run straight into the next POV, I risk carrying the last character’s thoughts, feelings, and struggles with me. I often force myself to walk away - my brain and my feelings need time to reset.

There are no hard rules for POV.

Don’t quote me on that. I’m sure there are a number of useful POV guides floating around social media or the internet. But really, unless it improves the finished product… Who cares? Guides are content - sometimes they’re useful, others, clickbait. There are also people out there who will tell you that POV shifts break the flow for the reader and should be avoided. It’s a risk, and a choice. I’m using POV to explore each character’s range of feelings, flaws, challenges, and reactions. POV is a device I’ve chosen to tell the story - I’ll find out if it’s working from the readers’ reactions.

Change the rules when they’re not working.

In general, I think consistency helps to ground the writing. If I shifted from external to internal POV and back again with no restraint, I think it would break the flow of the prose and become a stumbling block for the reader. Besides, I want the internality.

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Navigating the redundancy of similarity.

Working on a new chapter where there’s a real risk of describing scenery and travel that’s already been well-envisioned in a previous chapter. The setting isn’t identical, but very similar to what I’ve already written. The risk of repetition is real, and I don’t want to loose the reader’s attention as we traverse terrain that’s already been covered. The earlier chapter focused on how the travel felt, the dangers of the journey, the POV character’s experience with the setting and his expertise in helping his companions navigate it safely.

Exploit the differences.

The easiest way to keep the prose feeling fresh is to exploit the differences.

1. Leverage a different POV – Different POVs offer a real opportunity to reframe the scene and the experience. Each of us sees, hears, smells, tastes, and thinks about the world through our own lens. So make sure what each POV’s lens focuses on is distinct. It not only helps to frame the scene uniquely - it helps differentiate the voice of the POV character as well.

2. Focus on different details – If you’re writing from the same POV, you can still focus on different aspects of the setting or the journey. If you take a walk, do you always notice the same things? Maybe one morning, you notice the drops of dew on the grass. The residual moisture of the night. The next day, a tree sways gently in the breeze. The grass is forgotten, but you still know it’s there. Trust the reader to remember.

3. Focus on the internal conversation – Most of us think as we do something. My focus is often split between what I’m doing and what I’m thinking - the amount of room for thought usually dictated by the complexity of the task. Walking on a safe path: lot’s of room to think. Navigating unknown terrain - my attention is more locked on what I’m doing, but rarely all of it. It’s a rich landscape to explore during mundane activity.

4. Use shorthand for repetitive action – If you’ve already spent time describing something, develop a shorthand for the for action. “Brad struggled to raise his foot against the unrelenting pull of Planet X’s crushing gravity.” Might become, “He took another step.” In shorthand. You’ve already established what’s required. Trust the reader to fill in the extra details.

5. Identify what’s unique in the setting – If the setting is similar to one you’ve already described, look for the differences. What’s special about the scene you’re describing? Focus on that. What makes Groundhog Day an interesting movie? Not the redundancies - the unique moments that Bill Murray’s character gets to experience because he knows, with excruciating certainty, what will happen in the settings and interactions he’d already experienced. It stays fresh because each time his world resets, he sets out in search of something new. A person he hasn’t talked to. A place he hasn’t been. Something he’s never done. More than anything, I think the reader wants us to keep things feeling fresh.

Find what makes the moment unique.

I’d argue that some of what makes us better writers lies in honing our ability to capture a moment on prose. For me, it takes practice - but that’s a gift. It becomes a learned skill that I can improve upon. The world around us often assails us with so much sensory information that we actively work at not noticing it. We’d go mad if we processed it all at once. But that safety net can become a trap - blinders placed around me that limit my ability to notice a small detail that might be something special. I often notice small details, and miss the big picture. And so I practice.

Is over-preparation blocking you?

There are days I sit down to write and ten things jump out at me that I don’t know. Most are small details: a name for a walk-on character, a town someone recently visited or is on their way to, what it feels like to walk across a heather-choked hillside. The list is almost infinite. Most of the questions can wait for run-time, when I’m typing words on the page. But sometimes I run across an uncertainty that’s more complex, and it can derail my whole process. I spent the better part of yesterday answering a question that sounded simple on its surface: “Where does the chapter take place?”

