It's Done. Now What?

There's a particular kind of quiet that lands at the completion of something. In my case, a novel.

Not the triumphant, champagne-cork style celebration I imagined during all those months of writing. Something far different than that. Closer to the feeling you'd get when you'd been carrying something heavy for a very long time, and finally set it down, and your arms don't know what to do with themselves.

Crown of Lies is done. Version 7.5 (which is either a testament to my commitment to craft or my deeply inconvenient relationship with the word enough). The manuscript is in the hands of my editor. And I am in that peculiar liminal space that every writer eventually discovers and that no one warns you about: the space between finished and what happens next.

I thought I'd reflect on that. So, if you'd like to know more, pull up a chair.

A Word About the Market (Because It's Actually Good News)

When I started writing Crown of Lies, adult dark fantasy felt like a niche within a niche. That has changed. After a decade of grimdark — the bleaker the better — readers still want darkness. They just want it to mean something. Political intrigue. Magic that bites back. Protagonists who earn every scar. This is the world I've been building in Eldryth. The timing, for once, does not feel like my enemy.

Crown of Lies has a slow burn that will make you want to throw the book across the room (affectionately), but it is not romantasy. It is a darker beast. I believe there's a reader for it, the kind who has finished every recommended fantasy series and is looking for something that trusts them a little more.

The Question I Keep Getting Asked: Traditional or Self-Published?

My path, for now, is to pursue traditional publishing first. I've identified a few boutique Canadian literary agents whose taste and roster feel aligned with what Crown of Lies is. If traditional publishing doesn't yield the right partnership by end of summer 2026, I will pivot, with intention, with preparation, and without apology. The book deserves to find its readers. One way or another.

The Part I Wasn't Sure I'd Write About ...

Is it good enough?

That question has lived in my chest since I typed the first sentence of this novel. It has not left. I suspect it never fully does, for anyone who embarks on a writing journey.

There is a version of *is it good enough* that is healthy: the version that keeps you revising, that refuses to accept a scene that almost works when it could actually work, that won't let you off the hook for a character who isn't quite earning their place in the story. That version is the editor inside you doing its job.

Then there is the other version. The one that whispers its question not when you're actively improving something, but when you're lying awake at 2am having changed nothing. The one that sounds less like craft and more like fear. That version is noise.

What eventually moved me forward was the moment I realised I had done everything I knew how to do: revised with honesty, received feedback with as much grace as I could muster, returned to scenes I was proud of and asked harder questions of them, and come out the other side still believing in Riognach, in Eldryth, in the story I've been carrying.

That is not the same as knowing it's good enough. It is better than that. It is knowing I gave it everything I had.

The editor will have thoughts. The agents will have opinions. Readers will decide for themselves. But the question of whether I brought everything I had to this manuscript? That one, I can actually answer.

The Part I Wasn't Sure I'd Share …

I've decided that a first chapter is not a spoiler. It is an invitation. The door through which a reader either steps or doesn't. And if someone reads it and thinks I need to know what happens next, well, that's the point.

So. If you'd like to step into Eldryth, the first chapter of Crown of Lies is below. I know time is valuable, and I appreciate you being here.

Fair warning: it begins with a blade at a throat. There is swearing. Things escalate from there.

CROWN OF LIES

PART I

ONE

The blade was at my throat before I heard him move.

I reacted without conscious thought: grab the wrist, stomp the foot, break free. I did all three, spinning to face Fynn Kittredge in the candlelit gloom of the tower room. My oldest friend. My secret instructor. And apparently a right bastard this morning. He'd be inducted into the King's Personal Guard before day's end. I'd asked him for one final lesson.

I hadn't expected an ambush.

"Could you at least let me catch my breath?" I snapped, yanking my cloak free and tossing it at a listing stack of chairs. Two hundred steps up Droichead's abandoned north tower and I can't even get my cloak off? "I just climbed—"

"Your opponent won't wait for you to be ready, Riognach." Fynn circled left, longsword loose in his grip.

His use of my full name—usually my mother's prerogative, and always in annoyance—told me that this morning really was different.

