Sammy Krouse

Chapter 1 introduces my protagonist, the setting, the main antagonist, two important supporting characters, and sets the stage for the inciting incident. Chapter 1 Vulcarian Calendar: 21st of Seber, 1065 AVE Challaen Calendar: 4th of Tritoseh, 6194 ALF With practiced violence, Hektur smothered the whimper forming in the back of his throat. “Hektur! Are you alright?” Briseus rushed to his side. Hektur blinked the wetness out of his eyes, but couldn’t do anything about the blood soaking into the sunbaked granite that paved the entrance to the Castralimes Youth Academy. “I’m fine,” Hektur spat, as he pushed himself to his feet. His head spun and his legs almost buckled again. He hated how Briseus eyed him: hands at his side, arms tense, sensitive to the slightest indication of another fainting spell. “Let’s just go,” Hektur said, wiping his bloodied hands on his trousers. The walkway was teeming with students. Hektur’s condition often flared up during his walk from the Academy, but it was rare for the eleven-year-old to collapse so close to the school gates. A cluster of older students snickered as they walked past. Briseus ignored them, still focused on Hektur. Hektur pretended that he didn’t notice. His hands stung, but at least the wounds had stopped bleeding. He wondered how badly this set of scrapes would scar. The tight press of students quickly thinned as Hektur and Briseus made their way north. Nearly all of their classmates lived close to the Academy, or at least in the Aiias’s Bulwark. Hektur and Briseus were heading outside the wealthy district. “So…has Cass changed his mind yet?” Briseus asked, returning to the conversation they were having before Hektur stumbled. Hektur clenched his jaw. The feverish heat in his chest grew hotter. “No.” Briseus’s eyes went wide. “The Trials are tomorrow, Hektur. There isn’t much time left to get your brother’s permission. What are you going to do?” “Cass may be seven years older, but I’m as much of a citizen as he is,” Hektur said. “I don’t need his permission.” Briseus nodded, a serious look on his round face. His floppy, straw colored hair bounced on his forehead. “Thank Vulcaries! I was worried I’d have to face the Trials all by myself. I heard, during the Trials, a Fabremagister rips your heartfire right out of your chest and shows it off for everyone to see.” Briseus shook his head. “Could you imagine anything more scary?” Hektur didn’t answer. He couldn’t relate. Of course he was nervous, but his fears couldn’t compare to his excitement. Nothing could prevent him from attending tomorrow’s Trial. Most of Hektur’s waking hours were spent dreaming about the Fabremilé Trials and the impact it could have on his life. That wasn’t exactly accurate—just as many waking hours were spent curled up in the dark, unable to do anything but grit his teeth and bear the vicious pounding in his skull, or the acid churning in his stomach, or the unbearable heat in his chest, or any of the other litany of ails that hounded him. Briseus’s face was twisted, like he was tasting something sour. “Do you think they put your heartfire back when they’re done looking at it? They must…right?” Hektur resisted rolling his eyes. These days, sometimes even that could make his nausea worse. “I heard that they only put it back if you pass,” Hektur paused, dramatically, “but if you fail, they feed your heartfire to the nearest slaghunter.” Briseus froze for a few stunned seconds. The only thing scarier than beastmen were slaghunters. Beastmen were born evil. Slaghunters were men once—before their hunger for power led them to temper themselves outside the purview of the Fabremagisters. Somehow, their proximity to humanity made them all the more terrifying. Briseus rushed to catch up with Hektur. It didn’t take long. He was at size with some of the older boys in the Academy and had a loping, gangly stride, while Hektur was easily the smallest boy in their class, and, due to his condition, walked with a painful weariness that looked odd on a boy his age. “Do they really?” Briseus asked, his full cheeks flushed with worry. “Oh yes,” Hektur lied. “For a slaghunter, there’s nothing sweeter than a child’s heartfire. Why else would they call the Trials the ‘Fabremilé Feast?’” Briseus gasped. “I had no idea they called it that!” Hektur smothered a grin and turned to his friend. Walking in the shade had been good for his mood and constitution. His ailments hadn’t disappeared—his head still ached, his skin still itched, and his stomach still churned—but the last few minutes of shaded calm had eased their ferocity. “It isn’t your fault,” Hektur continued. “How would you know? It’s not like you know any slaghunters.” Briseus nodded solemnly. