Janet Morris Wind From The Abyss Book Tour and Giveaway

 

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler ....

She is descended from the masters of the universe.

To hold her he challenges the gods themselves. 

Wind From the Abyss

The Silistra Quartet Book 3

by Janet Morris

Genre: Dystopian Epic SciFi Fantasy Romance

Dystopia. Fantasy. Science fiction. Allegory. Political.

 

Wind from the Abyss is the third volume in Janet Morris' classic Silistra Quartet, continuing one woman's quest for self-realization in a distant tomorrow.

Aristocrat. Outcast. Picara. Slave. Ruler .... She is descended from the masters of the universe. To hold her he challenges the gods themselves.

 

Praise for Janet Morris' Silistra Quartet:

"The amazing and erotic adventures of the most beautiful courtesan in tomorrow's universe." -- Fred Pohl

"Engrossing characters in a marvelous adventure." -- Charles N. Brown, Locus Magazine.

"The best single example of prostitution used in fantasy is Janet Morris' Silistra series." -- Anne K. Kahler, The Picara: From Hera to Fantasy Heroine.

 

This Perseid Press Author's Cut Edition is revised and expanded by the author and presented in a format designed to enhance your reading experience with larger, easy-to-read print, more generous margins, and covers designed for these premium editions.

 

Wind from the Abyss starts with this . . .

 

"Since, at the beginning of this tale, I did not recollect myself nor retain even the slightest glimmer of such understanding as would have led me to an awareness of the significance of the various occurrences that transpired at the Lake of Horns, I am adding this preface, though it was no part of my initial conception, that the meaningfulness of the events described by "Khys' Estri" (as I have come to think of the shadow-self I was while the dharen held my skills and memory in abeyance) not be withheld from you as they were from me. I knew myself not: I was Estri because the girl Carth supposedly found wandering in the forest stripped of comprehension and identity chose that name. There, perhaps, lies the greatest irony of all, that I named myself anew after Estri Hadrath diet Estrazi, who in reality I had once been. And perhaps it is not irony at all, but an expression of Khys' humor, an implicit dissertation by him who structured my experiences, my very thoughts, for nearly two years, until his audacity drove him to bring together once more Sereth crill Tyris, past-Slayer, then the outlawed Ebvrasea, then arrar to the dharen himself; Chayin rendi Inekte, cahndor of Nemar, co-cahndor of the Taken Lands, chosen son of Tar-Kesa, and at that time Khys' puppet-vassal; and myself, former Well-Keepress, tiask of Nemar, and lastly becoming the chaldless outlaw who had come to judgment and endured ongoing retribution at the dharen's hands. To test his hesting, his power over owkahen, the time-coming-to-be, did Khys put us together, all three, in his Day-Keeper's city -- and from that moment onward, the Weathers of Life became fixed: siphoned into a singular future; sealed tight as a dead god in his mausoleum, whose every move brought him closer to the sum total, obliteration. So did the dharen Khys bespeak it, himself. . ."

 

“Morris, so good at giving us characters we can identify with, characters we can love and hate, strikes at the very heart of the human condition and the duality of humanity — both good and evil. Her prose is lean and spot-on, every word carefully chosen to enhance the milieu of her imaginary world and advance the plot, giving us access to the thoughts, emotions and machinations of the people whose stories she is presenting to us. Once again, she gives us a “thinking man’s” science fiction/fantasy that explores the nature of power and sexuality, and how they can be used, misused and abused. This is a brilliant, mature and very adult novel that will not only leave you thinking about your own place in the universe, but questioning the very nature of existence.” – Goodreads reviewer

 

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I.In Mourning for the Unrecollected

 

The hulion hovered, wings aflap, at the win­dow, butting its black wedge of a head against the pane. Its yellow eyes glowed cruelly, slit-pupiled. Its white fangs, gleam­ing, were each as long as my forearm.

I screamed.

Its tufted ears, flat against its head, twitched. Again and again, toothed mouth open wide, it battered at the window, roaring.

Once more I screamed and ran stumbling to the far wall of my prison. I pounded upon the locked doors with my fists, pressing myself against the wood. Sobbing, I turned to face it.