"What's got you so bent out of shape? I asked, wavering light from the brace of candles in an ancient iron candelabrum catching on the length of glimmering steel as I pulled my longsword free of its scabbard. Live steel. I'd forced the concession a sennight past, refusing to spar with wrapped blades any longer. He'd insisted on the heavy leather doublet I wore. The price of live steel, he'd said. I'd agreed. And was already regretting it, feeling sweat slip between my shoulder blades.

"You know I can't talk about any of it," he replied, still circling.

I squared my shoulders and faced him. "You're scared."

Cobalt eyes narrowed on me. "I am not."

"You are, I sense it." The words were out before I could stop them.

"Don't do that," he snarled.

I didn't often speak of what I sensed in others, an inexplicable knowing. It made them uncomfortable. Like I was reading their thoughts or something. But sometimes, like now, I couldn't help it.

I also couldn't blame him for being scared. I would be terrified if positions were reversed.

Fynn narrowed his eyes further. He stood a head and a half taller than me, strength coiled tight. If he was trying to intimidate me, it was working.

I knew he would never truly harm me, but the bruises I already carried proved he wouldn't go easy either.

We circled each other slowly, steel glinting.

Fynn lunged.

Instinct had me wanting to flee. But I remained still for two agonizing heartbeats, then slid aside, raising my blade at the last moment to scrape down the length of his. The screech of steel set my teeth on edge.

He pivoted, the movement viper quick. I shifted again, boots rasping across stone.

"Stop avoiding, Ree," he barked.

I surged forward, striking high, then low, driving him back one pace, then two, before he reversed the rhythm and forced me to defend. I yanked the dagger free from its sheath at my thigh, steadied by the heft of steel in both hands.

He swung. I parried, blades sparking, then I danced out of reach, cursing my smaller frame. Sheer stubbornness was my greatest strength. Greatest weakness too, a small voice chided.

I silenced that voice with effort.

Training for the past five turns of the moon had added muscle to my arms and legs, smoothed out the motions of strike and parry until they became fluid, executed without conscious thought. Almost.

I drew in a breath, seeking to centre myself as I adjusted my grip on the gleaming four-foot blade. My father's gift was meant to be symbolic, not utilitarian. The dagger, in contrast, was, plainly put, a mercenary's weapon. Curved. Serrated. Deadly in close-quarters fighting.

I imagined my father's disappointment were he to discover that the only choreography I aspired to learn was the lethal dance of combat.

"Come on," Fynn urged, circling. "Engage."

Brought back to the moment, I feinted left, then spun right, grabbing a chair from the clutter at my back and hurling it at Fynn. He scrabbled to one side. Wood splintered against the unforgiving stone flags.

I winced at the damage.

His sword dipped.

I struck.

The flat of my blade smacked his arm. I spun behind him, shoving a booted foot against the back of one knee. He stumbled, cursing. I swung for his sword arm—

He recovered, fast, our blades locking with teeth-rattling force. I pressed with all my strength at the point where the haft and tang of my two blades met, but his greater strength was bearing me down. I had no choice but to release.

One step back.

Pivot.

A low sweep of the longsword.

He leaned back.

Smooth as water.

My strike sliced through air.

"By the Four," I hissed, momentum wrenching me off balance.

Fynn caught me from behind, arms clamping mine and dragged me against his chest.

The tower room vanished.

The empty corridor rose up before me. A man hauling me into a curtained alcove. Hot, ale-soured breath against my cheek. A trusted voice slurred and mocking: "This will be our little secret, pet." Me, frozen in shock. And terror. He wouldn't dare. I was the King's daughter. Outrage rose within me followed by an inexplicable pulse of something primal. There was no other way to explain the instinct to bring the heel of my boot down hard against his foot, while simultaneously jabbing my elbow into his ribs. His grunt. The loosening grip. The sound of tearing fabric as I hurtled out of the alcove and down the corridor. A servant carrying an armful of firewood. His startled cry as I jostled him; the thud of wood against the flags filling the corridor behind me. The resultant mess sufficient to slow any pursuit. If he'd dared. I didn't know. I hadn't looked back.

