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My Story (not Brandon related)


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Hi guys,

So I've written a story - well the beginning of one - and I wasn't sure whether or not it was good. This isn't related to the cosmere or Brandon so if you want you can stop reading. I wasn't sure where to post this, so this may be a bad idea. But oh well.

heres the story:


Chapter I



Anastor ran through the silent trees.

   They were dead. All of them. He’d stood, frozen, unable to move, as his friends were cut down. He’d watched them go down in a wave of blood, steel and fire. He’d never see them again. Never again would he see their mischievous smiles; never again would he listen to one of their crazy stories.

   Anastor gritted his teeth to hold back the tears. 

  Blood soaked Anastor’s tunic. This battle had been brutal. Far more than any Anastor had seen before. The Imperial Army had been ambushed. The enemy had descended, like phantoms, down from the hills. A massacre had ensured.  

   He had survived though. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

   Anastor glanced behind him. In the half-light, he could imagine  hooded riders approaching from afar. He could imagine their twisted blades flashing in the moonlight.  He ran faster.

    The ground still shook. The Imperium’s Pureborn had broken the earth in a tectonic fury. The battlefield had been above a fault line. Somehow though, the rebels had prevailed. Clearly they weren't fighting mere peasants.

   Plumes of smoke rose above the battlefield behind him. A part of him considered going back – but he knew that wasn’t an option. Anyone who had remained on the battlefield would be already dead.

   And he was a Pureborn. In the rebellions alighting across the Imperium, headed by the elusive Demon in Dregs, all had the same motive – to break Pureborn power. Anastor didn’t fancy his chances.

   The trees around Anastor waved their leaves with a detached elegance. The last leaves of autumn still stained the ground in russet. The paradise here was in mocking contrast to the battle that had just occurred.

   Within the forest, every shadow seemed to resemble an enemy soldier. Saplings became spears thrusting to the sky; leaves became banners rippling in the wind. His own quiet footfalls sounded resonant – almost like the charge of cavalry in the battle that just occurred…

   Almost like the charge of cavalry that had killed everyone Anastor had ever called a friend…

   He’d lost his brother the same way.

   Anastor jumped over a fallen log. Behind him, the sun bleached the forest a bloody red. Anastor thought he heard voices behind him. He kept on running.

   Coward… His father’s voice seemed to whisper. Is that all you know how to do? Run? You tread a coward’s path. Tell me, Anastor – what happened to bravery.

   Anastor gritted his teeth. Ignore it…

   Anastor broke into a clearing. His entire body ached. He stopped to catch his breath.

   Behind him, he heard hoof beats.

   Anastor cursed.


   From the sound, Anastor guessed his pursuers to number about ten strong. He hadn’t expected such a powerful force to come after him. Perhaps he’d just underestimated the Demon in Dregs’ utter contempt for the Pure.

   Anastor rushed to the side of the clearing, and ducked behind a tree. He pressed his cheek to the bark. He tried to slow his breathing. To no avail.

   He could only hope that it wouldn’t betray him.

   “You heard him. Kill the Pureborn.”

   A rider cantered into the clearing. The rider and his stallion were both armoured in iron. Anastor could see hazel skin and deep yellow eyes. An Impure. For an Impure to wear iron was the height of blasphemy.

   Of course, some said that cowardice was blasphemous.

   An entourage of other riders entered the clearing. There were over fifteen – dramatically more than Anastor had expected. Hounds weaved in and out of the men, their noses twitching. One man stood at the forefront of the throng. The man had grey streaking his hair, and wrinkles covered a face like worn leather. When he spoke, he had a weary, deep tone. “Perhaps he could be an asset.”

   The first rider frowned. “The Demon wouldn’t agree.”

   “Perhaps the Demon is wrong. We shouldn’t rely so heavily on one man. Especially not a man as bitter as him.”

   “You speak treason.” Anastor shivered at the coldness in the rider’s voice.  Division ran even in the Rebellion.

   “Treason? You should know better Kirin – treason is a word used by the Pures in their terraced palaces. They happen to be the very things we are trying to overthrow.” Senda looked at Kirin with terrifying intensity. “But the boy isn't one of them. Didn't you see the battle? He hurt no one. Our spies said he even spoke of peace.”