The beast’s ears flickered at the sound. Those jaws, which could have snapped me in half, closed. It cocked its head.

I trembled, caught in its gaze. I could retreat no farther. I sank to my knees, moaning, against the door frame.

The beast gave one final snort. Those wings, with a spread thrice the length of a tall man, flapped decisively, and it was gone.

When the hulion was no more than a speck in the greening sky, I rose clumsily, shaking, to collect the papers I had strewn across the mat in my terror. They were the arrar Carth’s papers, those he had forgotten in his haste to answer his returning master’s summons.

I knelt upon my hands and knees on the silvery pile, that I might gather the pages and replace them in the tas-sueded folder before Carth returned.

Foolish, I thought to myself, that I had so feared the hulion. It could not have gotten in. I could not get out: It could not get in. Once I had thrown a chair at that impervious clarity. The chair had splintered. With one stout thala leg, as thick as my arm, had I battered upon that window. All I had accomplished was the transformation of chair into kindling. The hulion, I chided myself, could have fared no better.

Hulions, upon occasion, have been known to eat man-flesh. Hulions, furred and winged, fanged and clawed, are the servants of the dharen who rules Silistra. I had had no need to fear. Yet, I thought as I gathered the arrar Carth’s scattered papers, hulions are fearsome. Perhaps if I had been able, as others are, to hear its mind’s intent, I would have felt differently. My fingers, numb and trembling, fumbled for the delicate sheets.

One in particular caught my eye. It was in Carth’s precise hand and headed: “Preassessment Monitoring of the Arrar Sereth. Enar Fourth Second, 25,697.”

I had met, once, the arrar Sereth. Upon my birthday, Macara fourth seventh, in the year ’696 had I met him, that night my child had been conceived. I had read of his exploits. He frightened me, killer of killers, enforcer for the dharen, he who wore the arrar: chald of the messenger. Sereth, scarred and lean and taut like some carnivore, who had loved the Keepress Estri, my namesake, and with her brought great change to Silistra in the pass Amarsa, 25,695 — yes, I had met him.

I sat myself down cross-legged on the Galeshir carpet, papers still strewn about, forgotten, and began to read:

The time is approximately three enths after sun’s rising, the weather clouded and cool, our position just south of the juncture of the Karir and Thoss rivers. I highly recommend that you look in upon the moment.

The arrar Sereth, on the brindle hulion Leir, touched his gol-knife. It was the first unnecessary movement he had made in over an enth. My presence, alongside upon a black hulion, disquieted him. The brindle, gliding at the apex of its bound, snorted. He touched its shoulder, and the beast, obedient, angled its wings and began its descent.

When its feet touched the grass, he set it at a grounded lope. 1 followed suit, bringing my black up to pace him.

Sereth regarded me obliquely. I, as he, served the dharen, he thought, and touched his hulion to a stop.

We had been riding all the night, up from Galesh, where I had met him with the two beasts. He had served the dharen, most lately, in Dritira. And before that, in the hide diet, and before that upon the star world M’ksakka had he dealt death and retribution at Khys’ whim. And dealt them successfully, though those tasks had been fraught with deadlier risk than a man might be expected to survive. His thought was wry, recollecting.

“How did you find M’ksakka?” I asked, to key him, to bring something else above the impenetrable shield he has constructed. My hulion rumbled at the brindle he rode, and that one answered.

“I will make a full report to Khys,” he said, slipping off the hulion’s back. “Let us rest them.”

I joined him where he lay upon the grass, staring at the sky.

“I missed this land,” he said. “The sky there is dark and ominous, always cloudy. M’ksakkan air stings eyes and lungs. Everything is covered with a fine black dust. I would not go again off the planet.”

“Perhaps he will not send you,” I conjectured.

He saw M’ksakka, and that seeing was colored by his distaste, both for the world and the work he had done there. The methods he had employed displeased his sense of fitness. The value of the M’ksakkan’s death was to him obscure. I saw the moment: the adjuster’s surprised eyes, wide and staring as Sereth’s fingers closed on his throat, around his windpipe,·the M’ksakkan’s clawing hand upon his wrist as he ripped out the man’s larynx, vocal folds dangling; then the blood, spurting, and the sound of the adjuster’s choking death. And I saw others he had killed, those who were anxious to try their skills against a real live Silistran. He had been hesitant to do so, but more hesitant to face an endless line of their ilk, so he had killed the first three. Again, his thoughts sank below readable level. The hulions lay quiet, lashing their tails. The clouds scudded heavy over the sun. A soft, drizzling rain commenced.