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. He glared at Hektur. “Wait—you don’t know any either!” Hektur’s veneer of solemnity shattered. His laughter felt like a release. Briseus frowned and softly punched Hektur’s arm. He was the only one that knew how to hit him hard enough that it hurt but didn’t leave a bruise. Hektur loved it. It made him feel like he wasn’t so fragile. The pathway grew congested with citizens and their freemen servants as the pair approached the palestra. Hektur stared greedily at the sprawling compound of arenas and training halls. Already, some of his most talented classmates were permitted entry, given access to Imperium drillmasters, and taught the secrets of legionnaire warfare. When Cass was his age, his brother’s exploits in the palestra were the talk of the Academy. Hektur forced himself to look away. After the Trials, the palestra would be beneath him, anyway. The Fabremilé trained in far better facilities in the Vulcarian heartlands in the west, and were deployed in the eastern Front. To avoid the press of Castralimesians pouring in and out of the palestra, Hektur and Briseus crossed the street. While they were taking a more circuitous path, moving a block over to avoid the crowds would still make their walk significantly quicker. “You had me for a second there,” Briseus said, shaking his head as he lumbered beside his smaller friend. The smile on his face was slight, but it was there. “I can’t believe you ever listen to me!” Hektur chuckled. “Me either,” a familiar voice said behind them. Hektur froze. He’d recognize that cruel, confident voice anywhere. Septimus. Castralimes Youth Academy’s rising star. He must have spotted them on his way to the palestra. Hektur turned around. “Are you really going to participate in the Fabremilé Trials?” Septimus asked. Hektur’s classmate was tall, but not as tall as Briseus. Septimus’s wiry frame held a surprising amount of lean muscle for a thirteen year old. In accordance with the latest fashion, his unruly black curls were oiled flat on his forehead, giving the impression of a sweaty, dashing legionnaire that just removed his helm after a long day of killing beastmen on the eastern front. Everyone called him handsome. Hektur didn’t see it. Septimus wasn’t alone. He seldom was. His ever-present shadow, Hesta, stood beside him. While she was the only student strong enough to occasionally beat Septimus in a martial virtues bout, her studious virtues ranking trailed far behind Septimus’s. Maybe that was why she tended to let Septimus do the talking. “I’m no coward,” Hektur responded. He took a step forward. His heartbeat, hot and violent, pounded in his chest. Bursts of pain throbbed in lockstep in Hektur’s skull. “Nobody thinks you’re a coward, Hektur. Cowards are people that waste their potential because they are afraid.” Each of Septimus’s words oozed contempt that masqueraded poorly as pity. “Since you don’t have any potential, there’s nothing wrong with giving in to your fears.” How did Septimus learn how to talk like that? The splitting pain in Hektur’s skull made it hard for him to fully grasp Septimus’s convoluted statement, but it was obvious that the older boy was being unkind. Knowing Hesta, she didn’t get Septimus’s comment either. Regardless, the girl barked out a nasty snigger. Hektur hated her smile. It stretched wide and painfully tight across her face, exposing the slimmest sliver of her oversized, crooked teeth. Briseus placed a slightly trembling hand on Hektur’s shoulder. He took a step back and tried to pull Hektur with him. Hektur shrugged off Briseus’s hand. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hektur growled. The heat in his chest threatened to spill from his throat. He wished he could think of a better response, but the pounding in his skull was too loud. “Oh?” Septimus replied. “Maybe ask your brother to explain it to you then. Everyone knows he’s an expert on wasted potential.” Hektur took another step forward. He knew what Septimus was doing. In view of so many witnesses, Septimus couldn’t throw the first punch. He was the strongest fighter in the Academy, and Hektur’s condition was well known. But, if Hektur started a fight, no one would blame Septimus for finishing it. Searing hate thumped in Hektur’s chest. Septimus met his glare. The taller boy’s eyes glinted with bright, cruel joy. “Go on,” Septimus whispered. “Hit me, I