The author has to believe it first.

I love details - especially when an author has an obvious grasp and certainty about what they’re writing. They didn’t just make it up on the fly. If you asked them, they’d have a reason for their choice, maybe a backstory too. With imagined worlds, it’s the difference between drifting through the writer’s imagination and exploring a fully realized world. Both versions have value, but I much prefer the second option.

Asking the right questions.

It took me several questions to get to the right one. My first question had an easy answer: “Where does the chapter take place?” Just about anywhere I want. The second question brought me closer: “What is the POV character going to do after this?” That helped. He’s been waiting for confirmation - he’s stuck until it comes.

Reverse-engineering saves the day.

Then it hit me. I didn’t need to know where he was. I needed to know what the next step of the conspiracy was. Book 1 takes place across the early moves of a broad-reaching conspiracy. I have a plan for where things will go, but I’ve avoided truly mapping out the plan and its further steps. And there went the day. The good news is I’ve got enough conspiracy mapped out for the next two books. Better news: I knew exactly where the character needed to be. Not where I wanted him to be, but where he needed to be - the only place someone so calculated and methodical would wait.

Is it a hill worth dying on?

So it took me a day to prepare for writing a four-page chapter. And in the process of writing it today, I developed an anagram-based, cyphered system of aliases, a series of clever codenames for operatives of the Flame, and more. I spent the time with these details because I believe each one makes the story better. I’ve spent hours trying to understand and develop a system for sustainable logging in a forest, for a chapter where what I established got only a few sentences of prose. I try to pick my battles; not every detail is worth the time. Most often, the details I pick to flesh out make the characters themselves deeper, because I have a clear understanding of ‘why’ they make the choices they do and what the stakes are to them.

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In some stories, characters have to die.

I don’t care for gratuitous violence, but, in some cases, death serves a greater purpose. For this book, it’s the fear I need the reader to feel for the danger that lurks - imagined or real - around every corner… I have killed many already. I’ve razed towns, cut the 48 guests at a dinner party down by more than half their number. I murdered a character whose sharp humor could have carried an entire book - who knows, maybe there’s a prequel in the offing for him? But the deaths have all been in furtherance of the story. Without the death of a young child, who would leave the safety of the woodlands to avenge them? Without the sense of pressing danger, the dread of pursuit, who would willingly choose to make a perilous journey?

Death can be a catalyst, giving the story momentum and making it clear to the reader that no one is safe.

I’m working on chapter 28 again today, inching step by step, a word at a time across the Fens of Aeil toward the death of another character I’ve come to like. I’m already feeling the grief of his loss. He’s a skilled storyteller, a mentor - I’m sure parts of him are stolen from my own grandfather. His death has lived in my mind for many years now. In this spot. It’s sudden. There’s no valiant battle. No last defense. He’s simply gone - and his loss will propel the six who travel with him into their story’s arc, intertwining with other arcs across the remaining 80 chapters of the book. But I still don’t like it.

If the reader feels it, the reward is worth the cost.

I want the reader to feel the loss of every life in the tale - certainly some more than others. Like this one. The mass slaughters have already claimed their victims. They were brutal and speak to the scale of the threat, but I think the individual deaths hit harder. In this case, a small group of survivors is stripped of the one man who had a plan beyond immediate survival. The aftermath of that loss will compel each of them to face their flaws and either rise beyond them or fail the others whose lives depend on them. The price is my own grief, but the reward - I hope - will be a story that feels like it has real stakes, and real threat, on every page.

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The art of painting with words.

As writing has become a regular part of my daily routine, I find myself observing the world around me and asking: how would I describe that? How would I translate what I see into prose that might transport the reader - let them see through my eyes. Much like sitting down with an easel and brush and trying to capture a stunning sunset. I can see it… But do I have the skill to convey it to someone else? I fail at the exercise as often as I succeed.

How do you describe something that doesn’t exist?