   Kirin fell into a stubborn silence. Finally, he said, “He's one of them. He has bad blood. He will have to die

   The sun was rising in the sky. Soon the shadows that played to Anastor’s advantage would be gone – chased away by the morning. Soon Anastor’s hiding place would simply be the other side of a tree.

   Anastor crawled along the base of the tree trunk to a small hollow. He squeezed in. He fitted. Just.

   Kirin glanced about the clearing. Hunger flashed in eyes that were an unnatural yellow. “Go, on. Find the Pureborn. Bring him to me. I’ll kill him with my own blade.”

   “This is wrong!” the old man hissed. “He can’t be more than a child!”

   “It may be wrong, Senda. But it is justice.”

   Kirin galloped off, leaving Senda behind.

   Anastor heard a twig snap. He inhaled sharply. One of the riders had gotten close. The woman grimaced as she urged her horse through the trees, muttering about how “this was something only a Pureborn should do”. Her horse pawed the ground, and then sniffed. 

   Anastor rose to a crouch. He knew he had to move. He stepped deeper into the forest. His feet crunched on the bracken. The noise was loud. The horse’s ears flicked. Anastor winced. He could only hope no rider had heard. 

   He moved his foot back, and a few crinkled leaves were blown towards the clearing.

   Anastor felt his palms sweat. His heart, if possible, beat faster. No…

   He’d checked hadn’t he? He’d hidden and –


   He hadn’t checked the wind’s direction.

   He now stood upwind of fifteen armed soldiers – and their hounds. 

   He was lucky they hadn’t already found him.

   Anastor tried to hurry while not making enough noise to alert the hounds to his presence. As Anastor stepped backwards, bracken crunched underfoot. A hound pointed its nose towards Anastor. Its dark eyes scanned the trees. Anastor, wincing with the noise of every step, backed deeper into the forest. The hound’s ears flicked. It lowered its head to sniff the ground. So far, it hadn’t seen Anastor.

   He gave a small sigh of relief.

   The hound’s ears flicked again. It barked.

   Then it rushed at Anastor.

   What little stealth Anastor had maintained, he discarded.

      Anastor sprinted through the trees. Behind him, shouts, barks and the clatter of hooves. Anastor glanced over his shoulder. He saw a flash of iron between the trees. He ran faster.

   The ground began to slope downwards. Anastor’s feet crunched frozen dirt. He could feel a looming presence as his pursuers gained on him…

   The trees suddenly thinned, and then the forest ended.

   Anastor entered the clearing – and was confronted with an enormous river.

   “No.” Anastor’s voice was weak from underuse. “No.”

   This river was the River Azure.  The river was the largest of any within the Imperium, and fed the entirety of the Everlore Domain. The river snaked southwards towards the coast, and the great trader cities.  

   And it had just cost Anastor his life.

   Figures on horses emerged from the wood, moving at a leisurely pace. They seemed almost mocking. They knew he was trapped. They were just flaunting their victory.


   Be brave, Anastor… Rid the world of their evils… For the Imperium… For me…

   Anastor gritted his teeth. His brother’s dying words. His brother, who had fallen in a skirmish battle. His brother, who could never come back.

   Be brave…

   He could just give in. What would it be to Anastor? Just another broken promise. Just another man who would die unavenged.

   Coward, a voice whispered in his ears. You always fail. You always run.

   Anastor clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t freeze. He would fight. Here he would be slaughtered. He might as well go down with honour…

   “I won’t run…”

   The riders paused. Some of them smirked.

   “I will be brave…”

   The chief rider, Kirin, dismounted with a sword in his hands. He let out a snort of laughter.

   “For the Imperium…”

   Anastor closed his eyes.

   “For Katsuror…” Brother.

   Anastor opened his eyes. Around him, the riders looked bemused. Kirin smiled.

   “Done yet?” asked Kirin.


   Anastor tried to rush at Kirin. He couldn’t make himself.

   He felt his muscles stiffen. So much for not being cowardly. He was freezing…

   Like he always did on the battlefield…

   Kirin advanced forward. He held his sword aloft, with the casual grace of someone trained with a sword. Anastor was at a disadvantage.

   “To be honest, I don’t care whether or not you run. Where would you go?” Kirin spread his arms, encompassing the river and the forest guarded by riders. “And I’d prefer it if you were brave. I don’t enjoy easy victories.”