promise I’ll let it land this time.” Hektur made a fist. He knew he shouldn’t let Septimus bait him. At this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care. A large, gentle hand stilled his arm. “There you are! You’re late,” Cass said. Hektur jerked at the unexpected touch. Cass smiled down at him disarmingly. There was no anger on his brother’s handsome face. Did he hear what Septimus had said? Shame crawled up Hektur’s neck. He wished he was reassured by his brother’s arrival. Cass was everything Hektur wasn’t: tall, quick-witted, charming, and a great hand at fighting. Tragically, unlike Hektur, he was also a coward. Hektur had no chance against Septimus, but he would rather get beaten bloody than suffer his classmate’s insults to his and his brother’s honor. Infuriatingly, while Cass was more than capable of taking Septimus down, Hektur couldn’t rely on him to do what was proper. Cass didn’t always shy away from a fight, but he backed down far more often than any self-respecting Vulcarian should. “Let’s head to the Tank,” Cass said, his eyes skipping over Septimus and Hesta as he turned to Briseus. Hektur swore he saw Septimus flinch as his brother’s gaze brushed past him. “Your parents are waiting and I could use a drink.” Cass started walking. His grip on Hektur’s shoulder wasn’t painful, but his arm was rigid as iron, forcing Hektur to his side. Briseus didn’t need to be compelled to follow. His friend walked close to Cass, as if sewn to his coat. Hektur’s stomach twisted at his friend’s spinelessness, but he tried not to fault him. Unlike Cass, Briseus was no match for Septimus. This retreat was Cass’s shame. Septimus yelled at their backs as they walked away. “I hope I don’t see you at the Trials tomorrow, Hektur. No one would think less of you if you didn’t show.” Mock concern dripped off each word. “Even you know that the only thing you’re capable of doing is hurting yourself. There’s nothing wrong with knowing your place.” The bark of Hesta’s laughter echoed in Hektur’s ears for the rest of the walk. “False words poured from the villain’s lips like the empty promises of a beastgod, but brave Hektur didn’t flinch,” Briseus cried, standing on a table and gesturing wildly with his child’s half-cup of mild baby-blue nightgrain ale. “The villain tried to scare Hektur with bulging muscles like a cobble bull’s, but a true Vulcarian never wavers in defense of their honor!” A small cluster of drunk Castralimesians cheered at the boy’s patriotic declaration. Growing up in his parents’ tavern, Briseus had picked up a collection of habits unbefitting a citizen’s son. One of the most flagrant was the propensity to tell stories with the flair of a sloshed legionnaire. Cato Tull didn’t seem to mind his son’s antics. He stood behind Quench Tank’s bar with a drink in hand, serving the occasional patron and chuckling at his son’s tale. Cato was a bear of a man, and his laughter was a deep, warm sound that grumbled from the depths of his cavernous chest. Even with Briseus standing atop a table, the former legionnaire didn’t need to crane his neck to look at his son’s face. “The villain’s lackey, a wretch with the ferocity of a low wolf and craftiness of a beastman, cackled at his every word. She egged the villain forward. The scoundrel, his will as weak as his character, couldn’t refuse. He readied an attack, but my glare was enough to give him pause.” Briseus gave the audience a taste of his meanest grimace. The expression looked ridiculous on his round, good-natured face. A handful of the gathered drunks hollered. Nerva Tull pretended to ignore her son’s performance, but Hektur noticed how the tall, stern woman lingered near her son’s table as she worked the room with a pitcher of nightgrain ale. Hektur didn’t blame her—Briseus’s enthusiasm was infectious. The boy continued, round cheeks flush with excitement. “But Hektur’s bravery knows no bounds. He stared down the hulking beasts, and, whilst half their size, shouted in defiance.” Like all of Briseus’s tales, Hektur knew that the retelling of their confrontation with Septimus and Hesta was absurdly exaggerated. Still, Hektur couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged on the corner of his lips or the small pool of pride that warmed his belly. “After Hektur’s challenge, even my fearsome presence wasn’t enough to hold the villain back. Suddenly, our stand-off was moments away from becoming the greatest battle seen on this side of Viridian Pass since the days of Aiias’s Expansion.” The drunkest listeners held their breath, mesmerized