Some of the scenes I’m trying to capture have lived in my mind for the better part of forty years - but nowhere else. The page is a wide open canvas, simply waiting for my imagination to apply the first brush strokes. But, while the locations in my story are all imagined, I want them to feel grounded and genuine. The locations aren’t just settings - they should feel like characters, working for or against those who travel them. The tale is a fantasy. My goal is to bring its world to life in prose that makes it feel real.

Maps speak to the ‘journey’ and can build credibility.

I’m well-prepared. I have maps that show me, down to the mile, where every location lives in the book. I love books with maps - especially in fantasy stories. They help to ground me as I read. A gift from the author that tells me we’re taking a journey, and establishes that the writer has a clear idea of where we’re going. For me, a good map is the beginning of trust. Now, I’ve read books where it felt like the map was an afterthought - a thing quickly sketched after the book was done. And I’ve read books where it seemed the author got both of us lost - without intending to. But a good map, well utilized, has a beautiful way of drawing me deeper into the story.

Have you ever read a novel where characters seem to jump suddenly from one location to another? My maps aren’t just pretty illustrations. They’re tools I use to keep travel plausible.

While the maps aren’t required to enjoy my book, they’re deeply woven into the storytelling, and I offer the reader the opportunity to orient themselves to the starting point of ever chapter. Even short journeys in the tale have been evaluated for the plausibility and timing of each character’s travels. Again. I want it to feel real. A fantasy grounded in the physical laws of world where it takes place.

Do you trust your imagination?

Before I ever sat down to attempt the first sentences of this incarnation of the tale, I had detailed descriptions of many of the places my characters travel to. The story began with a map, over forty years ago. Then a second map. Then written descriptions of some the locations as the world started to come to life in my mind. Then characters. I was worldbuilding. At some point, all those years ago - I realized I had the beginnings of a story. As I head into each chapter, I turn back to my maps - more evolved now - and my notes, and am sometimes amazed at the ideas I birthed with little real experience. It’s been a process of learning to trust my imagination again.

The Fens of Aeil. Preparing to write about a ‘fresh’ location.

Chapter 28. Yet another ‘fresh’ location - meaning a geography I haven’t immersed myself in describing through prose, as well as the host POV. A small party has reached the Fens of Aeil, and it’s time to convey their journey. The location should be imposing. The terrain and the landscape itself are meant to be the antagonist here. First, I check my notes:

The Fens of Aeil are a boggy fen once forming the eastern portion of Ail Nieth Faelion, fed largely by runoff from the Aeil and Aeil Aeth rivers — both of which carry a grim mythic weight: the Aeil is said to run with the poisoned lifeblood of Raethaw and his slain men, and its runoff (Aeil Aeth) shares that same lethal, madness-inducing quality. Any water touched here is folklore-poison — the living driven mad by the spirits of the dead if they touch it. It sits geographically between Raethaw’s Heath to the south and Aeil Eilin — the “dead and decaying wood” fed by the same fouled waters, where dark magics are rumored to be practiced.

About a year and half ago, I began feeding these descriptions into an AI image generator - within two months I had multiple rendering of every location, every character, and every detail I had described in my notes. Everything had come to life. It was the single biggest catalyst that launched my return to writing the book. Next step in preparing to write a scene in the Fens of Aeil… Check the renderings. I generated ten - but only four really make the cut. I have some idea of what the landscape looks like.

Allowing experience to inform description.

When I first described the Fens of Aeil, I’d never been anywhere like them - a strange and terrifyingly unstable landscape that lived only in my mind. It’s been forty years since I wrote those first notes, and I find it useful to draw on my real-world experiences when describing a scene. Where have I been that might come close? I’ve driven through the swamplands of Louisiana in July - felt the oppressive heat and humidity. Seen the strangely still landscape stretching off to all sides. I’ve walked through a bog in Ireland and felt the horror as my next step sunk me thigh-deep in the gripping muck that threatened to strip the boot from my foot as I freed my leg. I’ve driven past the Okefenokee swamp on a late dark night in Florida and felt the odd sensation of an unseen and potentially hostile lowland spreading into the dark - and I the only traveler, mere feet above the lurking unknown. None of these are the Fens of Aeil, but the experience all have something to lend the coming prose. Lived experiences and fear I can tap into as I write. But I still want more.

