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Looking for your next read? Read the first chapters of some of my novels here to get a taste of what awaits you in the Elsphere!

Innocence is available for purchase in the Store right now, and The Shattered Ring is coming soon!

An epic fantasy set on planet Telluris, Innocence follows eight main characters as a sudden crisis strikes the world: an ancient sorcerer, thought dead or imprisoned, has resurfaced, and is now plotting not only to conquer Telluris, but to resurrect his dark god.

What to expect:

Master Plot: Overcoming the Monster
Elves, dwarves, and dragons
Plot-driven narrative
Slow build to cosmic stakes
Multiple POVs
Action and adventure
Hard magic systems
Clean storytelling - no language or spice

Chapter One: Daran

The first day

The soft golden glow of twilight was just barely visible as Vesper, warlord of Thelek, leaned against his balcony railing in melancholy silence with a letter clenched in his gloved right fist. Few people on Telluris would have recognized the beautiful, flowing calligraphy as having been written with a ballpoint pen, but Vesper was one of those.

A city sprawled out beneath him, surrounding his towering castle. Beyond the city's borders was farmland surrounding its seven villages, and beyond that was verdant meadow. Behind him, protecting the city on two sides, were the steep cliffs of the Stormshield Mountains. He still wasn’t sure why he’d named them that, other than it sounded really cool.

Vesper sighed. Simply looking down at the letter was painful, since he couldn’t even lay eyes on the words - written in a hand more elegant than some princesses he knew - without picturing the one who had written them. But the words themselves cut far deeper.

She always was an eloquent one, Vesper thought. Always knows what to say. Now that was a skill he envied. He only wished that he wasn’t the target of such sharp words this time.

Vesper carefully folded up the letter and tucked it into the pocket of his long coat. He still wore one of those, and probably always would. Maybe it wasn’t exactly fashionable around here, but he’d never cared about fitting in. He liked the feel of the material flapping around his ankles, liked the way it flared behind him when the wind struck it. And he loved the way that it made him feel… like himself.

Vesper scratched his whiskered cheek, feeling the rough scar tissue beneath his beard. Once, he’d been ashamed of that scar. Now he wore it with pride. Even though most people couldn’t see it now that he had facial hair.

Footsteps warned Vesper of someone approaching him from behind. His old instincts itched to reach for a weapon, but he resisted long enough to listen. The sound of leather boots didn’t tell him much, but it was accompanied by the rustling of a longcoat. That would be Uka, who shared his father's love of cool coats, though he preferred white over Vesper's typical black.

Uka joined Vesper at the rail. The younger man hadn’t inherited Vesper's height, but he had inherited his face. Uka had Vesper's same sharp nose and hard jaw, and the same fire in his eyes. But so much about him reminded Vesper of his mother: the brown hair, the shape of his eyes, and his smile. He didn’t show that all the time, but when he did, that fire in his eyes cooled into a soft warmth. That reminded Vesper of his own father, though the color of his eyes gave it a slightly different feel. Uka didn’t have his father's pale grey eyes, nor his mother's bright blue eyes. His were a deep slate-grey, dark blue on the outside with a starburst of silver around the pupil.

Uka didn’t speak, but his presence helped. After several long minutes, Vesper said, "I just got a letter from Adria."

"Oh," Uka said flatly, not looking at Vesper. He held in his emotion, as always, but Vesper saw his jaw clench. He wasn’t angry, as the gesture might have suggested; he missed the girl as much as Vesper did - probably more - but was trying not to show it.

Vesper still couldn’t believe she’d left. Ankë had taken it in stride… but then, Ankë took everything in stride. For others, it was proving more difficult to deal with, even after… had it already been a year?

"Never mind," Vesper said after a moment. "What’s up?"

"I can feel something on the wind," Uka said in an ominous whisper. "The veil is parting. The end is nigh."

Vesper cocked an eyebrow, and Uka shot him a mischievous grin - his normal smiles usually didn’t show teeth. This one, however, plainly said, ‘Bet you weren’t expecting that answer.’

Vesper rolled his eyes, and Uka cackled before saying, "Literally nothing. I’m dying of boredom. Ankë’s not even around for me to annoy, so I figured I’d come and bug you."

"How’s your flight coming along?" Vesper asked.

"Terrible," Uka said bitterly. "I can get off of the ground, but once I’m in the air, well… wind never has been my strong suit. I have no idea how Tori does it."

