The Beginning

By Sara Aziz

Shafarat Alhayaa

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The Almuealijun- The magic-wielders who can grow plants, now usually used as royal gardeners.

The Suntshisir – The sunchasers. These magic wielders can manipulate light.

The Shadubirinjir – The shadow bringers. Can manipulate the shadows and darkness.

Rasul Alwafyat – Deaths Messenger. Only one exists every generation, as it travels in bloodlines and only one can inherit the ability. The Maksur have been trying to track the bloodline desperately, but two hundred years ago, the last female of the bloodline mysteriously vanished. No one could figure out what had become of her blood because they had already killed and hunted the Alrueb Alqirmuziu.

Almaealij – The healers, can spur your skin to heal faster and close wounds.

Mutaradat Alriyah – The wind chasers. They can manipulate the wind.

Albahithin – The time chasers. They can manipulate time. Died out three thousand years ago in the Tathir Eazim.

Almutalaeibun – Manipulators. The Illusionists. They can Change your perception of the world and can manipulate the senses into seeing what they want you to see, and feeling what they want you to feel. Were hunted down in the Tathir Eazim three thousand years ago.

Alrueb Alqirmuziu – Scarlet terrors. They are blood manipulators and can tell you who sired you, and what magic runs in your veins, by your blood. Most unnatural type of magic, they were the first to be hunted in the Tathir Eazim.

Lahab – Flame manipulators. They can summon and control fire.

Raqisi Almiah – Water dancers. They can control all water, including the water in the air we breathe. They can draw out all the water from the air we breathe and can suffocate you while they breathe comfortably and watch you die. Most modern Raqisi Almiah are assassins.

Alnufus – The soul seekers. They can see how rotten or pure your soul is. Most were used as slaves for royalty and aristocrats who wanted a pretty party trick.

Kritari – the messengers. They can send anything, anywhere, to any corner of the planet.

Aleanasir – The name that refers to all elemental magic. [Elementals]

Magical Hierarchies [Pre-Tathir Eazim] –

Common-

Aleanasir
Almuealijun

Respected –

Alrueb Alqirmuziu
Almaealij
Suntshisir

Coveted–

Rasul Alwafyat
Shadubirinjir
Albahithin
Almutalaeibun
Alnufus

Magical Hierarchies [Post-Tathir Eazim] –

Common-

Aleanasir
Almuealijun

Respected –

~~Alrueb Alqirmuziu~~
Almaealij
Suntshisir

Coveted–

~~Rasul Alwafyat~~
Shadubirinjir
~~Albahithin~~
~~Almutalaeibun~~
Alnufus

Names– Most magic-wielders are called Sahira [Female] or Aljinu [male] meaning witch or jinn.

Change- Change is what all magic-wielders abilities are referred to as in broader terms, what they can do. They can Change the natural order.

Slavery- most magic-wielders became slaves after the Tathir Eazim, the ones who did manage to escape such a fate either became merchants in the Midnight Bazaar or joined the Devil’s Own.

Tathir Eazim – The Great Purging. Three thousand years ago, the Maksur [The Broken] rose up against the Shafarat Alhayaa [Lifes Blades/Magic Wielders] and hunted down the most “unnatural” of them. The Albahithin, the Almutalaeibun, and the Alrueb alqirmuziu all “died out.” There are theories that some still survive, but no one knows for sure.

Maksur – The Broken. The Maksur are the normal ones, the people with no real powers. Ordinary humans.

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The most famous Shafarat Alhayaa in the world as of today [the fourteenth day of the twenty-first month, 1860] goes by the name of Ironheart. True name?

Unknown.

A Song of Crows

One for sorrow,

Two for mirth;

Three for a wedding,

Four for birth;

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Not to be told;

Eight for a wish,

Nine for a kiss,

Ten a surprise not to miss,

Eleven for health,

Twelve for wealth,

Thirteen beware it’s the devil himself.

Prologue

Sticks and stones won’t break my bones, but metal destroys us all…

I blinked as I slowly regained consciousness, the throbbing pain behind my eyes only intensifying as a strange light shone down upon me.

“Subject Four is now awake,” a brisk voice said from behind me.

Subject Four?

I started to sit up, but a foreign pressure on my chest stopped me. Looking down, I saw silver bands twining around me like ivy, pinning me to a strange metal surface.

“Who are you?” I croaked, my voice hoarse from disuse.

“Subject Four is now capable of speech,” The same voice said.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice getting stronger.

My eyes darted around the room before locking on a tall man standing in the shadows. His dark eyes arrested mine, cold and inscrutable. His black hair was streaked with silver, born from the moon and darkness. His face was made of sharp angles and hard lines as he watched me, a single eyebrow raised in question. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hello, khione,” he murmured, the warmth in his eyes belying the emptiness of his voice. My eyes stayed on him, my lips trembling. My beloved. He’d called me his beloved. What was going on? Panic was starting to set in, and my breaths shortened.

“Why am I here?”

“Subject Four-”

“Will you shut the hell up with your Subject Four?” I shrieked, thrashing against the silver, feeling it bend and begin to break along with my skin. Feeling my bones begin to strain and bow as strong hands began grabbing me, trying to shove me down. My skin was tearing, blood staining the silver crimson when I felt something stab against my neck. Pure pain erupted, and I screamed as my whole body went numb and still. My breathing slowed, and then it was as though I was hovering above my body, staring down at the quiet, empty form. My throat couldn’t seem to swallow, and living became a difficulty.

“Six liters of pure iron,” the voice said. “A deterrent against your kind.”

His voice wasn’t malicious or cruel. Simply cold and practical, a doctor with a patient or a scientist with an experiment.

“Don’t worry, Subject Four. This will only hurt a bit.”

I looked up with blurry eyes towards a mask being pulled down towards my face. When it connected, it was fire against my skin. Everything erupted as the skin of my face tore and strained towards this foul creation from hell.

I screamed as the iron of the mask began breaking off, burrowing into my skin, sealing itself to my face. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, it was just agony.

“Help me,” I begged the man in the corner as the iron began burrowing into my lips. “HELP ME!”

But he just stood and stared as the iron dug in again and again and again.

When they pulled the mask away, I gasped a single cool breath of air as tears ran down my face, mixing with the copper of blood. My back bowed off the metal, straining towards a reprieve that did not exist.

“Subject Four has survived part one,” the voice noted.

Survived.

Then a second mask was pulled towards my face, and I thrashed, turning my face away, doing anything to stop the oncoming torture. But nothing helped, and no one heard or cared as I screamed

and screamed

and screamed.

Part One

Scene Two

The Laws of the Hypocrites

Never keep a promise

Trust is something best played your way

Win at all costs.