And then I'd done what women at court always did: pretended like nothing had happened. Then something most wouldn't dare. I trained, in secret, intent on never having to flee again.

"Ree!" Fynn's voice cut through the memory.

I was on the floor, blades scattered, breath coming in gasps. The stone was cold beneath my palms.

Fynn was crouched beside me, hands raised, careful not to touch me. "What happened? What's wrong?"

I couldn't tell him. Lord Ennett was my brother's man. To accuse him was to accuse Ronan of keeping such an individual close. And Ronan already saw me as a threat to his claim for the throne.

"It's … nothing," I said, gaining my feet.

A furrow cut between Fynn's tawny brows. "That wasn't nothing." He stooped, retrieved my blades, and pressed them back into my hands, hilts first. "And if that happened in a real fight, you'd be dead."

I took the swords, palms slick.

He tipped his chin toward my blades where they trembled in my grip. "You need to get control over whatever that is, or it will always control you."

My nod was jerky. Even with my escape, I had understood the truth: I'd had no choice but to run. My assailant, Lord Ennett of Rusholme, was bigger, stronger, and trained in sword craft. Like all men. But he was not entitled to what he tried to take from me. What I feared he had taken from other women at court.

I lifted my chin, meeting Fynn's gaze. "It won't happen again." I meant every word.

He looked at me. Really looked. A muscle along his jaw working.

"How long have I known you?"

"My whole life, give or take." I frowned. "Why are you asking a question you already know the answer to?"

"As a reminder."

"Of what?"

"That you can trust me, Ree." His voice had gentled.

I looked away, shame burning my cheeks.

He stepped back, his expression troubled. "When you asked me at the spring equinox to train you, I thought it was just a lark. That you were bored or looking for yet another way to annoy your mother. But it's more than that, isn't it?" he pressed.

Panic roared back. "Please don't push me on this," I whispered.

Hurt flickered in his expression.

"You are my oldest and dearest friend, Fynn," I said in a rush. "Nothing changes that."

"Secrets change everything, Ree," he replied, and then turned to pick up the chair and set it beside the others. I winced again. One leg was broken, and it listed against the curved stone wall like a drunkard.

When he turned back to face me, I opened my mouth to say something … anything … to mend the chasm yawning between us, but before I could speak, he executed a low bow.

"I am at your service, Lady Riognach."

I gaped at him, the sting of his formality like a fresh bruise on my skin. But I couldn't blame him. Not really. We had always shared everything. And I trusted him. I did. It was simply that I wanted—no needed—to handle this on my own.

Fynn's sense of duty was absolute, an honourable quality, but it could easily eclipse everything, including our friendship. The threat of that loss sat heavy in my chest.

"I have to go," he said, breaking the silence between us. "I'm expected on the practice fields shortly."

"Good luck with your final trials," I said as he turned for the door. "My father will be very fortunate—"

The door closed behind him with a decisive snick.

I stared at the aged wood. It would not do to follow. We both needed time. And Fynn's full attention should be on what he would face come dawn.

It had surprised me when he agreed to training before the trials. Given how things had ended between us, I wished he'd said no.

Turning back to the room, I took comfort in the ritual of slipping the short blade into the leather sheath at my thigh before sliding my longsword back into its jewel-appointed scabbard. I retrieved my cloak, shaking it free of dust before slipping it over my shoulders. There was nothing more to do after I extinguished the candles, but I made no move to leave, grateful for a moment alone.

I leaned against a large mahogany armoire, the scar of a sword-swipe marring one door. I had made it and still regretted damaging something so elegant. Strands of damp hair clinging to my brow, muscles aching in a now-familiar way, I watched as the first tendrils of dawn's light slipped across the floor, catching on the dust that floated through the air like ash.