AI fills the role of ‘helpful assistant’.

It’s time to turn to AI for the finishing details. It’s a choice. I could rely simply on what I know. I could turn to a search engine - but many of those results are AI-driven as well. I use an AI agent - a Claude project. I refuse to let it write for me - this is my book - but it is helpful in so many broader ways. Its directive is written simply: “I am the writer. You are my extremely helpful assistant.” It still asks if it can help write or rewrite things regularly, but that is a story for another post. It has all of my notes, a guidebook to the locations of my world, an encyclopedia of the world and its lore, my ever-growing cast of characters, even my maps. I’m almost ready to write, but I ask it a simple question: “Describe travel by foot across the Fens of Aeil.” It gives me four solid paragraphs, detailing the feel of the terrain underfoot, the hidden dangers. My imagination is alive with possibilities. I’m ‘in’ the scene and finally ready to write.

You reach a point where all the preparation is done - any more would be stalling. No more excuses. It’s time to write.

Based on past chapters, I’m sure I’ll return to Claude at least several times more. “Give me some alternative words for fen.” “What are some other ways to describe the landscape squishing underfoot.” Ad infinitum. But I want to get writing - rely on my vocabulary first, until I notice I’ve used ‘fen’ six times in a single paragraph. Again, I could use a search engine. Something like, “Synonyms for fen”. I prefer the context Claude offers with its results - not just alternatives, but the subtle differences and connotations of each. Sometimes it simply has no better words. Sometimes I like my words better. It’s my helful assistant, but it’s not perfect. For now, back to Chapter 28 and the Fens of Aeil. May the reader feel the same dread in the scene I hope fills me as I write it.

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Beginnings are beginnings.

Welcome to The Unblock. Every journey has to start somewhere, and this is mine. 41 years in the making. It’s time to unblock and get into action.

This is about writing… But it isn’t… But it is.

Unblocking isn’t specifically about writing, but that’s at least part of the story I’m here to tell. We’ll see where we wind up going. I hope we have fun along the way.

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was young. Since I was a teenager, I’ve had a story to tell, a book to write. I’ve carried its weight since then. I did the worldbuilding. I named the characters, gave them details, and described their personalities. I tried to bring it to life. And, over the years, I sat down to write the book several times. And every time. I put it down.

Timing is… timing.

The reasons or excuses have changed over the years. I didn’t have the time. I didn’t have the discipline. I had other responsibilities or interests that needed to be seen to. And, in hindsight, I may have intuitively realized that it just wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready, and the story wasn’t ready to tell.

20 years ago, or more, I outlined the entire book, chapter by chapter. The outline revealed it. And I think that’s why I stopped - that time. I had outlined a passing young adult novel, at best, and this story was bigger than that. No offense to young adult novels, I’ve read plenty of them myself. It simply didn’t live in the young adult genre. Maybe I just needed to live more life. Earn my voice through experience, rather than imagination. It’s all hindsight now.

The story sat. Again. Untouched for years, this time, and only thought of in moments of reflection. And I lived my life, and continued to find new reasons not to write. Other stories in other genres came, explored their infancy, and met the same fate as the first. They sat. And the years passed.

Enter AI: the unexpected assistant.

About a year and a half ago, my position at the international corporation I worked for was eliminated. Unemployment kicked in. I polished up my resume and thought about what to do next. I’ll simplify the rest. I picked the book back up and started worldbuilding again, working with AI tools to bring images of the characters and places to life - people and places I had detailed so many years before. And they lived. They breathed. They stirred my heart.

Once AI had rendered everything for me, I started looking at the bones of the story. I could see it now - not just in my mind - and I had the time to fill. I patched holes in plotlines, then wrote new ones, and then more behind those. I took the bones of the original story, the bones that had grown into a young adult novel the last time I outlined, and broke them. I kept some of the same basic shape, but wove them into a much more complex and believable sequence.

A body in motion.

I outlined that sequence as 65-67 tightly paced chapters. It worked. But this wasn’t the whole story. That had been the missing piece. I needed more. A broader story that this sequence was simply a part of. That’s what had been missing every time I’d touched it before. It didn’t work because it wasn’t “the” story - simply a part of it.