   Kirin lunged forward, like a viper. Anastor recoiled. He just managed to get out of the way of the blade. He felt the wind of the attack brush his arm.

   Kirin gave another jab, at Anastor’s side this time. Anastor awkwardly brought his sword up to parry. 

   Both hits would’ve only been light wounds. Kirin was only testing Anastor.

   Anastor wanted to run. But his heavy, terror-locked limbs wouldn’t allow such a thing. Neither would his honour.

   Kirin gave a final testing blow – a casual flick of the wrist. Anastor managed to defend himself.

   He could do this… He could pay back the bastards who had ripped his family apart…

   Kirin rushed Anastor. No more testing. This was it. This was the battle that would end Anastor’s life. 

   Anastor scrambled out of sword range. “Why do this?” 

   “My father was killed by a noble,” Kirin hissed, his teeth bared. “I consider this revenge.”

   Anastor scampered out of the way of a sword strike. He let out a whimper. Was he going to let the bastards who had broken him defeat him?


  Anastor felt sweat drip down his nose. He was breathing fast.

   Be brave, Anastor…

   Anastor gritted his teeth.

   For me…

   Anastor let out an anguished yell. He swung at Kirin. Kirin parried it effortlessly. Without his normal hesitation, Anastor lunged forward, bringing his sword in an arc. Kirin dodged – then dove towards Anastor.

  The flat side of the blade hit him in the stomach. Anastor was knocked off his feet.

  Kirin stood over him. 

  Anastor tried to crawl back. These people had killed his friends. They’d broken the Solstynn clan. They had no mercy. They evidently wouldn’t hesitate to murder him.

   Kirin pressed the tip of his blade to Anastor’s chest. 

   The arrogance, the smile – it had all vanished from his face. Replaced by a hard, steely look. Evidently, this man had seen war. He’d seen horror.

   And he’d survived.

   “This is for my father.” Perhaps Anastor imagined, but he thought he heard guilt in his voice. In barely a minute, Kirin had changed.

   But anger still smouldered in his eyes. Kirin would still kill Anastor. 

   Kirin drew back his blade, jaw clenched…

   A messenger rushed out of the trees. Sweat beaded on his face. When he spoke his tone was urgent.    

   “Orders from the Demon. Do not kill the Pureborn.”






So what what do you think. I'd appreciate feedback. This is my first novel (I'm twelve)

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Considering your age, this is impressive. I didn't write like that when I was twelve (I'm eighteen in less than a month). 

Anastor was a pretty good character, and the world seemed interesting. 

Try not to confuse your readers though. For example, when you mention Sendas name the first time. I understand that Senda and the older man with greying hair is the same person, but it was still confusing. You need to tell the reader that the older man is named Senda before you use his name (you do this further down, when Kirin calls him by his name). 

Oh, and you might want to ask a mod to move this to the Writers Corner part of the forum. That is where thibgs like this tend to go.

Good work though!

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This is quite good. Amazing for your age. Keep writing, I think you have a gift. It was interesting to have a bit of depth in Kirin, in that short of a clip.

I would be very interested to see where the story goes. 

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On 11/08/2017 at 4:25 PM, Toaster Retribution said:

Considering your age, this is impressive. I didn't write like that when I was twelve (I'm eighteen in less than a month). 

Anastor was a pretty good character, and the world seemed interesting. 

Try not to confuse your readers though. For example, when you mention Sendas name the first time. I understand that Senda and the older man with greying hair is the same person, but it was still confusing. You need to tell the reader that the older man is named Senda before you use his name (you do this further down, when Kirin calls him by his name). 

Oh, and you might want to ask a mod to move this to the Writers Corner part of the forum. That is where thibgs like this tend to go.

Good work though!

Yeah, the Senda thing was something I put in by accident on an edit. I didn't notice.

Thanks for the kind words. This has been helpful

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Here's chapter two:


Chapter II



Part of Kyr knew she was going insane.

   Part of her questioned how long she could remain a slave – lifeless, broken, meaningless.

   Part of her – the part where she could still force through logical thoughts – questioned why the immortals allowed her to live.

   And as far as she was concerned, that part of her was dead.

   She’d long resigned herself to her fate. There was no escape. No point in thinking otherwise anyway; she’d brought this onto herself.