“The dharen is pleased with you,” I said.

He sat up, his mind absolutely inviolate. “What do you want, Carth?” He stared down at me. I lay perfectly still. He made no attempt to read me for his answer. He merely waited.

“A first impression. You are coming up for assessment.” I rose up. “We want to get some sense of you. Your mental health is now our concern.” He ducked his head, ripping grass from the sward. “You brought child upon that well woman in Dritira,” I prodded.

He saw her. In many ways she had reminded him of the Keepress. It had been passes since he had taken a woman. On M’ksakka there were females, but nothing he understood to be a woman. He had not couched many of them. And in hide diet, there were only forereaders. In Dritira, with that woman who reminded him of the Keepress, he had spent his long-pent seed. Four times he had used her, before she was more than a receptacle in his sight. And he had abused her, more than was his custom.

“Get me the forms. I will collect my birth-price,” he answered. He did not want the woman.

“You should take her. We have been considering her. She might yet make a forereader.”

“Then it is a pity she caught. From inferior blood can come only inferior stock.”

“Khys has asked me,” I told him, “to bid you welcome to any of the forereaders we hold in common at the Lake. Spawn from such a union surely would be possessed of talent. The bitterness you hold is out of proportion to the reality. We all, at one time or another, find there is something we want that we may not have.”

He did not answer me, but rose and went to his hulion. He thought of the Keepress Estri as one thinks of the dead, with acceptance; and then thought of his own life, and what compromises he has made to keep it. What he let me know, I have no doubt, will please you. What he did not — that is what concerns me. He allowed me nothing else for the duration of our return.

His shield, as you will find, is set lower and much farther into his deeper conscious than any I have encountered. Most of his processing must take place behind it. Deep-reading him is out of the question. He visualizes barely enough to verbalize his will. That he is functioning superbly is attested by his works. That he feels it to his advantage to serve us at present is a certainty. I worry over what might occur should he choose, eventually, not to serve us.

My formal recommendation is for a complete and detailed assessment. Also, I feel some attempt might be made to pacify him, in light of what he is fast becoming. Or perhaps even to eliminate him, lest he become, like Se’keroth, the weapon turned upon the wielder.

And it was signed Carth.

“Carth!” I gasped, as a dark hand snatched the sheet from my grasp. Still upon my knees, I twisted to see him. His dark eyes gleamed. He ran his hand through his black curls.

“Did you find this informative, Estri?” he asked, towering over me, the paper crumpled in his fist. Carth was furious.

I dared not answer. I started to my feet.

“Pick these up!” he commanded, pointing.

I scurried to obey him, scrambling for the leaves strewn upon the web-work carpet, my stomach a knot. Once before, I had seen Carth this agitated, when I had written for him a certain paper. And he had called it audacious, and destroyed it. I finished, and rose to my full height, handing the tas envelope to him. My head came to his shoulder. He looked down at me, stern-faced.

“You were ill-advised to do this,” he said. “The dharen is not pleased with you. This” — he threw the crumpled sheet across the room — “will only aggravate matters. You had best make some effort to placate him.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “Has he taken some sudden interest in me?” I had seen the dharen precisely three times since I had come to reside at the Lake of Horns: the night he had gotten me with child, the day following, and once while I lay near death when the unborn had driven me to seek it. He had not been at the Lake of Horns when I bore his he-beast into the world. I had cried out for him during that premature and extended labor. He had been unavailable. Now, nearly eight passes later, he had returned.

“Do not be insolent!” Carth’s voice rasped as his palm cuffed my face to one side. Tears in my eyes, I put my hand to my cheek. It was what I had thought, not what I had said, that had brought me chastisement. Shaking my head, I backed away from him. Though I had known Carth a telepath, a surface-reader, rarest of Silistran talents, never had he shown his skills before me, one who neither spoke nor heard the tongues of mind.

“Estri, come here.”