"She was fortunate enough to get the right patron." Vesper never said the word 'luck'. Irish superstition. "Makes a big difference."

"Wind's really hard, though."

Vesper held up a hand and began to Manipulate the air. As his powers came to life, every shade of blue in his vicinity sharpened and became more real. Wind swirled around his arm, forming into a miniature cyclone that raged on his palm. "What you’re asking the air to do for you comes very close to breaking natural law, kid. Our powers just don’t work that way. Wind isn’t supposed to change direction just because you tell it to."

Uka held up his own hand, cupping a fireball. The chromatic effects of his powers overlapped with Vesper's, causing the blues around them to become even more vivid. "Fire isn’t supposed to just appear when you tell it to, either."

"No," Vesper agreed. "No, it is not."

Uka dismissed his fire, Transforming it into smoke. He was recently Awakened, and had only had his powers for about a year, but he was learning quickly. It helped that his teacher had the same power set; Vesper had learned from a Shadowborne.

Uka had potential, though. Someday, Vesper hoped to see him reach that potential.

Vesper continued to bend the wind for a moment, then slowly allowed it to calm until he held only a gentle breeze. He released that and let it fade away into the perpetually autumnal air, and blue became its boring normal shades again. "We could always spar again."

"What, so you can slaughter me again?" Uka asked. He was grinning, though. Uka had never feared losing; Vesper had heard him say that one learned just as much from defeat as from victory more than once. Which was good, because he usually lost to Ankë, too.

"I’m forty-nine, kid," Vesper said. "You should be embarrassed that you can’t beat me."

"You don’t fight fair," Uka objected.

"Fighting fair is for losers,” Vesper said lightly.

"Hey!" Uka said.

"What?" Vesper eyed him. "I 'slaughtered' you, didn’t I? You lost. Ergo, you’re a loser."

Uka gave him a mock glare, but his retort was cut off by the arrival of Nathan, one of the city’s soldiers. The man was around Uka's age, maybe a year or two older. He looked half-elven, with pale skin and elongated ears. His blond hair was unruly, his eyes pale green, and his grin omnipresent. He managed to wear his black and silver uniform, with a patch bearing Vesper's mark on his shoulder, with a certain air of… well, weirdness.

"Hey, boss?" Nate said as he approached. He had a distinct South Mornian Isles accent. "We’ve got a something."

"A something, huh?" Vesper asked. "Is that something a problem?"

"Not sure," Nate replied. "Are weirdo elves with mysterious messages problematic?"

Vesper frowned. "Depends on the weirdo elf and the mysterious message. Where’s he at?"

"Interior drawbridge. Gotta say, though, if his choice of clothing is any indication, I’m betting he's not here to invite you to a tea party."

Vesper cocked an eyebrow, and Nate shrugged. No wonder he and Uka got along so well, despite his only having been there for a few months. The two were remarkably similar sometimes.

Vesper stepped onto the balcony railing and jumped, quickpulsing almost immediately. The technique slowed his fall by nullifying gravity's pull on himself, and allowed him to easily propel himself with jets of fire toward the bridge Nate had indicated.

Uka wasn’t far behind, using magnetism to latch onto one of the castle's steel walls and pull himself towards it. It wasn’t flying, exactly, so much it was falling in the wrong direction, but it did the trick.

Vesper closed his eyes and felt the wind on his face, felt his coat and shoulder-length hair flap wildly as he flew. Yeah, he could see what Tori and Luna loved about this. There was something liberating about flight. That said, it was difficult, and probably would be a lot easier if he had a wind affinity.

Vesper opened his eyes and floated down into the courtyard, deciding to walk the rest of the way so this messenger didn’t see him flying. His powers were extremely rare - they were hereditary, but only in eight or so bloodlines in the entire Elsphere.

Uka landed with far less grace, then followed Vesper as they headed towards the interior drawbridge. Vesper hadn’t actually had a chance to test out that defense mechanism yet; he had a drawbridge on either side of the portcullis, so attackers couldn’t just waltz right in.

They found the elf there, as Nate had said. He was being carefully minded by several soldiers in Vesper’s black and silver, but didn’t seem to be showing any signs of wanting to go anywhere. True to Nate's word, the elf stood next to a black horse and was dressed in black from his black hood to the toes of his black boots. He didn’t appear to be armed, though that cloak could have held any number of small weapons.

