Not all heroes are good. A band of mercenaries are hired by the man destined to save the world. Themes of mental illness.
Hello!
I write because I have a story to tell, and because it would eat me up if I didn’t. I love flawed characters who make mistakes and plots that don’t always end up happily ever after. My writing delves a lot into past trauma, anxiety and the general struggle of knowing your self-worth.
I’m a psychology student who loves to read. This is the first novel I’ve completed.
I love YA fantasy, but will binge anything with well developed characters. I especially love reading novels that deal with mental illness.
Sarah. J Maas is my all-time favorite author
Unnecessary violence. I understand violence and even torture, but I need to see the character or plot point of it. What’s the emotional impact of that event?
For the life of her, Joan could not get the song out of her head. Her leather-gloved hands tapped the beat out on her twin swords laying in her lap. The normally elaborate metal hilts were clad in a dull cloth to keep from glinting in the bright fall sun. She squinted towards the horizon, the sun a painful ball sitting above it. Almost time.
Her stomach twisted in a familiar way. The thief smiled. There were only three carriages in the clearing. Fifteen Asuras. It was almost shameful the Dealer had sent her on this mission. Steal an old family relic for some rich ruler in the Shalqi tribe. An amateur could have completed it.
“Wanted.”
The charmed voice floated through the great oak trees where Joan perched. She scowled back at the Wanted notice floating at nearly treetop level. The tribes had finally gotten her face right, although why they thought she twirled so much when fighting was ridiculous. The Sprite Dust casting the image restarted and she watched a mini-Joan flip around a faceless opponent, twin swords dancing.
500 knubs. All she was worth in the Erulian tribe’s eyes. She grumbled as she turned back to her scouting. 500. The Thief of Embers was worth much more than a few nights wages.
Thirteen Asuras. Two had walked off to allow the rams pulling the carriages one last drink at the nearby stream. Her hands tightened around the branch she sat on. After five years of hit-and-run thievery, her heart shouldn’t be beating quite so fast. But there was something about the insane thrill of thwarting Aisaet’s most feared war-lord hat set her heart thundering. And something about the prospect of getting caught that stopped it all together.
Where those carriages were headed…the brand on her wrist burned under the burgundy cloth she kept tied around it. She had escaped those camps once. She had no intention of ever going back.
I’m hoping to turn this into a series, but it can stand alone.
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