   Iron bars surrounded her. The bars were mutilated by the dull, unrelenting brown of rust. The twisted iron cage was reminiscent of a skeletal fist. A dark kind of irony. She’d always feared being controlled by someone. And now she was in the palm of their hand.

   Smells clogged the air – blood, sweat, the acrid stink of sickness – coalescing into the smell that Kyr now found synonymous with slavery. There was a puddle on the floor. She wasn’t sure what the puddle was of. She didn’t care.

   Outside, the main deck rocked with the waves. The junk she rode on slid over shadowed waters – a behemoth of wood and bronze. The deck itself was blemished with bird leavings and stray driftwood. Grime clung to railings, and red-brown stains on the floor hinted to the ship’s true nature. All in all, it was a grisly sight.

   It was more than she deserved.

   Voices plagued her. They knew who she was. They whispered it in the corners of her mind. They made sure Kyr couldn’t escape. Whispered a name she’d be glad to simply forget. Whispered of abilities that would shatter kingdoms. Whispered a title that in the West would have been a blessing.


   Too bad that blessing wouldn’t help her here.

   Maluhi was rumoured as their next destination. The slavers had somehow managed to disillusion themselves with dreams of success. Somehow they maintained that the Guilded City of Septaros was the perfect place to unload their latest batch of wretched souls. 

   Kyr was less optimistic. Septaros and its native guilds had built itself a legacy on freedom. Septarosene citizens swore an oath on those twisted immortals of theirs to end slavery.

   A trade war with the Imperium and a ship full of opportunist slavers wasn’t going to change anything. But the slavers had hope.

   Hope was a fickle thing.

   Kyr lowered her head. It was painful, but she remembered times when she had had hope. Before she’d accepted reality.

   Beyond her bars – beyond the prison she had built for herself – people joked. People boasted, made jokes of ungainly things and made a show of their weapons and strength. Outside, somehow, against all odds, happiness – or at least the slaver equivalent - prevailed. 

   Something Kyr didn’t share.

   Kyr’s jaw clenched as one slaver, deep in a drunken stupor, staggered to her cage, wiggling his fingers like they were a wonderful new discovery. Drink on this particularly boat was not well regulated.

   She shook her head.

   How was it that slavers had such a blatant disregard towards order. It defied reason. Kyr found that most of the world’s litany of problems stemmed from a lack of order.

   More order and there would be no war.

   More order and there would be no confusion.

   More order and they wouldn’t have died… 

   Seren, Tithro, Noras…


    Blankness. She felt nothing. Just cold.

   She could feel that she was on the brink of another burst of insanity. The voices always returned when she was like this. Always.

   You could have saved her, of course, but you chose not to.

   Your fault, another voice in her head whispered. All your fault. Your own erratic emotions killed her.

   Emotions. Pointless and stupid. Could get you killed.  It had got people killed. 

   So she’d discarded them.

   But by then they’d already broken her.

    I am iron. And iron can be reforged

   She steadied her breathing. In, out, in, out…

   She frowned as she noticed something.

   The Slavemaster, a heavy set man with a thick russet beard, approached her. A look of disgust was a constant accomplice to the man’s limping gait. Dark scars twisted over a tanned face, hinting at a past of abuse. This Slavemaster had been to hell and back. 

   Kyr still couldn’t get herself to pity him. 

   The man strode towards her cage. She was in one of a group of cages clustered at the centre of the ship. Where the slavers could watch them. Constantly.

   She remembered the Slavemaster’s name. Yurik. Kyr – when she’d first been taken on to this ship - had gone to great lengths to discover the names of all the slavers. Kyr had hoped to infer things from their conversation, clues and riddles that hinted at the possibility of escape. But that was back when she’d had hope.

   She almost missed that.

   Not that she’d ever admit it.

   The Slavemaster towered over her. He looked down at her with reproach.

   Kyr glanced up. “Good morning, sunshine!” Kyr gave her best fake smile. “And to what do I owe your delightful company.”

   Yurik frowned, muttering something about an “insufferable woman”. Kyr raised an eyebrow. The way she addressed him was a lie. Once, it had been a truth. Once. 

   “I gather you’ve become bored tormenting other slaves. Come to pick on me. Tell me, when and why do you think you became the literal personification of a demon?”