Chapter One- The Stars Do Not Forget

A glint of iron was the only light that shone in the darkness as night descended, creeping upon its visitors with the cruelty and grace of a queen. I blew out a slow breath as a woman began to step out of the Aracne Tavern. Lady Starkov, his lover. Her steps were hurried, furtive. All could see the guilt hanging upon her frame, the way her shoulders curved, eyes down-turned. I was silent as I drew up from my crouch upon the roof of the opposite building, stretching the tightness of my muscles as I pressed a hand against my twin knives in support.

Eris and Bacchus protect me, I thought, before running down the curved side and leaping to the opposite building. My steps were light, always balancing my weight once my steps had firmed. My hair- loose- fell about my face. I should have done it up in a braid or bun of some sort, but it was the holy night. Even assassins prayed to something, be it greed or guilt or gods. Still, it was a damned annoyance nonetheless. I swallowed as I leaped to the next building, Lady Starkov clear within the crowds, her black cloak clean where others were stained with age and filth. A lady playing amongst thugs and thieves. She stopped near a corner, an unmarked carriage waiting. While it said nothing of her house, the subtle lavishness spoke for itself. It was a wonder she’d survived her week of slumming it with her protector. Once she’s climbed in, I slid down from the roofs, the footman-turned driver climbing down to close the door, turning a mere moment after I slipped in. Starkov was staring out the window, unaware of her passenger as the footman closed the door, then spurring the horses to a start.

“We need to talk,” I said quietly. Jolting, Starkov swung her head to me, but I already held my dagger, Bacchus, to her throat. “Try to scream, you lose your value. Lose your value, and I slit this pretty throat.”

Her eyes were wide, the light blue igniting a strange revulsion in me at the fear. Hypocrite. “I’d like you to take a guess at what I might be talking about, Yelena.” Yelena Starkov, third, spoilt daughter to a lord, borne and raised to think she was invincible. Married to a rich, yet aging merchant at the age of eighteen, she’d decided she still had years before she was truly required to become a mother. That was not the problem. The king had little concern for infidelity. What they cared for was who she chose. A foreign lord with dying pockets and excessive patriotism.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she whispered, vapid eyes blinking rapidly, straining to find a way out of this situation. I’d left her none. I slid Bacchus along her throat, reveling in the quick intake of breath at the thin slice it left, a deep red line that branched out in trails of blood.

“Your husband is a rich man, Yelena, dear. A man with secrets he’s often foolish enough to speak of in front of his shallow, pretty little wife. Secrets you seem happy to whisper when only the bedsheets and your lover are privy.” She swallowed and Ieaned back. “His name’s Henrik Byrod. I have two of my Serpents tailing him as we speak. He’ll be dead by the end of this night-” I stopped at her small cry, before continuing as though I’d heard nothing. “Yet since I’m feeling merciful, I’ll give you a choice. Come with me to your trial, and you will have a chance of escaping if Daddy comes to your rescue, as I doubt your husband will care after the details are told. However, if you refuse, I’d be glad to slit your throat as we speak.”

Her eyes darted to Bacchus again, and I almost didn’t see it coming- the quick lunge for Eris. Grabbing her hand, I twisted, claiming a gloved hand over her scream. I always wore gloves, to hide the shade that made my skin so much different. Ironheart here was a legend, a woman borne of the mists and ghosts hue. Her skin was not the color of burnt caramel in sunlight, coffee in the moon’s glare. Yanking down her arm, I kicked into her stomach, slamming her against the wall. The loud thump echoed through the carriage, and the driver yelled for the horses to stop as we slowed.

“Fine,” I growled, flipping Bacchus to aim at her throat as she cried, “Wait, please! I’ll do the trial!”

I almost felt pity. “No one threatens Ironheart, Yelena Starkov, and makes it out alive. Be sure to ask around in hell.”

By the time the footman opened the door, I was gone, and all he saw was the slumped-over figure of Lady Starkov, her throat slit in a painless death.

Another kill for Ironheart.

Ironheart

My new book!

Hey readers! Wow, it’s been a while since I posted anything- but I hope this is worth your while! I’ve been working on a new novel I hope to publish, Ironheart, from my series, These Deadly Games.

I’m going to be posting the first few chapters on my blog to see how readers react to my writing, and if I should go back to the drawing board with this idea. I would appreciate any comments. Thank you for reading my work!

Beowulf; or, the Justifications of Toxicity

Featured

An Essay

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Is a book a classic only because of the period it has been written in? Countless works have been hailed as incredible classics when many find them dull, foolish, or poorly written. From the over-hyped Romeo and Juliet to the ridiculousness of Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot,” many fictions that are revered truly lack anything that makes them overly special. What would the general public say if they knew Romeo had been in love with someone else before Juliet? Or that the prince in The Idiot was truly a calculating politician? Beowulf does not deserve its praise, for it lacks any true emotion, plot, or well-defined characters, but instead dives far too deep into the male psyche, and their obsessive need for glory, fame, and fortune. Not only that, in fact, but also degrading female roles into either docility or villainy.

Foremost, Beowulf lacks any true emotion or plot. Rather than display human vulnerability, or our tendency to err, the text only showed their bravado, confidence, and fear. No true happiness was felt, for no true sadness was borne. “Solitary, salt-scourged, he swam screaming over open ocean, Ecgtheow’s son repatriating grief-stricken to homeland.” (Line 2369, page 102). Rather than create an atmosphere of grief, or have Beowulf show any such in his actions, rather, they (The translator) said it once and then decided that must be enough to prove his sadness, for men show only strength. The sexism of this text showed once again, as they then spent a paragraph detailing how, in the wake of the battle that caused Beowulf to swim to safety that her [Hygd] husband died in, she did not even mourn him, as the author attempted to show women in the light of mercenaries, any negative emotion but rage a weakness to be exploited. The plot remained helpless to the emotionlessness of the texts, the book progressing in a series of exponentially convenient events. The first six pages (a costly amount in a 136-page poem) were merely background information, the majority of which was useless and had little to do with the main character, Beowulf, for whom this book was named. When Beowulf comes, he is honored oddly fast for a man coming to a foreign king bearing an army fit to destroy the king’s own. Rather than be fearful, they believe him unconditionally for their desperation and his silver tongue, following that by calling the king a “good king,” a recurring theme that was only precluded by shows of “manliness,” such as violence. No king was revered for their intelligence, but rather, for their ability to fight and win. The sexism was especially prevalent in, “He has no verve, no urge to visit beds, no wish to father a new son, now his firstborns dead.” (line 253, page 106). This displays the author’s contempt for men who show their grief, following a child’s death, displaying the activities they felt he should be doing before carelessly mentioning the cause of his reluctance. This is unempathetic, and frankly, quite disgusting that they believe a man is only allowed to be considered as such unless he does the aforementioned acts that can, in some and most circumstances, be considered sins to the Bible, for which this book mentions in droves. Following this was the unrealistic following of speeches. The characters would often have rather long-winded speeches, lasting for several pages, that they could have said “quickly?” One character, after Beowulf is killed, is passing by, on horseback, giving a speech about Beowulf’s death that lasts for six pages. Six. How is it possible that this speech could have been said, while on horseback nonetheless, for all to hear? Most would hear only a portion that would be out of context unless they decided to race after him to hear the end of his speech. That is highly unrealistic, even for a fantastical novel such as this, because though it may meddle in the affairs of magic, it is still grounded with earthly laws.