I went to him, my hand trailing from my cheek to the warm, pulsing band locked about my throat.

When I stood before him, he lifted my face, his hand under my chin, so I must look into his eyes.

“He is very angry, child. You must realize that what you think is as audible to him as what you say. I know it was not malicious, that you read what you found. Forget it, if you can. Concentrate on what lies before you.” He patted my back, all the anger gone out of him.

“I do not want to see him,” I said, toying with the ends of my copper hair, grown now well below mid thigh.

Carth pursed his lips. “You have no choice. He will see you in a third-enth. Make ready.” And he turned and strode through the double doors that adjoined my prison to Khys’ quarters. Khys, my couch-mate, was again in residence. The dharen of all Silistra, back from none knew where, would again rule from the Lake of Horns.

Make ready, indeed, I thought, combing my hair. I had only the white, sleeveless s’kim I wore; thigh-length, of simple web-cloth. My jewelry was the band of restraint at my throat. I retied the garment upon my hips. Throwing my hair back, I regarded myself in my prison’s mirrored wall. My body, copper-skinned, lithe, only shades lighter than my thick mane, postured at me, arrogant. I had thought, for a time, that the he-beast had destroyed it, but such had not been the case. Exercise had given its grace and firmness back to me. My legs are very long, my waist tiny, hips slim. Pregnancy had altered me little. My breasts were still high and firm, my belly flat and tight. Good enough for him, surely. I widened my eyes suggestively, then stuck my tongue out at her. She made a face back. I grinned and wondered why I had done so, turning from the wall that ever showed me the boundaries of my world.

*Don’t miss the previous books in the series!**

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Best selling author Janet Morris began writing in 1976 and published more than 30 novels, many co-authored with her husband Chris Morris or others. She contributed short fiction to the shared universe fantasy series Thieves World, in which she created the Sacred Band of Stepsons, a mythical unit of ancient fighters modeled on the Sacred Band of Thebes. She created, orchestrated, and edited the Bangsian fantasy series Heroes in Hell, writing stories for the series as well as co-writing the related novel, The Little Helliad, with Chris Morris. She wrote the bestselling Silistra Quartet in the 1970s, including High Couch of Silistra, The Golden Sword, Wind from the Abyss, and The Carnelian Throne. This quartet had more than four million copies in Bantam print alone, and was translated into German, French, Italian, Russian and other languages. In the 1980s, Baen Books released a second edition of this landmark series. The third edition is the Author's Cut edition, newly revised by the author for Perseid Press. Most of her fiction work has been in the fantasy and science fiction genres, although she has also written historical and other novels. Morris has written, contributed to, or edited several book-length works of non-fiction, as well as papers and articles on nonlethal weapons, developmental military technology and other defense and national security topics.

Janet said: 'People often ask what book to read first. I recommend "I, the Sun" if you like ancient history; "The Sacred Band," a novel, if you like heroic fantasy; "Lawyers in Hell" if you like historical fantasy set in hell; "Outpassage" if you like hard science fiction; "High Couch of Silistra" if you like far-future dystopian or philosophical novels. I am most enthusiastic about the definitive Perseid Press Author's Cut editions, which I revised and expanded.'

 

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Genevieve Morrissey Thea Audiobook Tour and Giveaway

 

Poverty, prejudice, her mother’s addiction…in her quest for an education, 15-year-old Thea tries to navigate them all. But will a secret ultimately undermine her efforts?

Thea

by Genevieve Morrissey

narrated by Nicole Fikes

Genre: YA Historical Fiction, Coming of Age

2025 Page Turner Book Award winner for Best Historical Fiction & Character Architect Award

 

Oklahoma City, 1925

Fifteen-year-old Thea Carter lives in a small garage apartment—Thea’s seventh “home” in four years—provided by her alcoholic mother’s employer, the morose and enigmatic Dr. Hallam.

School is Thea’s refuge and she’s an excellent student, but the parasitic Mrs. Carter’s instability continually threatens her dream of getting a high school diploma. In an effort to keep her mother employed and the two of them housed, Thea secretly takes on much of her mother’s work while at the same time navigating adolescence, friendships, and first love.