I recalled the day we discovered the tower and the chamber at its apex. The screech of the door's iron hinges. The decades of undisturbed dust. The detritus of a long-forgotten castle life stacked haphazardly around the chamber's perimeter, including the beautiful, if slightly damaged, armoire. There had been, and still was, an air of utter abandonment permeating the vast space. A place that became a haven for us, at ten, maybe eleven summers. We'd meet on those rare occasions when Fynn wasn't training, and I wasn't forced into lessons with Menta Minera or learning some obscure language under the instruction of one of the priests. We shared secrets: my annoyance at the need to master not only needlepoint, but also dancing, his fear of Droichead's Master of Arms, Bryce Millbank. His complaints about his twin sister, mine about my younger brothers.

We became friends in this room.

I could not imagine my life without Fynn in it.

Startled by a loud caw, I looked up. A raven perched on the ledge of one of the embrasures high overhead, wings glinting blue-black in the strengthening light. I began waving my arms, desperate to shoo it away. Disgruntled, the raven ruffled its sleek wings, a second caw cutting through the air. Breath caught in my throat.

Not again.

I ran for the wooden ladder that led to the wall walk. I had to get to the raven. Scare it away.

A third caw rent the air—

Death follows the thrice sounded cry of the raven.

The omen swept through my mind. Ancient. Forbidden.

Pulse pounding in my ears, I hesitated at the base of the ladder, fingers tightening around the worn wood. What was I doing? The raven had already delivered its message—three cries—the omen was clear. Climbing after it wouldn't undo fate. Yet, a superstitious panic clawed at my throat. If I didn't chase it away, was I accepting what came next? Inviting it?

My body moved before my mind could argue further. I climbed fast, reckless, reaching the top rung just as the bird took flight. Dark wings shadowed the sun for a heartbeat, then, it was gone. Sagging against the ladder, I glanced down, and a breath shuddered out of me. A single misstep, and I could have suffered serious injury, or worse, fulfilled the raven's omen.

I started back down. Slower.

Rudger Sebright, the King's High Priest, would have called my belief in omens pagan, his voice heavy with the indignation clergy reserved for anything that contradicted their own faith.

My lessons had included sufficient history of the Auld Folke to notice that their goddesses, Khört, Malin, Tāto, and Støt, were surprisingly similar to our own Maiden, Mother, Warrior, and Crone.

What if it was all one story, told in different tongues?

Though if I ever dared suggest as much to Sebright, he'd deliver a sermon thick enough to choke on.

I stepped off the ladder and glanced up at the wall walk, which had once encircled the interior of the tower like a wooden shackle. One section sagged like the swayed back of a mule, while in other places, planks hung like broken teeth, leaving gaps too wide to step across. Yet, this tower had once played a role in Droichead's defence, with knights positioned at each of the embrasures, arrows notched in cross-bolts, prepared to rain destruction down on any threat to the seat of Vaelen's power.

That had included the threat of my great grandsire, Wellen Baracchus, the one they called the Lion Heart.

According to the ballads still sung in the Great Hall of an evening, amid the stamping of feet and the thud of tankards against the trestles, the Lion Heart, in the company of less than one hundred knights breached Droichead's defences, usurping the crown from Vaelen's King, Wraeth Korrigan, relegating his malefic rule to the past.

Three centuries on, there were those who still called Wellen the usurper of a kingdom that was never meant for him.

Quietly, of course.

And like the tower—and the once destructive fury of the volcano at its back—details of that history were lost to time.

Or perhaps, buried.

For when history was forgotten, it was often because those with power willed it so.

Yet things forgotten did have a nasty habit of being repeated. I had seen it time and again as I used the many languages I had learnt, some long dead, to unlock the complicated, and often contradictory histories hidden within the age-cracked leather tomes cramming the shelves of Droichead's library. I was also aware of what wasn't there: any recounting of House Korrigan's rule. Any tomes dedicated to Wellen Baracchus's gaining of the Fountain Throne, the details of his kingship.

More secrets. And these weren't mine.

But whose were they?

Libraries did not simply forget. Tomes did not vanish without hands to remove them. What was absent from those shelves had been made absent, deliberately, carefully, by someone who understood that history was only as dangerous as its witnesses.

That understanding made me curious. And, if I was being honest, more than a little wary.

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