Following this, it is paramount to mention that the characters of Beowulf lacked definition. They were merely caricatures, mockery of humanity unnamed. Beowulf, rather than being shown as a character with thoughts, feelings, and a past, was shown as a superhuman figure incapable of err, but rather prone to boast. The definition of a hero has been debated for hundreds of years, over whether it references deeds, or perhaps the character of them, but a common theme among heroes of the past is strength and bravery. The myth of Theseus and Ariadne is flagrant with such ideas, calling Theseus a hero despite his abandonment of Ariadne, and then marriage to her younger sister. His later actions were considerably horrific, from the kidnapping of a child for future marriage to the murder of his son. Could such actions be considered heroic? While it may seem I have wandered upon a tangent, the principle remains the same. Can a man be considered a hero considering his actions that lack heroism? Many of Beowulf’s actions could be considered positively villainous, even those that are meant to show his strength. The murder of the dragon, while written to appear justified, was hindered by the previous explanation that a man stole from her, and when she tried to warn all others away from her, they came to kill her for not allowing them access to the treasure she has spent centuries amassing. Are we meant to lynch billionaires who do not give as much to the public or charity as we’d like? This has value, even today. Beowulf’s character was a mere caricature of masculine heroism, while the only character that retained their emotional and historical value was the main villain of this tale, the dragon, who was then killed for attempting to defend herself and her home. The king also was mentioned merely to state that after his son’s death, he had no wish to do “manly” things, such as kill, or sire other children. The oddity of such a thing would not hold in the modern day, as a man who lost his firstborn would be justified in any refusal to have other children for grief or participate in bedsport as well. “Is there laughter in far-off places, at me, and at my men?” (line 474, page 23). This line displays his lack of regard for the lives lost to the first villain of this tale, Grendal, instead focusing on the shame it might cause him if others realized his plight. The characters of Beowulf, therefore, lacked any definition and were rather caricatures of toxicity and selfishness than true people.

In addition, Beowulf was horribly sexist towards women. Sexism is defined by the Oxford Dictionary as, “Prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women, on the basis of sex.” Not only did they acknowledge within the definition that sexism is usually done towards women, but they also mentioned the stereotypes usually thought of as related. For example, “Heorogar, Hrothgar, Halga, and I heard he hand-clasped his daughter (her name’s a blur) to Onela.” (line 60, page 5). From the beginning, they establish a theme of female inferiority, even going so far as to say they did not know who married the great warrior Onela, for she was merely a woman to be his wife, not anyone of importance. Her name was a blur. “Hygd tried to quicken him with the throne, offering him gold, gemstones, a potent position, a life less lonely.” (line 2370, page 102). Hygd was a mercenary, her only goal being the protection of herself and her son. Not only that, but instead of having Hygd offer a mere prize if he returned to rule, she offered herself, degrading not only her position but her honor and mourning. Her mind was not mentioned, nor her cunning or intelligence, only her beauty and wealth, as they seemed to be the only things that made her valuable. Such an argument or point of view can be a picture-perfect definition of sexism and the demeaning of an entire gender within those few sentences. Continuing upon this line, Beowulf’s mother is never mentioned, yet his father is mentioned at least once every two pages, as they refer to Beowulf consistently as “Ecgtheow’s son.” This showed how the author believed women to be unimportant to the memories and development of children, and as adults, usually find themselves lacking their mother’s aid, so that the women who raised them might fade to obscurity. According to the Healthway Medical Group, “A mother plays multiple roles in a child’s development, as she is a teacher in every aspect of a child’s developmental growth – social emotional, physical, cognitive and independence.” If mothers remain so essential to a child’s development, why was her role demeaned in her absence throughout the book? Beowulf mentioned his father teaching him to be brave and to fight like a soldier, yet he mentioned not his mother, even though due to societal constraints at the time, we can assume not only he had one but was raised by her. Also, Grendal, who is often hailed as one of the main villains of the novel, was easily felled by Beowulf within a paragraph. However, Grendal’s mother necessitated an entire battle, armed to the teeth, saved only by luck and the will of God. Beowulf admitted she was a terrible foe to face, while with Grendel, he boasted about the ease of the kill. To describe Grendel’s mother- for she was nameless but for the son she sired- they said, “Now his mother was here, carried on a wave of wrath, crazed with sorrow.” (line 1274, page 56). They made it so that the only way a woman could possibly best or dare to fight a man is when they have gone insane from the death of a male family member. Can such a novel that supports these hapless and foolish attempts at sexism truly be considered a classic?

However, some might argue that Beowulf has examples of heroism, and bravery, and allows for analysis into male psychology. Indeed, they might quote, “ The horror wasn’t muted by the measure of women’s strength against man’s brawn. Both can hold slaying swords, glazed with gore, and score the boar crests from their war helmets, warming them with blood.” (line 1284, page 57). However, this was precluded by descriptions of Grendal’s mother’s thirst for blood, followed by a disdainful explanation of women’s lack of honor on the battlefields. A single quote that is then argued upon by the same novel from whence it came is hardly an example of the beauty of this poem. Furthermore, they could possibly mention Beowulf contains themes necessary for understanding the time, perhaps portrayed in, “War was the wife Hrothgar wed first.” (line 63, page 6). This showed how they valued battle, for they had preceded this by mentioning how Hrothgar was a good king who destroyed his father’s legacy in order to build his own. In this, we could find a reason to argue as to whether or not war should be a thing that is worshiped so highly, however, we cannot argue that Beowulf does introduce the themes and semantics of the time, and so, that point cannot be argued. However, other books were written during that time (6th-10th century, approximately) such as Book of Fixed Stars (Year 964), Deor (Year 975), and many others that followed. If the only point that supports Beowulf is its representation of the time, many other books can and have as well. So why is Beowulf any better?

In conclusion, Beowulf does not deserve to be considered a classic of our time, with far too much sexism, no emotional depth within its characters, and a lacking plot as well. The heroes showed villainous traits, and the villains were far too human, and could only be thought of as the anti-heroes of the plot. Women’s role was heinously degraded, the entire gender forced into a single box that was meant to represent us all. Beowulf was a caricature, a man borne only to show heroism rather than be a true man at all. History is so much more layered than what they attempted to show, and that gray area exists as well. It is not merely black and white. While I cannot argue that Beowulf might have been a wonder for its time, now, in this era, Beowulf has truly lost its value. How can we progress if our minds, our entire idea of classics are still stuck not only in the past but in its outdated stigmas that we have come so far from? We are more than our past, and that is all Beowulf is. A poem that would do well to be forgotten in the shadows.