Dr. Hallam, impressed by her drive and intelligence, becomes Thea’s unexpected ally, but in addition to wealth and position, the doctor also has a secret that could ruin him, and shatter his bond with Thea.

 

"Morrissey crafts a wise and moving coming-of-age historical novel with resonant contemporary themes, meticulous period detail, and flawed but sympathetic characters who will win readers’ hearts… Lovers of historical fiction and coming-of-age stories will relish time spent with Thea." —BookLife 'Editor's Pick' review

"Thea is a coming-of-age tale with a lot of heart and charm… Morrissey's characters truly leap off the pages." —Readers' Favorite review

"The story is one of friendship and found family, with a heartwarming conclusion… THEA is a moving historical coming-of-age novel whose characters' compassion and empathy inspires.” —IndieReader review

 

**Now available as an audiobook!**

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Thea is the new historical novel by Genevieve Morrissey, author of the award-winning Marriage & Hanging and the popular Antlands science fiction series. She is an avid student of British and American social history who, through one of those strange little quirks of fate, spends most of her days talking with scientists. In addition to writing, Genevieve enjoys reading obscure books, travel, and solitude.

 

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A Novel & Expose A Real Collusion by Stu Strumwasser

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Stu Strumwasser will be awarding a $25 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

A Real Collusion is about the secret conspiracy between the Republican and Democratic parties to control the US government through an illegal duopoly.

From the author of the bestselling novel, The Organ Broker, (hailed by Lee Child, New York Times # 1 bestselling author of the Jack Reacher series as, "Exciting and thought-provoking--the perfect package") comes, A Real Collusion, a stunning political thriller and expose.

A Real Collusion is a David Vs. Goliath(s) story about a man who accidentally becomes the leader of an independent political movement that nearly takes down the two-party system in America, while exposing a conspiracy that affects the results of the 2016 election. It explores universal and deeply human themes of loss, and the tension between justice and power. In the opening sentence the narrator points out that, “Ordinary people often do extraordinary things.” The characters in the book do, and the action is driven by the fantastic events of a unique political satire. It is also the heartfelt story of regular people struggling with lost love, alienation and nearly universal disaffection who find strength in enduring loyalty and friendship

This is the story of John Campbell (a regular guy from the lower east side of Manhattan) as recounted by his friend Skip Winters. Skip becomes John’s campaign manager and later, a congressman in his own right. He narrates the stunning-but-plausible story of how John Campbell and The American Coalition race to popularity, raising over a hundred million dollars from grassroots contributors—and become a threat to the political duopoly of the Democratic and Republican parties. The book sprinkles in references to real events from recent history, and real political leaders including Trump, John McCain, and more. This imbues the novel with a sense of realism, albeit one of an alternate reality. Skip discovers a deep-seated conspiracy within our political system whose leaders orchestrate a murder, destroy his friend and tip the scales of the election. The novel turns out to be Skip’s exposé of the secret collaboration between the two major political parties in our country—a cooperation to protect the duopoly that is, in part, real.

Read an Excerpt

"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is John Campbell, from the lower east side."

The crowd responded with another enthusiastic round of cheers, but this time John held up his palm and said, "Please, please…." And that threw a quasi-hush over the audience.

"Thank you for coming to this little park tonight to hear me speak. Three nights ago, on the evening of July 10th, I attended our local Community Board meeting to propose that cigar smoking not be allowed on the sidewalk in front of bars and restaurants. That's all. I was not there to critique our government and I didn't ask for any of the attention that I have since received. I'm just like most of you, and I never anticipated that newspapers and newscasters would ever solicit my opinions on political issues. But now they're asking, and I have decided that I have a responsibility to answer. I am not embarrassed to say… I care."

Then, John paused. He had their rapt attention and he knew it. He looked directly at me, suddenly brimming with confidence. It might have been the kind of glance that Keith and Mick sometimes give to the roadies right before they go into the encore. I think that the feeling which washed over me then was pride. John turned back to the crowd and loudly said, "So, would you like to hear my answer?!"

Thunder from the crowd. "Yeah!" they yelled, some pumping their fists in the air.

"I won't give it to you!" John shouted, but then quickly added, "Instead, I will give you my proposal for OUR answer!" which elicited yet another roar.