    Yurik scowled, and Kyr thought she could see something broken behind his eyes. “Levity? Kyr this is a grim world. I don’t know what your western above-the-law parents taught you, but this world - it’s not a joke. We fail. We fall. We die. We’re forced to do things we find distasteful. Our gods are sadistic bastards. Tell me Kyr, does this sound like an idealist fantasy to you? Does this sound like a place that serves to be made a joke out of?”

   Kyr grimaced. If only you knew… If only he knew how Kyr really was. She doubted many would describe her as a light-hearted person. At least, not any more.  

   Kyr herself found it hard to describe her. But she guessed that was one of the symptoms of insanity.

   Sometimes Kyr questioned how she would go on. But failure – failure had never been an option. She would survive.

   I am iron. And iron can be reforged.

   She remained quiet. She didn’t want to talk. Triam had been good at talking.

   Of course, Triam had been a monster.

   Yurik, sensing he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her, turned and faced towards the tumult of the grey seas. “We arrive in half a sun cycle. I suggest you make yourself presentable. The Septarosene are a picky bunch.” He turned to Kyr. Whatever Kyr had glimpsed in the man’s eyes was gone. His stone expression gave way to no emotion. She shivered at the coldness in his eyes. “I have been able to persuade the others that it won’t be like last time we attempted to visit a city. You stabbed a man in the chest and made a run for it, I seem to recall.”

   Kyr gave a barely discernible nod. She’d given up on that. Once she’d tried desperately to wiggle out of the slavers authority. She’d believed she could escape because her cause was justified. If only reality was like that. If only the Immortals cared about a renegade slave. Her only defiance now was her words. Really, they were just air. But she liked to make the slavers think she hadn’t given in.

   Yurik turned to walk away. He didn’t seem happy – he rarely did - but he was less…crushed. 

   “It won’t work, you know. The Septarosene don’t allow slaves.”

   The Slavemaster turned to her. There was a smile on his face. Old instincts told her to run. She knew that smile. Kyr suddenly wanted to get as far away from that face as possible. No…it can’t be…

   “Won’t it, Pureborn?”

   Kyr felt her blood go cold.

.  .  .


   Septaros was even bigger than she’d expected.

   The City of Seven, last of the Gilded Cities, sprawled, bathed in light from a rising sun. Citadels, the seats of the famous and notorious guilds, like slumbering giants, reared elegant heads over the houses below. A long road sliced towards the city centre, where the biggest of citadels loomed. She guessed that was the seat of the Sorrows Guild. The harbour – a mass of rigging, docked ships and charismatic sailors – fringed the shoreline. A magnificent sight. It seemed to emanate justice and tranquillity.

   An obvious illusion. 

   Kyr leaned back in her cage. The slaver’s words still thundered in her ears. 


   Somehow he knew. Somehow he’d discovered what Kyr had been running from for three years. After selling Kyr, and her much sought after abilities, Yurik could buy himself lands and titles. Kyr somehow found herself admiring him. He monopolized on every advantage. Not held back by emotion. Not like Kyr.

   She glanced to her side. The Slavemaster stood separately from the rest of the slavers. His prominent form looked worn and beaten when framed by the orange-red glow of the horizon. He stood tall, statuesque. Yurik’s clothing was more professional than the other slaver’s. Neater, less ragged. He seemed to resemble in part the soldiers of the stories – the ones Kyr once would’ve dreamed of becoming had she not been a woman.

   Of course, looks can be deceiving. 

   The ship skirted the shoreline. There were no waves. The sea was flat like a piece of worked iron. No foam. No currents. Just the occasional ripples fanning out beneath the boat to disturb the serenity.

   So it was true. The Stoic Straits – a mere rumour further West – really were… stoic. Still. Emotionless. There was much to be envied in that. This foreign sea so effortlessly managed to conceal its true nature.

   So now even the water was mocking her.

   As the ship slid towards the harbour, Kyr was greeted by a barrage of sounds: blunt voices, the ever-present drumming of thousands of feet and the wavering calls of hungry seabirds. A group of musicians thudded a steady rhythm.

   Kyr watched a group of men distributing fish to local merchants. They moved casually yet seemed to maintain a rhythm to their movements, integrating the musicians beats into each throw. She’d heard music was a common practice eastwards; Kyr herself had begun regarding music as a pointless waste of time – how would it help you if you were facing an enemy, or were forced to brave a famine? How would it help if the Imperium invaded? 