Works Cited

Britannica. “Beowulf | Summary, Poem, Characters, Monster, Analysis, & Facts.” Britannica, 7 March 2024, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Beowulf. Accessed 18 April 2024.

Headley, Maria Dahvana. Beowulf: A New Translation. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.

Healthway Medical. “A Mother’s role in early childhood development.” Healthway Medical, 17 April 2020, https://healthwaymedical.com/a-mothers-role-in-early-childhood-development/. Accessed 18 April 2024.

Oxford. “The Oxford Online Dictionary.” Oxford English Dictionary, https://www.oed.com/?tl=true. Accessed 18 April 2024.

Chapter One

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By Sara Aziz

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I stared silently out the window, ignoring the hissed conversations of my captors.

Dead. She was dead. I wonder if that meant anything to anyone besides me. Lorkai didn’t care, if he’d approved her death, approved my capture by any means.

“Shut up, Achar,” the hunter growled, and my pointed ears flicked in his direction. “The king will not be pleased.”

Lorkai was no king, but I supposed in his mind, by the people he ruled and the land he controlled, he was. What power flickered in the hunter’s eyes?

“Who are you.” Not a question, but a command I was surprised they allowed me to make.

“Aiden,” the hunter said. No family name, nor title. Did he not know his? Was he illegitimate? His face tightened as he seemed to read the thoughts in my eyes. “It’s not your place yet to know who I am beyond that.”

I bristled, and Achar huffed a growly laugh. As I turned back to the window, face flaming, I cursed myself for allowing him to hurt me. Why was I insulted by this callous killer? I felt someone slide beside me as we went over a particularly bumpy part of the path.

“What’s your name?” I stiffened as the questioner breathed against my neck, hot and far too close. Achar.

“Nothing I wish to tell you.”

“So I will call you Fawn,” he murmured, and my hatred flared in a blinding heat as I stilled. His harsh, cold fingers ran down my throat, tracing my collarbone, trailing lower, lower, and I screwed my eyes shut to avoid the inevitable touch, till they suddenly stopped. Opening my eyes, I dared to glance over at the reason behind this lack of movement and saw Aiden gripping Achar’s hand in a death hold as they engaged in a silent staring contest.

“Don’t touch her,” he ordered, and I blinked. “The king will be…displeased if we return his daughter as the damaged goods you no doubt intended.”

My lips quirked in a smile that lacked humor, and it caught Aiden’s eye as I winked. He scowled, and I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Aiden may want me safe if only for my father, but it was safe nonetheless. I would need to keep him near once we arrived at Lorkai’s castle -or fortress?- and hope his fear for my father kept me alive. Mother would have said to ‘watch, wonder, listen.‘ Keep my mouth shut and my ears open. My lips twitched as Aiden moved to the seat across from me and leaned in, expression conspiratorial. Which was pure bull.

But for Achar, for stopping that touch, I would allow it.

“What is your name, Fawn?”

I considered him, considered the merits of telling my name, and tilted my head in faux acquisition. I never agreed to anything I didn’t want to.

“Gianna.” My voice was deliberately soft, my eyes wide and sad, and his own softened. By the gods, the man was a fool. “My mother calls me Gia, though.” She didn’t. But the false moniker lured a smile onto his hard lips, and he leaned back, satisfied with his findings. He’d already forgotten the wink after Achar’s touch, the spit that had spilled from my lips as I vomited when they forced me into the carriage. I buried the flicker of disappointment beside the endless pit of rage deep inside me. The rage they’d incited with the thoughtless murder, the planned execution.

“I believe I will still call you Fawn.” Aiden’s eyes once again traced my grass-stained clothes, and I shivered when they heated. What was wrong with me? I stuffed that strange feeling right into a box labeled, Things I Will Deal With When Drunk. Achar snorted, and my gaze cut to him.

“Why do you laugh?” I blinked innocently after the question, but there was something in his eyes I couldn’t decipher, an understanding of sorts.

“The strange thing about fawns,” he said, falling deeper into his seat with his eyes closed, “is when a hunter’s around, they always get shot.”

No one spoke for the rest of the ride.

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I sucked in a breath as the seemingly endless array of pines and elderwoods thinned as we entered the center of the Korinaj. Lorkai’s home…I gazed out the window in wonder as a building reminiscent of the castle of the skies came into view. Cold and imposing, it was grand in a way that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Mother would have despised it. I jolted as I realized she had despised it. And Mother would have had no problem voicing it. Luna always had been brave.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Aiden’s voice was amused, and I felt a burning humiliation flash through me. He thought it was funny, the wild girl of the woods just encountering civilization. Keeping my face smooth, I cast him a saccharine half-smile.

“It’s rather ugly, isn’t it?” I relished the way his smile dropped and the way the confusion in his eyes conflicted with a dormant resentment. “The stone is so cold and dramatic against the woods. It’s almost an eyesore.” I affected a shiver after that, keeping my voice open as he nodded, swallowing every word.

“It’s meant to be that way, and even so, it grows on you.” He smiled, and I feigned struggle before letting a small one flash. Mother would be so proud of me.

“It’s incredible regardless.” Achar’s sharp voice cut through, and I unintentionally stiffened. Achar was…unnerving. He was suspicious, watchful, distrustful. Him, I would need to avoid. For my sanity, and my life.

“Don’t mind him,” Aiden chuckled, and I twisted my hands in a show – a rather impressive one- of being torn. “His mother was the architect.” At that, my head whipped towards Achar, who was staring out the window. His mother? Lorkai allowed a female to design his home? Achar’s jaw was clenched, and for the first time, I truly looked at him. His lupine features had vanished -called forth at will, I’d learned when he’d relaxed and his face gained features I would have said were Fae- and without them, his face was harsh. Carved of ice, born of snow. His hair was white, silver-colored eyes constantly flashing with streaks of gold in rage, along with an aquiline nose combined to create a visage I supposed some could call handsome. Achar caught my eye, raising an eyebrow, and I blushed. Sharias’s name, was I admiring him? After what he’d done?

No, I was merely examining him. Examining my prey. That had to be it. I swallowed, hard, as I looked back out the window. The accompanying guards had ridden outside with the coachman, and I pinched my lips as they opened the door now. The cold winds whipped my face, snow finding it’s way into my hair and onto my thin clothes.

“Will you go down yourself,” Aiden said, his eyes cold in the face of outsiders. “Or do I need to drag you before your father myself?”

I shook my head slowly, taking the humiliation he’d incited in those words and pushing it deep, within the same pit Achar had opened inside me. “I won’t fight.”