by Briseus’s tale. A few of the more sober patrons shared a smirk. “Then, like a strike of Vulcaries’s Hammer, Cass burst onto the scene! The villains froze with fear,” Briseus said, body contorting wildly to act out both the parts of a bold warrior and two terrified brigands. “One look at his strong arms and fearless grin was all it took to bring their legs to jelly.” Briseus’s fans cheered and raised their tankards to Cass. Hektur’s brother was working the bar beside Cato. At the mention of his name, Cass looked up. With a playful smirk, he raised his drink and quaffed deeply. The little puddle of pride soured in Hektur’s stomach. Briseus’s story may be silly, but Hektur had earned his place in it. He had been brave. Cass didn’t deserve the admiration being thrown his way. All he did was walk away from a fight he could have won. Hektur didn’t listen to the rest of Briseus’s tale. It was childish nonsense. His eyes roamed throughout the Quench Tank. He caught Cato wiping away a tear as he belly-laughed at something Cass had said. It was hard to imagine that Briseus’s goofy father, for all his size, once held the center of a legionnaire shield line. Hektur turned to look at Nerva. She was scolding a particularly drunk hired-hammer who was reaching for a pint he couldn’t afford. Somehow, imagining strict, whip-thin Nerva as a spearwoman was easier. Both had served in the Imperium’s legions for ten years, and the Imperium had kept its promise. Glory, land, citizenship. Of course, ten years was the minimum that a legionnaire could serve, so the glory they’d earned wasn’t too glorious, and the land credits they’d earned were just enough to acquire a mid-sized tavern on Caravan Row. Still, the Quench Tank was built on a plot more than sizable enough to confer citizenship, and the life that the Tulls had carved out for themselves was beyond what most freemen could dream of. Briseus plopped heavily next to Hektur as he finished his tale, his face buzzing with a messy grin. His friend’s earnest glee soothed the acid in Hektur’s stomach. He threw an arm around Briseus’s much broader shoulders. “You did great up there,” he said, warmly. Briseus might not have the spine to stand up to the likes of Septimus and Hesta, but Hektur couldn’t imagine mustering the courage to spin a tale in front of so many adults. “I know! Did you see how they cheered?” Briseus gushed. He lowered his voice to whisper in Hektur’s ear. “I’ve an idea.” Briseus clambered back on top of the table. “If you enjoyed my story tonight, don’t forget to come to the square in Aiias’s Bulwark tomorrow!” Briseus grinned. His small white teeth flashed in the candlelight. “Hektur and I, and the villains we faced this afternoon, will all be participating in the Fabremilé Trials. Come watch as we face Vulcaries’s judgment!” The roar that filled the tavern was deafening. Hektur scanned the jubilant crowd. Not all of the patrons in the Quench Tank had the patience to entertain Briseus’s tale, but all Vulcarians could rally behind those brave enough to face the Fabremilé Trials. Men and women cheered and pounded their tables. Cato and Nerva Tull beamed up at their son. Hektur flinched as he met Cass’s gaze. Quickly, he turned back to Briseus as his friend sat back down beside him. “Now we have to pass!” Briseus said, excitedly. “Is that so?” Nerva asked as she rounded the nearest table. Briseus nodded. “I’ve turned it into a story. It would be a bad tale if everyone showed up tomorrow to watch us fail.” “Good thing that you’ve never spun a bad tale then,” Nerva teased as she tousled Briseus’s hair. Cass hopped over the bar and sat atop a nearby table. “I didn’t realize that Hektur was going to play a part in tomorrow’s story,” Cass said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. Still flush with the thrill of the crowd’s cheers, Briseus didn’t notice the ice in Cass’s gaze. The young boy beamed at Cass. “Of course he is. Hektur’s brave, like me.” Nerva’s hand slipped down to Briseus’s shoulder. “Listen close boys,” she said, looking at Hektur and Briseus both. “Selection into the Fabremilé is a great honor, but there are many ways to serve Vulcaries. No matter the result, you always have a life, and a home, here with us.” Nerva turned to give Hektur a significant look. “And I mean you too, little one.” Hektur felt a confusing mixture of warmth and frustration. While Nerva meant well, she didn’t understand him. Briseus would be alright if he failed, but the Fabremilé Trials were Hektur’s only chance to become more than a sickly kid with a