"In recent years our system of government has broken down. Everyone knows it. Washington has become caught up in never-ending partisan fighting. It was on display during the recent government shutdown. The two major political parties no longer represent us. Frankly, how could they represent the spectrum or sum total of the thoughts, feelings and will of three hundred million citizens? There is a reason that more young people now choose "Independent" than either party when they turn eighteen. The political parties today exist as little more than machines for the never-ending raising of money to combat the enormous amount of money raised by their opponents (their "enemy counter-party" or, as I prefer to refer to them: "fellow Americans.") Let's stop standing for it. The Democrats and Republicans currently run our nation like two petulant children fighting over which show to watch on TV and who gets to hold the remote. When one party chooses the program, the other storms out of the room. Is that really the way we want to be led?

About the Author

Stu Strumwasser is a modern-day muckraker who writes literary novels that address important sociopolitical issues. His first novel, The Organ Broker, was published by Skyhorse (distributed by Simon & Schuster) and shortlisted as one of five finalists for the Hammett Prize for literary excellence in crime writing. Strumwasser was also the primary songwriter and drummer for the indie rock band Channeling Owen. He is a longtime investment professional (investing in sustainable technology that improves the manner in which we make food) and hails from Brooklyn NY. His new novel, A Real Collusion, is both an exposé and analysis of broken government and a fictional David Vs. Goliath(s) story of the man who almost took down the two-party system in America.

WEBSITE: https://www.arealcollusion.com
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To read the first two chapters of the novel please visit: https://arealcollusion.com/first-two-chapters/

Amazon Link to pre-order Amazon EBook: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G5K3BJ1K
Amazon Link to pre-order Amazon Hardcover: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GCCR2XMS
BN.com EBook: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-real-collusion-stu-strumwasser/1148954359?ean=2940185040737
BN Hardcover: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-real-collusion-stuart-strumwasser/1148954359
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-real-collusion
Google Play EBook: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=NxSlEQAAQBAJ&hl=en_US
Google Play Audiobook: https://play.google.com/store/audiobooks/details?id=AQAAAEDqp1LnqM&hl=en_US
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Orlan Drake The Broken Crown Saga Book Tour and Giveaway

 

Where loyalty shatters, legends are forged.

The King’s Fall

The Broken Crown Saga Book One

by Orlan Drake

Genre: Epic Fantasy

A Gripping Tale of Royal Betrayal and Hidden Romance

When darkness falls on the kingdom of Ardanthia, readers will find themselves caught up in a story where nothing is what it seems. Princess Eloise faces impossible choices as murder and betrayal tear her world apart. Her secret love for the Prince of Caladorn adds another layer of danger to an already deadly situation. This isn't just another royal romance - it's a heart-pounding adventure where love and loyalty clash in the most dangerous ways possible. You'll feel every moment of tension as Eloise walks the razor's edge between duty and desire.

 

Mystery and Investigation That Keeps You Guessing

Sir Cedric Blackthorn brings detective skills that would make any crime solver jealous. His brilliant mind works to solve puzzles that could save or destroy an entire kingdom. As Ambassador Zafir arrives with hidden motives and Baron Gorgo schemes from the shadows, every character becomes a suspect. The investigation twists and turns through palace halls filled with secrets. You'll find yourself trying to solve the mystery alongside Cedric, picking up clues and second-guessing every revelation. The chase scenes will have you on the edge of your seat as our heroes race against time through a kingdom ready to explode into war.

 

Fantasy Adventure That Brings Legends to Life

The Broken Crown Saga starts with this incredible first book that mixes political drama with fantasy elements that feel fresh and exciting. Secret groups work behind the scenes, pulling strings that control the fate of nations. The world-building draws you in completely, making you believe in a place where magic and politics dance together in dangerous ways. This story proves that sometimes solving one crime can prevent an entire war - and that the most important battles happen in the shadows.

 

For readers of David Eddings and Terry Brooks, this sweeping tale of betrayal, magic, and destiny will leave you breathless.

 

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The King's Fall opens not in a throne room, but underground. A secret order — no names, no titles, only cloaks and the authority of old purpose — has gathered around a rune-carved table to debate an incident that should not have happened: a full diplomatic party has been wiped out on the road between two kingdoms, and neither king ordered it. Someone is pulling strings that no one can see. The council is about to do something dangerous. They are going to look.