I heard Achar snort, but I ignored him, instead stepping out onto the cobble, ignoring the lingering stares of the guards. I will find them all later. Mother always said I had Sharias, the goddess of attraction and loves gifts. Guards always knew something from watching and protecting every day from their places. And very few were unsusceptible to a lovely woman’s invitation. I flashed a pretty smile at the tallest male guard and he flashed his white teeth in a wolfish grin that lasted for less than a second. I continued walking, ignoring Aiden coming in beside me, Achar following like the dog he was. I shivered as my slippers stepped into a particularly large pile of snow, pain shooting up my foot, and I let my eyes flicker over my shoulders for a moment to see Achar’s features had turned lupine again. I narrowed my eyes before looking ahead again, only hesitating for a second as I stepped into the castle. Entered my new prison. Achar grabbed my arm, his grip rough and biting as he dragged me down the halls. Stumbling, I desperately tried to stretch my legs to keep up with him, but Achar had to be at least six and a half feet. Looking up, I flushed when I saw he was already staring down at me, silver eyes almost completely gold. His lips curved, and I jerked my gaze forward, swallowing the rage he ignited. Looking around the halls, I bit my lip as I noted the expensive paintings and gold lining the walls. The lush carpets beneath my thin slippered feet. I reached up a hand to brush some of the snow out of my hair, and Achar locked on the movement for a moment, his eyes flashing pure gold before looking ahead again. Did I make him that furious just by messing with my hair? With a secret smile playing on the corners of my lips, I pulled my arm from Achar’s grip and began braiding my hair gently, slowly, choosing the most intricate design I knew. As I braided, I started actually looking at what was around us in the hall. My feet delicately stepped on the deep red carpets that had to have been custom-made, the cold gray stone of the walls emanating a foreign thing that wasn’t of this world. We were near Lorkai. We were near my father. I sucked in a breath as the guards near the door gave me an almost pitying look when Aiden stepped forward to open the door with ease. His face was cold as Achar grabbed me again and pulled me through the doors, the guards filing in behind us. I blinked at the dramatic change from the plush, luxurious halls to this almost dungeon-like room. It was bleak, dark and shadowy, the floor smooth cobble, the walls painted black and leaking cold. There was only one window, and my eyes darted to it and were arrested by it. The view was nothing short of incredible. The snow covered the grass in a bright, sparkling layer that reflected the sun in each falling snowflake. The sky was cloudless, and I was breathless as my body turned towards the window almost against my will.

“Your mother loved that window too,” a soft voice cut through the silence, and my head darted toward the deepest shadows nearest to the center of the wall. A tall man rose from a throne of pure white that reminded me of bones. A chill ran down my spine as my mouth dried. “Of course, now I realize it was because she wanted to run away through it.”

The man stepped out of the shadows, and I lifted a hand to my face as I finally saw the visage of Lorkai, Lord of the Night. I’d thought he would be ugly, old, burly. My father was none of those things, at least, not the last one. The first one, perhaps only on the inside. His face was sharp, crow-black black hair falling into dark, almost playful eyes. High cheekbones led to a full mouth, his black suit perfectly tailored to a lean body you could still see was lined with muscle. No wrinkle marred his skin, but a scar slashed across his eyebrow. Rather than taking away his looks, instead, it only gave him an air of mystery I could see how my mother had fallen for. Lorkai was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. Now, I understood the love that had always laced my mother’s voice.

“What is your name, little one?” His voice was still soft, a velvet covering for a knife’s edge. He called for her death. He allowed her to die. I felt the howling pit of rage climb up my throat, begging for me to scream and fight and break his ridiculously perfect face. My father’s face was mirthful like he knew every thought going through my head, every instinct telling me to hurt, to kill. To enjoy the screams that reigned.

“What is your name?” He repeated, and I let a smile ghost my lips.

“Gianna.”

“Gianna,” he said, almost as though he was tasting the name, and I stiffened against Achar who was still holding me. “A beautiful name. But I think I will call you something else Gianna. Perhaps, my little fawn.”

His eyes cut to Aiden, laughter dancing in their depths. He knew.

He was toying with us. Using every bit of my restraint, I kept my fists from curling, held myself back from any hint of emotion at all.

“You may call me whatever you wish, my lord.” I put a considerable amount of disdain in my voice, a gamble I hoped would pay off. Achar sucked in a breath behind me, clutching me tighter as he stiffened. My father’s eyes turned icy.

“You may leave now, Achar.” A command. Now I saw the Lord of Night in him, the tight fury bleeding into his voice, the dead eyes. The expression lacked any sympathy, any pity, at all. Achar released my arm, and I almost stumbled at the sudden loss of pressure. The dead eyes now had a fire in them that looked to almost explode at my quick loss of balance. Achar hurried out, a dog scurrying away with his tail between his legs. A quick jerk of his head had the guards leave quickly before sliding the door shut with a terrifyingly final click.

My father turned back to me, and his eyes were now cheerful and warm again. The sudden change would be frightening for anyone scared by quick shifts of emotion. My mother was one of those people.

Was.

“Is their contempt in your face, fawn?” There was a quiet note to his voice that caused me to meet his eyes with a courage I hoped he would see and appreciate. Remember.

“My mother is dead, my lord. And I was told it was because of you. May I feel a bit of contempt for the man who took away the woman who raised me?”

He shook his head, and one of his fists curled. For the first time, I felt I may have overstepped. Went too far. I stepped slightly towards Aiden, my utterly useless safety net. Yet instead, there was regret in his eyes.

“I never wished for her death, and you can be certain, my little fawn, the male who did it will be punished.” From the cold rage that flashed in his eyes, I knew he spoke the truth. And as the taste of blood filled my mouth with a phantom of the past, I wished I could be the one to let Achar feel the pain he’d let me feel, the pain he’d caused. Let the chaos control him as it did me. “But, my little fawn, we have important things to discuss, no?”

Blinking up at him, he walked towards me in a few long strides, grasping my hand as he pulled me with him, out of the throne room to a smaller, adjourning room which was as leisurely extravagant as the halls, leaving Aiden staring after us as the door swung shut. In the center of the room was a long table, covered with food.

“Who-who else will be eating with us?” I asked, turning towards my- no, Lorkai. He didn’t deserve to be called my father, not even in my mind. Not yet.

He gave me an affectionate look as you might an adorable dog than a sixteen-year-old woman asking a question. “No one, my little fawn. Just us.”

Leading me to the table, he pulled out a chair next to the head to which he then sat in himself. Taking my plate, he began filling it with rich foods, and the scents of exotic spices began to float in the air. My stomach growled quietly, and I was reminded of how little I’d had to eat today, how my meal had been interrupted. Mother would have made sure I’d eaten. Mother always made sure I was well. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I accepted the plate from Lorkai. I glanced towards the closed door and remembered Aiden standing on the other side. Was he laughing at me, at the “naive” wild girl he’d encountered in the forest? He must be, considering the luxury for which he lived.