cowardly, overprotective brother. Only the Fabremagisters had the power to fix him, and they’d never spend their tempering resources and expertise on someone like him. Not unless he was accepted into the Fabremilé. Hektur had to pass tomorrow’s Trial. Any other life wasn’t worth living. A sharp rap of knuckles on wood jerked Hektur back to the moment. “We should be off,” Cass said, standing. “According to our brave little tale-spinner, my brother has a big day tomorrow.” Hektur stood and said his farewells to the Tulls. His feet dragged as he and Cass left the Quench Tank. Cass stewed silently as he walked beside him. Hektur knew what his brother was thinking, but he had grievances of his own. “I know you heard what Septimus said about us,” Hektur bluffed, glaring at his brother’s shoes. “Oh?” Cass asked, turning to look directly at Hektur’s face. “What did you know I heard?” “He called me useless and you a coward,” Hektur replied. Cass’s voice remained steady. “Let’s say I did hear the little scaldling say those things. What would you have liked me to do about it?” Hektur’s brow darkened. So he was right—Cass had heard! “You should have fought him! How is that a question? You can’t let someone speak about you like that—especially if you’re strong enough to make them regret it.” “So I should have beaten the boy?” Cass asked. While Hektur’s voice was thick with outrage, Cass responded evenly, as if he was discussing the weather. “Yes! Obviously, yes! How is it that my brother is the only Vulcarian in the Imperium who doesn’t know how to act?” Hektur said. Cass didn’t speak for a full minute. Their footsteps sounded impossibly loud on the empty cobbled street. The back of Hektur’s neck grew warm. He felt like he had gone too far, but that feeling only made him angrier. Why should he feel bad if he was telling the truth? Finally, Cass broke the silence. “I know your condition can make it hard for you to concentrate sometimes, but you’re smarter than this Hektur. Why do you think I chose to do nothing?” Cass asked. Hektur took a few moments to think, surprised by the sudden shift in the conversation. Thankfully, the sun was almost set. Without the day’s warmth, the blistering heat of his condition had slowly settled into a more bearable smoldering discomfort. “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re older and it wouldn’t seem fair?” Cass shook his head. “Age hardly matters when someone insults you like that. What do Septimus and Hesta have in common?” Hektur tried to ignore the faint pounding in his skull and considered Cass’s question. There were a litany of answers. Both children were strong, cruel, and near in age, but Hektur knew that these weren’t the answers that Cass was looking for. “Their parents!” Hektur cried, triumphantly. “Exactly,” Cass said. “Both have a parent in the Jusmilé legion.” The Jusmilé were senior legionnaires trained and tempered in the style of the Fabremilé. While far more common than full Fabremilé, the title was still rare, with only a few dozen peppered throughout the ranks of the Castralimes city guard. Jusmilé were far weaker than the Fabremilé, but were still tempered leagues beyond the strength of a standard legionnaire. “But, why should that matter?” Hektur asked, confused again. “No self-respecting soldier, especially such a senior one, would fight their child’s battles for them. If Septimus insulted you, and you retaliated, involving his mother would only shame Septimus further.” “On almost any other day, I’d agree with you,” Cass said. Hektur’s eyes widened. “But the Trials are tomorrow.” Cass nodded. “Even if I just boxed those scaldlings around the ears, I’d be blamed if either failed the Trials. And, citizen or not, with the fortune they’ve spent in illegal preparation, I’m sure neither of us would survive the week.” Hektur’s mind raced. “Illegal preparation?” he asked. Cass chuckled. “You think it a coincidence that all your strongest classmates have Jusmilé parents? Most of those children have been secretly tempering for years to prepare for tomorrow’s Trial.” Hektur gasped. The mystery of the strange gap in ability that separated a portion of his classmates clicked into place. “And you really think they’d kill us and get away with it? You said it yourself, we’re citizens too,” Hektur said. Cass put a sympathetic hand on Hektur’s shoulder. “Jusmilé hold great sway in Castralimes, and we’ve no connection to the city guard nor the Imperium’s legions. We’d have no one to protect us if one of them truly wished us harm.” Throughout their conversation, Hektur had