Vesper was a tall man, and he towered over the elf, who seemed to be substantially below the average elven height. Actually, he looked about as tall as Tori, Vesper's adoptive sister, who was only five foot three. To his credit, though, the messenger didn’t seem intimidated. He just reached up and lowered his hood, revealing his face.

He was definitely a full-blooded elf with that silver-grey skin, complete with a faint metallic sheen, and those pointed ears. His face was angular, his left eye bright blue, and his hair golden-blond. He might have been in his early twenties, but his right eye was milky white and obviously blind. The overall impression was distinctly unnatural.

"Vesper," the elf said. He had a soft voice with a middling pitch, and - Vesper noticed with a shiver - as he spoke, a faint, whispering echo could be heard. "My name is Toros Everiel. I bring a message from Xidar, Lord of Telluris. Will you hear it?"

Vesper frowned. He’d never heard of a 'Lord of Telluris', much less one named Xidar. Last he’d checked, the planet's rightful owner hadn’t been seen in millennia. But he simply said, "Yeah, go on."

Toros looked him directly in the eye and spoke a single word. "Daran."

Vesper barely had time to prevent a look of surprise from manifesting on his face. That name wasn’t used on this planet, so as strange as it was to hear it spoken, it wouldn’t do to show that he recognized it. "Pardon?" he said lightly.

Toros' one eye scanned the area, lingering on several faces. Then he turned and began to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" Uka called. "What about the message?"

"That was the message," Toros said as he swung, with a surprisingly high jump, into the saddle of his horse. "Farewell, Lord Vesper." He wheeled his horse around and rode away before another word could be spoken.

Vesper watched him go, deep in thought. He’d been blessed - or cursed, he had yet to decide - with a keen mind, and was already forming a theory. That had been either a test or a threat, and if the former, Vesper suspected that he, personally, had passed. Unfortunately, not all people were as skilled in the art of deception as he was.

Vesper tapped Uka's arm and led him out of earshot of the men on the bridge.

"What was the point of that?" Uka whispered once they stopped. "Seems like a waste of a messenger, if you ask me."

"That wasn’t just any messenger," Vesper replied grimly. "I know a killer when I see one. That boy is an assassin if I’ve ever seen one."

Uka didn’t question his father's assertion; he knew that Vesper had been an assassin himself, once, and obviously trusted his judgement. As well he should. There had been a cold, piercing quality to Toros' stare, like steel. Like Vesper's own eyes.

"And what about Daran?" Uka asked. "I thought they didn’t even know who that is on this planet."

"They don’t," Vesper agreed. There was a pantheon of six ‘gods’ on Telluris, each of which represented one of the Thousand aspects of Daranatanorax, but Daran himself was unknown. "He has a constellation and, kind of, a religion, but no Tellurian knows the name Daran. That has huge implications."

"He heard it from a World-Walker,” Uka guessed.

Vesper nodded. "That’s the least worrying possibility. Listen, I need you to look into this. Find out what you can about this 'Xidar', see if he’s contacted anyone else. But be subtle; we don’t want him to know we’re worried." Whatever the guy was up to, it was best not to appear weak.

Uka gave a lazy salute. "Righto, boss. And, uh… not to rub it in, but what was that I said about the veil parting?"

Vesper sighed. "You know, kid, the thing about predictions is that someday you’re always going to be right. Doesn’t mean you’re a precog."

Uka shrugged. "I’ll take what I can get. Right now, that’s bragging rights."

A heroic fantasy (sword and sorcery) set on planet Aiaona, The Shattered Ring follows a man named Trel and his two companions as they plan to orchestrate a rebellion against the pantheon and take back Trel's homeland. However, to fight the Eternals, Trel must first find a way to become one.

What to expect:

Master Plot: Rebirth
Post-apocalyptic fantasy
Character-driven narrative
Quest for vengeance
Fewer POVs
French inspiration
Softer magic systems
Clean storytelling - no language or spice

Chapter One

Week One, Day One

In a small inn beside a river that coursed through a land of desolate stone dwelled the heir to a broken throne.

People who knew Trèleris called him Trel for short - it was a lot easier to say. Conversely, people who didn’t know him simply called him ‘the tall guy’ - a name that would, even with no other information, allow one to pick him out of a crowd with ease.