   Now however, she could understand. Rhythms and patterns were woven into society to enhance efficiency. In the East, it seemed, music wasn’t a mere frivolity. 

   Kyr stepped off the boat. Their escort was small: the Slavemaster himself, and a man who had been recruited into the slaver’s crew barely a moon ago. The crew called this recent arrival Two-Face – for his uncanny ability to disguise himself as someone he wasn’t. It was no surprise that Kyr was suspicious. 

   Yurik jabbed her in the back with a bronze spear. As someone who wasn’t Pureborn, he was denied iron by the Eternal Faith. Judging by the man’s tall stature, he could have some bastardised Pureborn lines in him, though not enough to grant him ascension into the Imperium’s nobility. 

   Kyr began walking up the long straight road that led towards the city centre. Two-Face and the Slavemaster flanked either side of her. Other slaves were also being dragged along behind. However, the slaver’s attention was not on these bedraggled souls; no, the slaver’s arrival here had nothing to do with the lives of simple Impures: their intention was that of selling a Pureborn.

   Too bad that Pureborn was Kyr.

   The more she thought about, the more she realised that the slavers had played their game well. The city of Septaros, and the rest of the island nation of Maluhi, was engaged in a period of unrest between them and the newly-formed Imperium. Both sides were raising armies in an effort to check the other’s rising power. Many of Maluhi’s holdings had been sacked – by who it was assumed to be the Imperium.

   But many of these occurrences had been inflicted by slaver’s. Yurik was among these. They were hoping to spark a war between these two rivals – all in the effort of increasing their success. Even Septaros, a city built on foundations of equality and freedom, would buy slaves if it ensured the safety of its citizens.

   Desperation was the great assassin of tradition and virtue.

   Beneath fake ideals, they were all the same.

   Kyr continued along the road. Two-Face moved with arrogant strides up the road. Kyr narrowed her eyes. The way he moved, his confidence – he seemed too much like a typical slaver. Too normal. Perhaps Kyr just wanted to be suspicious.

   Kyr had arrived at the end of the road. And the beginning of the citadel.

   All Kyr could say was that the rumours were true. The citadel was huge. A mass of hewn rock and iron bracings, the Citadel of the Sorrows masterfully balanced form and function. The windows that twisted up the building’s flanks sprayed light into the receding darkness. Spikes and statues adorned the walkway that lead to a gaping maw of a gatehouse. Kyr was reminded of a place just like this.

   A place of a stark purple flag…

   A place from before.

   Then she noticed the Guildmaster.  

   The Guildmaster wore a long black cloak and a hood drawn over a shadowed face. An iron longsword - free from the corruption of rust – complemented the Guildmasters hand, looking, in that black gloved grip, as light as if it were made of smoke. Twin knives were sheathed at her belt.

   The figure let the hood fall back revealing a youthful female face. She was startlingly young, barely into her twenties and already a Guildmaster. Kyr suspected a story behind that. With sharp features, dark hollow eyes filled with misgiving and pale skin, she would have been at home among the Pureborn. However, scarlet hair betrayed her impure heritage. Her face was stretched into a grimace.

   The slaves around Kyr shuffled their feet and murmured. Evidently, they disliked being reminded of their previous overlords. Some still thought of themselves as vassals of the Imperium.

   Kyr had no such problem.

   “We do not authorise slaves in Septaros. I thought you would’ve known that.” The woman had a high, commanding voice. She even sounded like a Pureborn. “Of course, slavers aren’t known for their intellect.”

   Two-Face was undeterred by the woman’s jibes. That was something about slavers. They didn’t back down. Killed them most the time. But it was still enviable. “We – as it so happens – are not here to barter. No, no, no, no. We are here to offer you a chance. To save your city. To win this war.” Two-Face smiled. He was good, Kyr could admit that much. Completely different to the man she’d met on the boat. Of course, how could she be sure the man she met on the boat was his real persona? “And perhaps to fill a few empty pockets.”

   “We do not authorise slaves in Septaros.”

   “This isn’t a normal slave. What we offer is essentially gift. A tribute if you will. In the form of a Pureborn. All it will cost you is, say, that fine longsword you have there.”