begun to sway to his brother’s perspective. Cass’s answer shocked Hektur back to hot anger. “No connection to the Imperium’s legions?” Hektur threw off his brother’s hand. “How can you say that? We’re more closely tied than anyone! Our parents were Fabremilé. They died heroes in the Imperium’s legions.” “You’re right,” Cass replied, softly, “but a dead soldier’s ties aren’t worth much when a killer shows up at your house.” Hektur didn’t trust himself to respond. His chest pounded with hot indignation and his stomach burned like it was full of molten lead. He didn’t want to accept Cass’s answer, but couldn’t come up with a reason for why he was wrong. Cass didn’t let Hektur seethe in silence for long. “Hektur…I want to talk about tomorrow,” Cass said. He turned to meet his brother’s eyes, but Hektur didn’t acknowledge his gaze. “I know you don’t understand—I hardly understand it myself—but I need to ask you one last time. Please, don’t go to the Trials.” Eyes glued to his feet, Hektur noticed a loose cobblestone a few steps away. He kicked the protuberance. The sickly boy winced at the impact. It wasn’t as loose as it looked. “I wish I could give you more of an explanation, but I just need you to trust me,” Cass continued. “You shouldn’t go to the Trials for the same reason I didn’t. I know, deep in my heart, that we shouldn’t follow our parents’ path. If either of us pursues the Fabremilé and heartfire piety, disaster will follow.” Hektur craned his neck to look up at his brother. His chest still felt warm, but much of his anger had burned off. As much as Cass’s irrationality about this topic infuriated him, the distress was clear in his voice and Hektur knew it came from a desire to protect him. “When it was your turn to volunteer, I was too young to understand what you were deciding,” Hektur said, “but, if I wasn’t, I would have told you to go to the Trials. I know that you would have refused and there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done to change your mind. Now it’s my turn, and you don’t want me at the Trials.” Hektur met his brother’s eyes and didn’t waver. “This choice is mine, as your choice was yours. I’m choosing to go.” Cass closed his eyes for a few moments, as if listening to a faraway sound. He sighed and opened them. “Alright then.” Cass looked troubled, but the argument was over. Hektur felt a small spike of excitement. He’d stood up to Cass, and his brother had listened. Hektur tried to ignore the worry in Cass’s eyes — swallowing hard to break down the knot trying to form in the back of his throat. The ensuing silence was unbearable. Thankfully, they were nearly home. “Anyway,” Hektur said, forcing each word past the awkward lump in his gullet, “I’m already in terrible shape. Not sure what disaster could follow that would be worse than what I already have to manage.” Cass clapped a large hand on Hektur’s narrow back. “Don’t worry,” Cass said, joylessly, “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

Assignment 1: I have two POV characters. Hektur: An orphan must slay monsters to cure his terminal illness. Akylien (‘Kyl’): An ennui-afflicted, soul-crafting prodigy leaves his utopic home to rescue a prince. Assignment 2: Hektur’s storyline: Primary Antagonist - Septimus In nearly every sense, Septimus acts as a foil to Hektur. At the novel’s start, Hektur is physically weak, underestimated by his peers, and lacks connections to societal power. He is also unconditionally supported by his older brother, best friend, and his best friend’s family. Conversely, at the novel’s start, Septimus is physically powerful, is well-regarded, and his mother is an influential figure within Vulcarian society. Unbeknownst to the reader at the novel’s start, unlike Hektur, Septimus is only validated for his achievements and has no one that gives him unconditional emotional support. The inciting incident in the Hektur’s story is the Fabremile Trials, a dangerous test of inborn ability and mental fortitude. Hektur’s mental fortitude holds, but his body fails. Septimus suffers the opposite fate. Septimus sees Hektur’s partial victory as a personal insult, as it makes him look weak by comparison. Before Septimus flees town in shame, he attacks Hektur and nearly kills him. Septimus isn’t physically present for most of the rest of the novel, but the threat of his return and his influence still propels Hektur forward. Secondary Antagonist - Beastmen The beastmen are the ancestral foe to Vulcarians, and all of humanity. Vulcarian society is centered around warring with the beastmen