Beyond his height, the young innkeeper was unassuming. He had brown hair that he kept just a little long in the back, brown eyes, and a face that was usually clean-shaven. He wore simple clothing and spoke with a northern accent that was subtle enough most people didn’t notice it. His father had been Assarian, and Trel had inherited a few of those unique pronunciations from him, though he had grown up in Auriéme.

Rain poured outside as Trel made his rounds of the common room, checking on his guests. He had a full dozen that day, sitting in small groups as they ate, chatted, played a game of darts, or dried their cloaks by the fire. Trel went from group to group, ensuring that everything was to their liking, before heading back to his counter. He passed an order to Ziêrre, the cook, for a couple more bowls of stew for the Arrdainians, then took inventory of his remaining rooms. One, Two, Four, and Six were occupied, leaving Three and Five open. The White Rider could house a few more guests yet, if they came.

Trel whistled to himself, ignoring the pain as his sleeve chafed his left shoulder, and reorganized his counter again; he still hadn’t found the right spot for the inkwell, and he wasn’t convinced that this time turned out any better. But before he could attempt fixing it, the door swung open, and a damp wind heralded the arrival of a lone, cloaked figure, holding a red leather case in its hand, a small bag slung over its shoulder, and a thin sword sheathed at its side.

“Bonjour!” Trel said. “And welcome to The White Rider. What can we do you for this, uh, fine evening?”

“Yeah,” a feminine voice said from within the hood. “It really is fine, isn’t it?” She sounded completely serious.

Trel cocked an eyebrow. “If you like rain, I suppose.”

She stepped up to the counter and lowered her hood, revealing the face of a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She wasn’t bad-looking, but nothing to write home about either; just a few points sub-average. She shook out her blonde tresses and replied happily, “As a matter of fact, I do. Also, who named this place?”

“I did,” Trel said with a hint of pride.

“Cool name,” the woman said. “Also, wow, you’re tall. Anyway, I didn’t actually answer your question. I’d like a room for the night and, for right now, just about anything warm and wet.”

“We have a pot of stew simmering right now,” Trel told her. “I’ll have the cook serve you a bowl immediately. That’ll be three sovereigns.”

“For the stew?” the woman asked, frowning slightly. A sovereign was worth ten marks, and three would be an exorbitant price for a single bowl of stew.

“It’s a package deal,” Trel clarified. “Dinner, bed, and breakfast. Three for three.”

The woman blinked. “That’s cheap. First it was expensive, but now it’s cheap!”

Trel shrugged. “It gets us business.”

She laughed and pulled three pewter coins from a pouch at her waist. She laid them on the counter and said, “I bet it does.”

Trel took the coins and nodded toward the common room. “There’s plenty of seats in there if you want to find a spot while I get your food.”

“That would be awesome,” she said, turning to go. Then, suddenly, she spun around. “My name’s Aranèle, by the way. Don’t know if you have to write that down on a ledger or something. But regardless, it’s customary to tell people you meet your name. So it’s Aranèle.”

Trel smiled. “A pleasure. I’m Trèleris, but you can call me Trel.”

“Cool name,” Aranèle told him again. “Nice to meet you, Trel.” Then she turned and half-skipped into the common room.

Trel watched her go with a raised eyebrow. He got strange guests sometimes; apparently he had a new one for the list now.

He shrugged, wrote her name down on the ledger, and ducked into the kitchen to pass on her order, then returned to rearranging his counter. This time, he had to leave off halfway through as two more guests arrived. One was a few good inches shorter than Trel - tall by normal person standards - and broad-shouldered, wearing a deep blue cloak. He didn’t lower the hood, but his much smaller companion lowered his, revealing a thin face and close-cropped black hair and mustache. He eyed Trel through a pair of pince-nez as the two approached the counter, taking in the younger man’s height.

“Welcome to The White Rider,” Trel told them. “What can we get you this fine evening?”

The big man scoffed softly.

The smaller man shifted uncomfortably. “Er, yes. Lodging. For the night.” His voice was on the shrill side and somewhat lacking in volume, as well as thickly accented.

“Sure thing,” Trel said. “We’ve got one room left. Will that be all?”

“Food,” the big man grumbled. His voice was deep and powerful, bearing the same account as his companion. Trel didn’t recognize it. He also kept his hooded face turned at a slight angle that prevented Trel from seeing his features, though Trel couldn’t tell if it was intentional or if he was just glaring at his companion.