   Kyr’s heart lurched. She tried to do what she would normally do in these situations. Find a way out. Logic. She could escape with that. But she couldn’t think straight. Her mind felt fuzzed.

   Emotions. They’d nearly killed her last time. Now they were back. To finish the job.

   Part of her knew these were the ramblings of a crazy person. But part of her was weaker than the other part. She was becoming more broken by the day.

   I am iron. Iron doesn’t break.

  “We do not authorise slaves in Sepataros.” The women’s iron façade seem to split. Desperation could do that to you. But age-old traditions weren’t quite that easy to break.

   Two-Face smiled. He acted so much like a slaver!  “Let’s not draw this out, eh? You know what we want. We know what you want. Not the conundrum one would imagine, from the opposition you’re giving it.”

   The Guildmaster frowned, and then smiled. “Fine, we’ll take the Pureborn – as well as the other slaves. Though let’s compromise – we’ll take them. But we’ll take them free of charge.”

   Yurik pushed to the front. Two-Face backed away, smiling, and leaned against the building behind him. Yurik spoke with venom in his voice. “Hang on a minute – you expect me to give away all my slaves to you, free of charge?”

   The woman nodded. “Glad I made myself clear.”

   Yurik growled. He no longer looked like he had on the boat: composed, neat, in control. Now he was a beast on a chain. Yurik cursed. Then he rushed the Guildmaster.

   He was quick – but she was quicker.

   Knives danced in the Guildmaster’s hands, no longer sharp pieces of forged metal, but an extension of herself. They left her hand with a fatal precision. Yurik died instantly.

   Kyr just watched. Watched as the light left his eyes, watched as the twin blades pierced his heart. Another death.

   Kyr fell to the floor. Then the nausea came.

   She saw a mass of churned earth around her.

   She saw dead bodies scattered over a bloodied ground.

   She saw a purple banner claiming sovereignty over all around it.

   She saw fire – fire everywhere.

   She saw a single haunted face. 

   She heard his words again, just like every time.

   If I was a better person I would have stopped this. But I’m not. I never was. I’m sorry.

  Kyr’s eyes flickered open. Cold stone beneath her. A placid wind. Kyr scrambled into a standing position. Show no weakness; that would kill her. But wasn’t that what she deserved? She felt… cold. Like a candle that had been snuffed out.

   The Guildmaster gave her a sideways glance. Then she turned to the other remaining slaver.

   “Wondered where you went, Two-Face.”

   Two-Face sighed. “What gave me away?”

   “Slavers don’t use words like conundrum.”

   Two-Face nodded. “Ah. Never could play slavers. Not much good at playing any kind of lowlife really – so far from it myself.” He winked.

   “You can play Nobles quite well.”

   “Well the exception proves the rule, Synta, as I always say.”

   “You never say that.”

   “Well… I just did.”

   “You’re insufferable.”

   “I do try.” Two-Face gave a wry smile. He gestured towards Kyr. “What do we do with her?”

   “What we always do.”

   The Guildmaster turned to her. Her words were soft yet carried on the wind.

      “Welcome to the Sorrows Guild.”

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Nah, I don't think it goes too fast. Some stuff feels a bit unexplained regarding the characters past, but I guess that will be explained later.

I dont see why Yurik rushed the Guildmaster as soon as she made her proposal though. It feels wierd that he couldn't control his temper a bit more.

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You're off to an encouraging start. You've clearly built a world full of conflict and intrigue, and I'm very curious about this earth-shattering magic.

If you're concerned that it feels fast, it's probably because you've jumped right into the story with very little build-up. It's "in late, out early," which is always a good guiding principle. But what you have here is a story with a steep learning curve. (That's Brandon's terminology.) It means the reader needs a lot of background information to understand the plot. When that's the case, a slower, gentler introduction can be very helpful.

For example, seeing these Pureborn characters in such dire situations might have more impact if we'd actually seen the kind of privilege and power they used to live with. And that last line, "Welcome to the Sorrows Guild," would be much more dramatic if we knew what that was. Kyr recognizes their citadel earlier in the chapter; she could tell us who they are, or what kind of reputation they have, by remembering some past encounter with them. 

But this is obviously stuff you can take care of later in the writing process. In the meantime, keep writing! I look forward to seeing more.

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