hordes, and Hektur is roped into this conflict in the last third of the book. The reader figures out midway through the book that beastmen are Challaens (the Challaens are an alliance of sapient non-humans). Akylien’s storyline: Primary Antagonist - katarari Akylien tek’Thetis’s story starts in the utopian Phethian grove. Like all hadiians, Kyl lives in abundance and practices the shape-shifting magic of soul-craft. While Kyl is well-respected by his community, and talented in soul-craft, he feels stifled by the comfortable confines of his world. His best friend, Petra, is a psywren, a race of beautiful, telepathic humanoids. The psywrens are also a generally well off, unlike the sators, bear the brunt of the ‘savage’ katarati’s aggression (the reader discovers halfway through the novel that the katarati are Vulcarians). Suddenly, seemingly without cause, a psywren encampment is brutally attacked by the katarati, and a psywren prince is kidnapped. The Challaen Alliance organize a rescue mission to save the prince. Kyl volunteers, both to support his best friend and as an excuse to have an adventure. For much of the novel, the katarati are a brutal, faceless enemy that signify senseless violence. As the novel progresses, Kyl sees hints that the katarati may be more than mindless savages. Secondary Antagonist - Ambasador Torvas Torvas is the sator ambassador to the Challaen Alliance, a sator prince, and leads the mission to rescue the kidnapped psywren prince. Unbeknownst to Kyl, he is responsible for instigating the attack that led to the psywren prince’s capture and is using the situation to further his political goals and to fulfil the terms of a secret prophecy. As a hadiian, Kyl feels a strong sense of superiority toward the other Challaen races. This feeling is reinforced by soul-craft, as one of the abilities inherent in soul-craft is that hadiian’s can read a person’s emotional state with their soul-sense. Using soul-craft, Kyl can see that Torvas is earnest in his convictions and unwavering in his loyalties. The flaw in Kyl’s reasoning is that he makes incorrect assumptions about those convictions and loyalties. Another major contributor to Kyl’s blind spot for Torvas is that he feels a sense of self-congratulatory progressivism in how generously he treats Torvas, a ‘mere’ sator,’ which blinds him to Torvas’s manipulations. Assignment 3: Memories of a Soul Thief The Ismari Incident Beings That Lived Assignment 4: Brandon Sanderson is a master of crafting rich second worlds with hard-magic system that are both breath-taking and internally consistent. My novel is also set in a world with a deep history and hard-magic system, and holds many themes present within Sanderson’s work: magic as a developing ‘science,’ clashing cultures with limited understandings of a shared, complex history, ‘inhuman’ characters that challenge our assumptions about humanity and otherness. James Islington creates worlds that feel grand in scale, with magic systems and histories that make readers hungry to turn the page. The Licanius Trilogy is a world-altering epic full of twists and turns that follow characters as they confront a seemingly unstoppable evil. The world’s development, and the central place that the characters end up playing in this world, is very similar to the scale that my novel goes for. Assignment 5: Hektur: Terminally injured by a failed attempt to join the elite legion his parents died serving, a sickly orphan is forced to choose between pitiful subsistence or hunting monsters for a chance at becoming something greater. Akylien: Bored beyond belief in a stifling utopia, a soul-crafting prodigy ventures into the dangerous outside world on a mission to rescue a kidnapped prince. Assignment 6: Hektur: Primary Conflict: Hektur’s primary goal is to overcome his terminal illness. His older brother, Cass, wants him to address his illness in the safest manner possible. If Hektur followed his brother’s direction, he would be permanently stuck in poverty and sickness: relying on expensive temporary cures. The alternative is to slaghunt: extract the cure himself, and gain superhuman power, by hunting dangerous monsters. Midway through the novel, Hektur has slaghunted his way to tentative heath and has the option to limit his slaghunting to safe levels. Hektur’s ambition is slightly less potent than his sense of familial duty, so he follows his brother’s wishes and choses to not pursue the great power that slaghunting could offer. This decision is short-lived. His boyhood tormenter’s cronies find Hektur and maim his