“I’ll have the chef bring you some stew. Or we can whip something else up for you, if you’d prefer.”

“No,” the small man murmured. “Stew… will be good. Yes. I’m allergic to garlic.”

Trel frowned. “To what?”

“Never mind,” the big man said. Then, to the smaller man, he growled, “Sie haben hier keine Knoblauch, Narr!”

The small man went red. “Er, yes. Of course. Er… where are tables?”

Trel pointed, and the small man scurried off.

“That will be four sovereigns,” Trel told the big man in blue.

The man didn’t turn his face, which seemed to Trel to mean that there was something he was hiding in that hood. Unfortunately, that wasn’t his business, so he let it slide.

“We search,” the big man said. “Search for criminal. Young girl, black and red hair, blue eyes. Pretty. Feisty. Can change appearance. See her, you tell us, hmm?”

“The what?” Trel asked blankly. “‘Change appearance’? Like, disguises?”

“Said what I said,” the man grunted, slapping a pair of uncut gemstones onto the counter. “Four sovereigns.”

With that, he turned to stomp off toward the common room.

“Uh, can I have a name?” Trel asked him.

“Schmetterlingsjäger,” the man said. Then, before Trel could ask how it was spelled, or if he was even serious, he was gone.

Trel gaped for a moment, then wrote down the best approximation of the name that he could. He was about to head to the kitchen and order the new arrivals’ stew when Aranèle emerged from the common room, holding an empty bowl and nearly yelling, “Did you give me a discount?!”

“Huh?” Trel asked, bewildered.

“This stew!” she exclaimed. “There is no way that something this good is normally this cheap! Come on, tell me! What’s up?”

Trel blinked. Sure, Ziêrre was a good cook, but he wasn’t that good. But he asked, “You liked it then?”

“Liked it? I licked the bowl! See?” She turned it so that he could see the inside, which was pristine.

“I’m glad,” Trel told her. “I’ll pass your compliments to the chef. Want another one?”

“Do I ever!” she exclaimed. “Is that another three sovereigns?” Her eyes twinkled in amusement.

Trel chuckled. “No, but you forfeit a pillow tonight,” he joked.

“Take the mattress,” Aranèle said. “I need more stew.”

“I’ll see it done,” Trel told her. “In all seriousness, though, I don’t charge for refills.”

“Perfect,” Aranèle replied. “I actually wanted that mattress.” She spotted the gemstones on the counter, the ones that Schmetterlingsjäger had left, and her jaw dropped. “Dude! Are these real? Did creepy cloak guy leave these?” Without waiting for an answer, she picked up one of the stones and examined it in the light. “Wow. Wow. Yeah, these are real. And they’re big. I should have brought some of these to pay my tab. Then I could buy your whole pot of stew.”

“So you’re a gem appraiser?” Trel asked her.

“I’m an everything appraiser,” Aranèle replied, setting the stone down. “And that is an emerald if I’ve ever seen one. Anyway, better let you get back to your job.”

“Probably,” Trel agreed good-naturedly.

She turned and whistled her way back into the common room, and Trel ducked back into the kitchen. Dodging Ziêrre’s assistants, he found the man himself standing next to a cauldron, stirring its contents with a very long spoon. Ziêrre had a stocky build that was some combination of big bones, muscle, and a few too many helpings of his own cooking, and the only hair on his head - accounting for eyebrows - was a mustache that was waxed into a pair of keen points.

“Ziêrre,” Trel challenged. “One of our guests is obsessed with your stew. Have you been cheating again?”

“It is not cheating, patron,” Ziêrre insisted. “No more than the addition of salt or bacon is ‘cheating’.”

“Runeshards are definitely cheating,” Trel replied. “What are you going to do when it wears off?”
“You wound me, patron,” Ziêrre said. “This is not one of my Runeforged spoons.”

“Plural?” Trel asked incredulously. “You have multiple enchanted spoons?”

“Of course,” Ziêrre replied. “They are well worth the sovereigns. A single Saran Runeshard may make a hundred bowls of stew magnifique. However, I tend to save them for special occasions. Today is not one of those, so I use something nearly as good.”

Trel sighed. “I might as well hear it.”

“Épice Divine,” Ziêrre said proudly. “A wondrous spice blend from Saratèle that can make rocks taste like the fare of kings. I have always wanted to try it with a Runeforged spoon, but have not yet had the opportunity. Now tell me more about this guest. A woman, I assume, with such a refined palate?”