“I am glad I finally get to meet you, my little fawn,” my father said, leaning his elbows onto the table as he met my eyes. “I just wish I could have been there for longer.”

I give him a small nod, and he sighs.

“My court is a deadly place, my little fawn, and they will not care if you’re my daughter or not.” His eyes were penetrating, and I swallowed the question rising in my throat. Did they care who mother was either? Did you care? ” I have no intention of losing you as well, my little fawn, so I’ve arranged the perfect opportunity for you to become one of my court and be accepted.”

A shiver ran up my spine and the fork I’d been fiddling with now felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

I set it down.

“What?” In my head, my voice seemed to come through an ocean, roaring and sloshing as high tide rose.

“A marriage, my little fawn. To the son of my most trusted advisor.”

“Wh-who?” I stuttered, my voice a little too high-pitched, and he laid his palm above my hand with a comforting expression.

“You’ve already met him. Aiden Evergreen, my little fawn.”

Aiden. I would have to marry Aiden? I felt suddenly nauseous, and I drew back my hand as I pulled my legs under me and curled up in the chair. I’d never wanted to get married. And now, I had to merely to get my revenge? My father rose with a sigh.

“I will give you a moment to understand your new situation. I wish things could have been different.” His eyes shone with regret I refused to acknowledge. “If only your mother had thought things through…”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode to the door, every movement assured, as though he knew he would get what he wanted.

Not this time.

Pulling out the button from my sleeve I’d stolen from my father’s suit when he laid his hand on mine, I fiddled with it as I began to scheme.

I would marry Aiden Evergreen over my dead body. Because the only way they were getting me to the altar was in a casket with lilies in my hair. I would sooner greet hell than marry Aiden. Now, all I had to do was convince him of that too.

Prologue

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By Sara Aziz

________________________

The sun rarely shines in the North. Instead, it flees among the clouds to spur the moon’s rise so it may dance with the stars. That’s what Mother says, her pale, silvery eyes gazing at the sky with both hate and love.

A burning hatred and a fiery love. For my mother, murder, and fear had been her companionable sins for too long. It was he who had created these new hells in her.

“Never fear the darkness, my love. The world was birthed in darkness, and that is where it shall return.”

The oddest thing was that I had never feared the darkness, regardless of what she said. Terror of the dark was for those who never knew what they could find in it. But Fae never feared the unknown. Fear was a death sentence.

And I had no intention of dying today.

The wood was quiet in the silence of the night, and I hummed quietly to a tune mother used to sing when I was a child, golden hair swaying with her. The Korinaj forest was almost my home, where I knew I could feel him.

Lorkai, Lord of Night.

My father. His power stretched across the land, but the cursed woods were his domain especially. I’d once asked Mother how they were cursed, but she’d told me to not ask again and to never summon in the woods. She said Father had, and that was why he was the way he was. I still wished sometimes that I could even just see my father, even if he didn’t know I existed. The snow was falling softly, hitting the grounds like the chimes of the school’s bells. I ran a hand down the trunk of a proud tree, relishing the rough feel of the bark beneath my hands. I sighed with pleasure as I raised my face towards the moon, the cool rays a temptation against my bronzed skin. I heard the crunch of footsteps on the snow and froze. Mother tread so lightly, to hear her was to hear the gentle breeze and the water ripple. This was someone else, their steps loud and fumbling. I felt my lips quirk unexpectedly at the strangely endearing way this person bumbled through the forest. Creeping towards the source of the sound, I threw myself behind a tree when I heard a foul curse. The voice was deep, a baritone that did something to my head and made me wish for things I couldn’t describe or voice.

A man.

Peeking around the fauna, my eyes widened at the sight of a tall, lean-figured male with a bow strapped to his back. The hunter turned in my direction, and I hid deeper in the darkness, even though I knew he wouldn’t be able to see me unless I wanted him to. His dark eyes flashed across the trees, silvery black hair ruffling in the wind. The sharp angles of his face spoke of a life similar to my own. He wasn’t traditionally handsome- no, his features were too harsh for that, but it was the round tips of his ears that made me stumble back. He was not only a human man, he was a human man who intrigued me. Who made me want. By the gods themselves, Mother was going to kill me. The stumble made me clumsy, and I stifled a gasp as I stepped on a twig and it snapped. The sound echoed through the trees, and his head darted to the tree I’d been hiding behind. I stilled, suddenly very aware I was wearing nothing but some simple black trousers that were a size too small and a tunic my mother had bemoaned its use of any longer. I narrowed my gaze when he pulled free his bow and loaded it. Stepping out of the shadows, I slowly approached him so he could see me in the moonlight. I thanked Diana it was so bright tonight, and I gently lifted my hands in a silent plea for understanding. He swallowed when he spotted my pointed ears. Or perhaps he was just looking at the ridiculously low neckline of my tunic. Mother had told me to throw it away.

“The Fawn of the East,” he breathed, and I nodded slowly at the moniker the villagers had made for the daughter of the beautiful wild woman. The girl who drifted through the shadows without leaving a trace, who knew the woods as her home above the company of others. “I thought you were just a rumor.” Was that a hint of sadness in his voice?

“No more than you,” I whispered, and he stumbled at the higher note of my voice only Fae could achieve. Perhaps he hadn’t been looking at my ears after all. “What are you doing in these woods? There is no wildlife left in its winters.”

He blinked, glancing down at his bow as though just realizing what he was holding. “I’m not looking for animals.”

I felt a chill skitter down my spine. “You mean, you’re not looking for prey.”

He met my eyes unflinchingly, a smile playing at the edges of his hard lips. It lacked humor, and I swallowed at the violent edge in his eyes. “No. I didn’t.”

Backing away, deeper into the woods, for each step I took he followed. It felt like a cat toying with the mouse as he played with me, allowing me the illusion of escape. The gentle breeze lifted, twirling about us in a dance I knew better than to join.

“Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you find it,” I called to the winds before turning on my heel and darting away, allowing only the silence as companion. But still, I couldn’t outrace his quiet words.

“You shouldn’t.”

I sat on the wolf’s fur carpet before the fire, warming my cold hands when the door slammed open and Mother appeared. I jumped to my feet, hurrying over to clean up her spot on our small oak table, biting my lip as she sat with a panicked expression. That couldn’t have been panic.

Mother was never frightened.

“Gianna, did you meet someone in the woods?” She turned, meeting my eyes, and I found I couldn’t lie when she looked at me like that.

Like one wrong word would break her heart.

I tilted my head before nodding. My odd tick I could never get rid of. Her face turned white, and I swallowed at the shame climbing my throat. What had I to be ashamed of? It was he who’d encountered me, spoken with me, then followed me.

“I’m not looking for animals.”

“You shouldn’t.”

The sadness in his eyes as he murmured my moniker.