best friend. This traumatic experience convinces Hektur that he needs to be strong enough to protect himself and those he loves, driving him back to slaghunting. Secondary conflict: An undercurrent within Hektur’s storyline is that the beastmen war is ongoing a close, but safe, distance away. Suddenly, when beastmen attack Hektur’s home, he must decide how to respond. His slaghunting mentor urges a self-centered mercenary’s perspective, while his Hektur’s brother represents a more dutiful, patriotic approach. Hektur was teetering on the edge of this decision, but was pushed over the edge when visiting the brutal carnage Kyl caused during an attack on a Vulcarian supply caravan. Akylien: Primary Conflict: Kyl starts the novel feeling lost and bored by his insular circumstances. His decision to join the rescue mission is a stark departure from his comfortable life, and Kyl must learn to navigate the dangerous outside world. Unlike the Phetian Grove, the stake are real and permanent, and the consequences of his carefree, reckless attitude are far more dire. After Kyl makes the rash choice to use soulcraft in an experimental procedure to increase his regenerative abilities, Kyl is forced to question his overconfident nature. A conversation with Prince Torvas gives Kyl the validation he need to reject any serious self-reflection of change. Secondary Conflict: Kyl is superficially tolerant of the other member-races of the Challaen Alliance, and is blind to the ways he looks down on others. Slowly, as he is shown proof of the capabilities and worth of others, and through his close friendship with a member of one of these races, he is forced to challenge his beliefs. Assignment 7: Memories of a Soul Thief is set in a war-torn world shaped by Chaos—the primordial force seeded within all life that pushes for growth and change. The human (Vulcarian) and non-human (Challaen) societies have different understandings of Chaos, which informs their cultures and Chaos-based magic systems. Hektur: The Vulcarian Imperium is the last free human civilization, named after Vulcaries, god of fire and metalworking. Vulcarians use two forms of magic: Kushkui, a half-lost language that directs the power of Chaos, and tempering, a process of ingesting raw and filtered Chaos that imbues superhuman strength, durability, and various magical abilities. Hektur’s scenes are set within or around the outskirts of Castralimes, the largest and most strategically important frontier city near the ever-expanding warfront against the ‘beastmen’ hordes. Within Castralimes, most scenes are set around the Quench Tank, a tavern run by Hektur’s best friend’s family. Other settings like the palestra, a training ground for Vulcarian citizens, and a couple of different important neighborhoods, are also featured. Many of Hektur’s scenes are set outside of the city proper. Hektur’s slaghunting and Kushkui scrivening mentor has a cottage within the outskirts of Castralimes, which becomes a second home for Hektur. A good number of his scenes are set within or around the cottage. There are also a few different wild landscapes bordering Castralimes in which Hektur goes monster hunting. Kyl: The non-human races (Challaens) have a diverse range of magical abilities. Hadiians, the most influential Challaen race, are capable of soulcraft—the ability to modify the souls of living organisms. Their soulcrafting abilities have made hadiians a near-immortal species of shape-shifting craftsmen, artisans, academics, and statesmen, and their culture, bearing, and environment reflect such an ideal situation. The hadiian homeland, the Phethian grove, is a magical, utopian forest that has been soul-crafted over centuries to be the ideal environment for hadiians. Soul-crafted mushrooms (selenospores) fill the air with glowing spores that are nourishment for hadiians and poisonous for all other lifeforms. This environment is upheld through costly labor extracted from the less stable Challaen peoples, who are reliant on the hadiians for moonfruit, a crop integral to the survival of these ‘lesser’ races. While Kyl understands this oppressive system, and is generally more critical of it than most of his people, his disapproval is a self-congratulatory, ‘progressive’ disapproval that is more cerebral than pragmatic. When Kyl leaves the Phetian Grove, he spends some time on a greatship traveling across the Median Sea (modeled after the Mediterranean) with other Challaen member races. Eventually, the greatship lands on the Sarvyian Peninsula, which is katarati (or Vulcarian) land.