I drew sketched outlines connecting plotlines to plotlines, and then more plotlines, and the story began to evolve. I understood it on a broader level, connecting pieces I had never truly understood the mechanics of, only the results. I felt like I was on the cusp of readiness to outline the new chapters I had written and begin weaving them in. I was almost ready.

Full stop. Again.

And then, unemployment ran out. The job hunt had been unfruitful, and I returned to contract and freelance design work, which had supported me for almost 18 years. Bills needed paying. I returned to work. Responsibility called. And I put the book down.

The assistant returns, stronger than before.

Several weeks ago - maybe even a month - I was invited to apply for a job with one of the major public AI engines. An engine I hadn’t used yet. And the caveat was that I needed to walk through their training materials and then create a sample project to submit. Learn by doing. My specialty. But I needed a project…

And I returned to the book. All the details, the maps, the sketched plotlines, all of it that I was able, I fed to the new AI. Could it even understand what was there? The answer seemed to be yes.

I knew I didn’t want to ask the AI to write the book for me. I like to write. And I need to write this book. So, how to put the AI to good use? I started by asking it questions, exploring plotlines, seeing what it was good at, and seeing if I could break it. And I began to develop the bones of a system where AI would serve as my assistant, my brain that would keep all the details straight, my sounding board for ideas, and my tools for fleshing out complex systemic details of my world.

An outline: 107 chapters and real progress.

The outline grew. Plotlines were clarified further. And obstructions fell away. I had a fully outlined book. 9 Parts. 107 Chapters. Was I ready to start writing? Every story requires a beginning, so I picked up the first chapter. The answer was a clear no. I needed another step. A step where I could explore the rough details of the outline, capture every thread or instructive detail I needed to convey, and move them around as needed. I started writing beats: bullet points with details I wanted to convey, questions I needed to answer, or threads I needed to connect. Besides, the first chapter always sucks to write! It’s full of expectation with no experience and no rhythm to tap into.

Writing beats gave me the flow of writing and a place to explore my voice, without the confines created by finished prose. I wrote beats for the next chapter, and a strange thing happened. The POV character’s voice started to emerge. More chapters followed, and each time, it seemed like there were new dimensions to the beats. Notes about what a character should do began to look more like composed paragraphs about what they had done. And here we stand. Twelve chapters, outlined with beats, ready to turn the beats into finished prose.

It’s time to unblock.

I’m unblocking. Not by removing obstacles. By doing. I have the clear intention to finish this book. Now. Not next year. Not the next time I pick it up. Unblocking is, at least in part, the documentation of how I’m getting out of my own way. That’s the unblock at its heart.

No more obstacles and no more waiting.

If any of this resonates — follow along. And if you’ve got your own unblocking underway, I’d love to hear about it in the comments.

Writing is better than a first date.

Yes. First dates hold many possibilities. It might be fun... or it might wreck you. And writing and first chapters have often felt that way. But their courses diverge a bit after the doing. You set the first date to see if there's potential. With writing, you know there’s potential, and the hesitation - the block - becomes the fear that what you write won’t live up to that. At least that's how it often feels for me.

The great thing about writing, though: you can always go back and do it again. Whether it’s a full rewrite - slate wiped clean. Or just an edit (or twelve). Returning to the first date - chapter one - and adjusting the details and the delivery until it heads in the direction you want. You’re free to alter it to your heart’s content.

The unblock is about doing.

But you’ll never have a second date if you don’t go on a first. And you’ll never craft a second chapter if you don’t do the work on the first. For me, it’s almost better to treat the beginning as a guaranteed write-off. It’s going to be lousy, and incomplete, and… who cares! Because the point isn’t about getting it right the first time. That’s the pressure, and the block. Putting the words down - as ‘just not right’ as they may feel - is the catharsis needed to move past it. Get into motion. And once you’re in motion, chances are you’ll find your voice, and you’ll start to feel the natural rhythm and flow.
And that’s the time to go back to your beginning.

It worked for me…

Chapter 1 is done.

Only 106 more to go. But I’m in motion. Look out!