He wasn’t just looking for prey.

He’d been looking for…me.

“Mother…?” The words climbed my throat, demanding answer, reason, any way to make sense of the nonsensical.

“Gianna, we have to go. Now.” Jumping from her seat, she hurried to the bedrooms, and I paled. Following her, I found her throwing clothes in a bag, messy and uncoordinated. What had happened in town? Why had the huntsman been searching for me?

What did she know?

“Mother-“

My question was interrupted by the bang on the door as a growly voice called, “Open the door now, Luna, or we break it.” I flinched at the harsh words, and Mother placed a comforting hand on my cheek before grabbing my arm, dragging me to the window.

“Run, my darling. You have to run now,” she whispered in a hushed tone, “you have to go before they get you too.” There was a panic in her features as she unlocked and opened the window, flinching at the sudden onslaught of cold.

“Who?”

“Him.”

There was only one person who could inspire that sort of love and hatred in my mother’s voice.

It seemed the Lord of Night had found us at last. I bit my lip as I tilted my head, a confusing mixture of fear, excitement, and rage pulsing through me. Fear for the day I would meet the man known as the bane of the kingdom, excitement for the thought of finally meeting him, and rage for what he’d done to my mother.

Running towards the window, I leaped out the glass, toppling into the snow. Mother would be fine.

Mother could survive anything and anyone. She’d survived the Lord of Night once, she could do it again. She had to.

Jumping to my feet, I whirled and ran face-first into a stone-hard chest. Looking up, I saw the cold face of the hunter from the forest. There was a regret in his eyes as he gripped my arms.

“You shouldn’t have run.”

I tilted my head, and he gasped as a shadow stabbed into his leg, another forming a dagger at his throat.

“And you shouldn’t have come, human.” He stared cross-eyed at the knife, and I bared my teeth, fire swirling through my veins. “It won’t kill you, sweetheart. Just mimics the pain enough so that you’ll wish it did.”

Drawing the knife away, he stared down at me with an appreciative glint in his eyes.

“Let. Go,” I said through clenched teeth, and he shook his head as he dragged me to the front of the cottage.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, emphasizing the last word, and I flushed. “I can’t do that.”

I swallowed a scream at the scene that encountered us. My mother was on her knees as a wolflike man towered over her, sword poised above her throat.

This wasn’t a summoning.

This was an execution.

“Your mother was supposed to live,” the wolfish man growled. “But it was you the Lord truly wanted. And it seems you need to be taught the consequences of trying to disobey the Lord. By trying to escape, you signed her death sentence.”

Lunging for my mother, the hunter yanked me back into his chest, lashing his arms around me. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and I spat at his shoes in response.

The man raised the sword, and I wished I could close my eyes, but I wouldn’t steal that honor from my mother. The honor of a daughter witnessing her death.

And the sword fell. I tried to ignore the nauseating clunk of her head hitting the ground and the way the pure snow around her slowly turned red with blood. The empty gaze of her pale eyes.

The world was drowned out as a roaring in my head deafened me. One of the hunter’s arms around me lifted to press a hand to my mouth, encasing the screams that begged to be released.

The executioner met my eyes, a slow smile spreading across his lupine features. “I’ve never killed a Fae before. You lot were supposed to be immortal, weren’t you?” He looked back down at the still corpse. “But you’re as weak as a human.”

“Enough, Achar.” The hunter’s voice was harsh above me, but I barely recognized them over the blood rushing in my ears.

I’ll kill him.

I will kill him.

The shadows began frothing around his feet as I clenched my teeth, a howl building in my throat. But I tamped it down, letting the shadows disperse.

Mother wouldn’t just want me to end them. She would want me to tear them apart till they were begging for mercy.

Weak as a human. Achar would regret that. His death, I will enjoy the most. But first, I would start with the man who’d sent them, who’d wanted me back after so many years.

I belonged to no man, much less my father.

I would tear the Lord of Night and his court apart.

Till all that was left was bones and dust.

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Character Development

Writing Tips 101

Who is your character?

Do you know who your character is? One of the biggest problems with new writers is that they don’t fully flesh out their characters. And fully fleshing out your character does not only mean that your character’s name is Demetrius Kajan, and he’s very handsome. [Don’t laugh, this has actually happened] What’s his worst nightmare? What’s his most beautiful dream? If he does get into a relationship with the other MC, what about his past made him averse to romantic entanglements that you might want to explore? I know some writers think that because they are “pantsers,” [They write by the seat of their pants] they don’t need to think about these questions, because they’ll figure it out later. But to write a consistent character readers are capable of falling in love with or severely hating, you need to figure out who they really are. Otherwise, you risk just creating a flat character your readers will be indifferent to.

What are your character’s quirks? Strange habits?

What does your character do, as a nervous habit, or old muscle memory, that is a bit strange, or different? In Keeper of the Lost Cities, Sophie tugs at her eyelashes whenever she gets nervous. It was notable when she slowly regained her confidence and stopped tugging her eyelashes because readers noticed. It doesn’t need to be anything as noticeable, but perhaps your character taps their foot when they’re excited or starts curling their hair when they get scared? Your character needs to have something that makes them unique, and character quirks and strange habits are fun ways to break out of your character’s flatness and make them 3-D.

What challenges does your character face internally?

Every powerful character is facing an internal battle or war, big or small is the only debate. Rhysand, from the Court of Thorns and Roses series, faces an internal battle in A Court of Mist and Fury because he believes Feyre might never heal, or grow past what happened to her. In Finale, Scarlett Dragna is fighting an internal battle as she contemplates whether or not to forgive Julian of his lies or destroy their past together for her fear. What is your character internally fighting himself/herself about? Do they secretly hate themselves? Do they fear ever caring about someone again because of a tragic event years before? [this might be cliche, but it’s always a fun trope!]

Character Cliches. Good, or Bad?

A lot of people wonder whether or not using cliches in your characters is a good idea or not. I personally think cliches can be a wonderful addition to your story, done right of course. Some famous examples.

Men

The Sulky Steve– How many of you writers have read books with a broody MC who’s always growling and snarling at people, then retreating back into his shell? Not to say the Sulky Steve isn’t a fun character to read about, because personally, I love the grumpy grizzly who turns out to be an adorable teddy bear! But your MC doesn’t always need to turn into a soft teddy to make readers love reading about him. He can be a Sulky Steve, but he needs to have something that makes him special. Say, he’s rude to everyone except his learning-impaired baby sister. Maybe he has a pet cat he reads stories to every night before sleeping. Something that plays on the cliche without forcing your character into the stereotype.