“Yeah,” Trel replied. “She’s the one with the blonde hair. And she wants another bowl.”

Ziêrre smiled. He was absolutely convinced that his cooking would get him a wife someday.

“Serve it with the normal spoon,” Trel warned him. “And I need two more for other guests, pronto.”

Humming to himself, Ziêrre complied, dishing up two bowls and handing them to Trel, and then filling a third bowl for Aranèle. Trel made him swap it for one of the two he’d given him, just to be safe. Ziêrre complied readily, which made Trel question whether the bowls were safe or if Ziêrre had just taken the Runeforged one from him. Well, the three looked about the same, so they weren’t likely to have Saran on them, which would enhance their beauty as well as that of anything put inside them. Trel didn’t think any of the other twenty-eight Runeshards would have the same effect, so he let Ziêrre go, following him with the two bowls for the newer arrivals, together with a small bread basket.

The two of them entered the common room, and Ziêrre immediately went for Aranèle’s table in the corner, launching straight into conversation. The only part of it that Trel could make out was Aranèle’s rather loud exclamation, “Wow! That mustache is pointy!”

Trel shook his head and crossed to the foreigners’ table in the opposite corner. The two were deep in conversation, and they didn’t even seem to notice Trel’s approach, or maybe they simply knew that he couldn’t understand a word they were saying, because they didn’t stop talking.

“- wie sie überhaupt hierher gekommen ist,” the short man was saying. “Dieses Mädchen ist eine Realitätsform; wie ist sie durch die Zeit zurückgereist?”

“Ich habe jahrelang den Schmetterlings gejagt,” Schmetterlingsjäger replied. He still hadn’t lowered his hood. “Ich habe gelernt, dass es eine unmögliche Aufgabe ist, ihre Wege zu verstehen. Zumindest folgt the Executioner einer Form der Logik; sie nicht.”

Trel set the stew and bread down on their table and interjected, “Dinner is served, gentlemen. If you need anything else, please ring the bell and we’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Er, yes,” the short man said, speaking Narish again. “Most appreciated, Trel, thank you.” Then, as if Trel had never been there, he was chatting away in gobbledegook once more.

Something felt off about that encounter, but Trel couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so he went around the room again, checking on his other guests.

Riahn had dried his cloak and was now chattering merrily with the Arrdainians as if they were old friends, which they were not; Riahn was from Alria, the mage-city not twenty miles to the east, in the heart of the kingdom of Auriéme. The three Télnarian brothers were well into their fifth game of darts, and two of them were looking extremely happy about it, while the other was looking more than a little dejected - likely, he wasn’t doing so well.

All in all, everyone seemed happy, including Aranèle, who was alternating between taking bites of stew, laughing at whatever Ziêrre said, and making him laugh with her witty retorts.

Trel slapped Ziêrre on the shoulder as he went by. “Don’t forget to work.”

“Ah, I would never, patron,” Ziêrre said smoothly. “But it would be a shame to end my rabbit-bear story here, non?”

Trel sighed inwardly. He’d heard the rabbit-bear story no less than a dozen times, and though the ending was different with each telling, it was never less ridiculous than the time before.

So he resolved not to be present this time.

He rearranged his counter twice before Ziêrre returned, grinning widely. “I have found her at last, patron!”

“So you said last week,” Trel replied dryly.

“Ah, but this one is different.”

“You said that, too,” Trel told him with a smile.

Ziêrre shrugged. “Perhaps I was not wrong. Perhaps the last one simply did not understand fine Saratèlian cuisine. Do you know, she told me my stew tastes like one she has tasted in Saratèle itself, but better? I have surpassed the chefs in the kingdom of art, patron. I will be demanding a raise.”

“Great,” Trel said. “Tell you what. Spend more of your work hours working, and we’ll talk.”

“Virtuosity cannot be protracted, patron!” Ziêrre replied, appalled. “It is there and gone, like a passing storm! To cling to it is futile; you must simply accept that my art is perfect, and I simply have nothing better to do with my time sometimes than to tell my rabbit-bear story.”

“I can think of things, if you like.”

Ziêrre shook his head. “You are a cruel patron, Trel.” With that, he went back to his kitchen, and Trel realized what had been bothering him since leaving the foreigners’ table.

He’d never told them his name.

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Chapter One: Daran

The first day

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