The James Bond– We all know this cliche! This character is basically perfect, the guy who knows how to con and trick and fight his way out of every situation, preferably with a blonde on one arm and a brunette on the other. This character is one of the most necessary to explain, the most necessary to create a back story and motive for. One famous James Bond would be Kaz Brekker, from Six of Crows. Kaz is a brilliant 17-year-old from the Dregs, and already one of the most feared men in the Barrel. Dirtyhands will always get the job done. However, instead of making Kaz a boring perfect James Bond, or a Sulky Steve, Leigh Bardugo masterfully manipulated both cliches. Kaz has a disability in his leg that ruined his ability to walk without his cane, and he has trust issues since the betrayal that lost him his brother. She played on cliches by making him so similar and so different at the same time.

The buffoon– This character has to be my least favorite cliche, but sadly essential for many novels. He exists simply to be the comedic relief in the face of the Sulky Steve and often serves very little greater purpose. But did I not just write that they are essential in many novels? That’s because they can become very interesting characters when developed correctly, and even some people’s favorite. The most well-known example is most likely Leo Valdez from The Lost Hero. Leo is meant to be the funny guy in comparison to Jason’s seriousness and often is the guy who can make them smile, even when they are eating tacos in a sewer. He brought a humourous tint to the darker outskirts of the story and became one of the most beloved characters in the series. So when you write about a buffoon, just remember that playing on these stereotypes of cliches is often the best way to capture a reader’s attention.

Women

The Blonde– We all know the dumb blonde stereotype, right? Well, writers took it to a new level. The number of blonde villainesses that flooded the media in the 2010s was ridiculous on completely different levels, from blonde school bullies to the blonde who ruined your family. Now, while media has taken a different turn since then, dumb blonde is still a stereotype writers love messing with. Rick Riordan’s adaptation of the dumb blonde created Annabeth Chase, one of the most admired heroes in the Percy Jackson universe. By making the cleverest character blonde, Rick made her work twice as hard as the brunettes to prove she was just as smart, effectively breaking the preconceived notion all blondes must be stupid until proven otherwise.

The “Independent, Strong” Girl– This one is understandably annoying. How often is it that when we read about a male character who is strong, cold, emotionless, and an all-around jerk, but he’s handsome, our first immediate thought is “God, no?” Because those kinds of male characters are boring and rude, and make us want to throw things. So why is it that some authors choose to make their female characters just like this? A famous example of such a toxic FMC was Captain Marvel from the 2019 film “Captain Marvel.” Carol Danvers’s journey throughout the movie was supposed to be her acceptance of emotions and failure, but by the end, her character had not developed at all, and she was just as cold and annoying as the beginning. The best way to avoid this kind of cliche? For most newbies, my advice would be to stay away from this particular cliche until you feel you’ve mastered the other cliches because while the others done wrong can be funny, this cliche done wrong is often viewed as insulting and demeaning, or just incredibly antagonizing.

The gossiper- This one is probably the most obvious, mostly because all of us have seen at least a few when we were in school. The gossip girls, the ones who stood straight in the middle of the high school hallways and would not stop talking, forced everyone to not only maneuver around them but also hear the latest earful of, “Did you hear what Sheila did last weekend?” Unfortunately, I did not hear what Sheila did, nor did I care. And I doubt your reader will either if you choose to write your gossiper as one dimensional as that. The best way to execute this cliche would be to narrate it through this character’s point of view and allow them to grow and show why they feel the need to consistently poke their noses in everyone else’s business. Did her parents never tell her important things when she was young, not divulging the reasons for their arguments till “the table talk,” where she hears they’re getting divorced? Or did her best friend tell everyone her deepest secret in third grade and now she tells everyone everything just as a way of trying to redeem herself in her own eyes? While this character isn’t always the best idea for all plots, done well, they can be wonderful additions to your cast!

Mean Girls 2.0- We all had to hear the read-aloud in elementary and middle school where the character is bullied by a mean girl, right? The mean girl, usually a mix of “The Blonde,” and “Mean Girls 2.0” often has no reason to bully this other kid, and never has any back story to it. But some writers still say to me, “But this actually happened to me!” Okay, so this happened to you, but reality isn’t always so great at being realistic. The point of a novel, for fiction, is to transport you to another world, whether it be the Wisconsin countryside in 1950 to a futuristic planet set in the year 3672 A.D. Just like dialogue, characters don’t always have to be realistic, otherwise, they won’t feel realistic. While this might seem confusing, it’s a very important concept in writing fiction. Being realistic often means ignoring reality.

The Ms. Havisham- This character is especially entertaining! Ms. Havisham, from Charles Dickinson’s famous novel, was an old woman who has lived in her wedding dress since she was jilted at the altar by her fiance. These are the cliches that are always pining after a man, whether it be their husbands, lovers, or boyfriends that dumped them. They would usually do anything for their infatuation’s attention, and live for their praise. While the Ms. Havisham done right can be especially entertaining, done wrong, she can be a character your readers quickly grow bored of. And if your readers are bored with your characters, chances are, they won’t want to read your book. Done right, the Ms. Havisham can be a comedic relief, a woman whose obsession went so far, that it’s hilarious to readers who think it’s so vastly overdone, it’s ridiculous. or, she can be the chill factor, making your readers feel real terror when she steps out of the shadows, gun in hand and a psychotic glint in her eye as she snarls at the MC, “Get away from my husband.”

Character Inspiration.

What inspires you to write certain parts of a character’s personality? Some writers think there is a magical solution to getting inspiration, but while there is no miracle cure-all to getting inspiration, there are some tried and true methods.

Observing people: I found some amazing character ideas can come from just seeing how people interact with each other. I was shopping at Costco when I heard two college girls talking about how one of them couldn’t afford to go to college, and one of them asked why she couldn’t just apply for student loans. The ensuing conversation was so interesting, it inspired my story, “Now Why Would I Do That….” People are so unique themselves, they can inspire characters and stories in the oddest of ways!
Music: Music is a fun, carefree way of inspiring your characters, from Taylor Swift to Imagine Dragons, your character can be vengeful, cheerful, and psychotic, and your well will never dry up!
Books!: This is my favorite method of getting inspiration. Books give me ideas on all different sorts of characters, like how Legend from Caraval helped inspire my idea of using illusions as a form of dark, forbidden magic. Even if you don’t feel like reading inspires you, then reading is still essential to writing. Reading shows us the best examples of the genres we are trying to write and can show us some common pitfalls and some major ideas and themes that are necessary for each genre. [i.e. romance needs to have some sort of conflict to drive the MCs apart before they can resolve it and live happily ever after]

Resources

Quintessential Pen 47 Questions for your characters – The Quintessential Pen – 47 Questions

150+ Character Quirks and Cliches to Avoid – Reedsy: Character Quirks

Masterclass Writing Character Development – Masterclass – 45 Questions

Dramatics 99 Questions – Dramatics – 99 Questions

Barley Hare Books 40 Questions – Barely Hare Books – 40 Questions

Conclusion

I hope this article helps you with your writing! Best of luck with each of your characters, and please like and subscribe!