 

There existed beneath the old earth a sanctum kept from all maps and memories, shielded by corridors that twisted into each other with a geometry of deliberate confusion. In the deepest of its halls, a chamber circular and primeval waited in perpetual shadow. The room's centrepiece, a stone table whose circumference rivalled a city well, had been carved from a single slab of basalt. Its rim and surface bore etched runes and ancient sigils, their purpose unclear to any but initiates of the silent order that convened there.

Around this table, shrouded figures gathered, their cloaks indistinguishable but for subtle variations in the weave — one a blue so dark it drank in the torchlight, another a coarse grey laced with fine metallic thread, a third in deep forest green that shed a dusting of spores with every movement. Even in the heart of stone, the air hung moist and cold, saturated with the scent of burnt tallow and the musk of old water. From sconces in the arched walls, torches spat and guttered, casting orange light that slithered across faces as pale and anonymous as death masks.

No titles were spoken here, only the functional necessity of names earned and worn like invisible crowns. The magister at the head of the table, tall, angular, motionless save for the slow folding of gloved hands, did not need to identify himself. When he spoke, the voice cut through the stillness as though it had been whetted on the stone itself.

"Our watchers are not in agreement." The words were uninflected, carefully measured.

A murmur passed around the circle, not of dissent but of discomfort. The second figure, smaller but with an evident coiled energy, leaned forward. Her hands were bare, fingers long and stained black along the creases, and she tapped the table where the runes formed a broken circle.

"It is a minor border skirmish, Sentinal," she said. "Bloodier than most, but hardly unprecedented. Let the kingdoms squabble among themselves — Ardanthia and Caladorn have always warred at the fringes." She sounded impatient, as though summoned for a lesser concern.

The magister in blue, whose hood cast his face into shadow, spoke with a slight tremor. "The killing was not so minor. An entire diplomatic train vanished — every courier, every retainer, every guard. The ambassador's body was not even left for ransom. That is new. That is calculated."

The Sentinal allowed the words to settle, scanning the circle with a gaze that seemed to fix on each magister, regardless of where his face was aimed. "Six months ago, an envoy of Ardanthia, Lord Marcus Blackbriar, journeyed south with full ceremonial escort. Their course was direct: Eldoria to Delrith, then through the corridor to Mirashar. Before reaching Delrith, they were set upon and destroyed. Only one man survived, and he staggered back to Eldoria."

"Coward's tale," said the woman with the ink-stained hands. "Most witnesses die of their wounds, the lucky ones first."

The Sentinal ignored the snipe. "Our watcher in Eldoria heard the testimony. The survivor told King Leofric himself that the attackers wore the livery of Caladorn. Our watcher in Caladorn, however, tells a different story: they found no evidence of a sanctioned operation. If anything, Caladorn's own patrols have increased since the incident. Their court desires peace. Their king is tired of war."

A rustling of fabrics, the weight of suspicion shifting around the table. The green-cloaked figure finally broke his silence, voice low and gravelly. "If both kings are ignorant, then who profits from the attack? It's no longer a border dispute. It's something else."

A pause, broken only by the hiss of a torch collapsing into itself. The Sentinal's next words fell heavier for the silence.

"Our order exists not to shape events, but to understand them. Yet this affair grows more opaque with every new witness. Either our watchers lie, or we are being lied to. That alone is reason to intervene."

"There's little evidence it threatens the Balance," the woman pressed. "What can it matter if kingdoms grind each other to salt? We have seen worse in the east. Nothing endures but the Pattern."

"Unless the Pattern itself is being rewritten," the blue-hooded man said.

At this, the Sentinal brought his palms flat on the runic table, producing a hollow note that echoed into the stone. "We are not theorists. To maintain the balance we need clarity, not further confusion. We will look. Tonight, we summon the memory of that day and see for ourselves."

The woman's upper lip curled. "The power to see through time is not borrowed lightly, Sentinal. It leaves marks on both the living and the dead."

"We risk more by not knowing," the Sentinal said. "If our council cannot agree on what is, how can we guide what must be?"

The blue-hooded man lifted a hand, uncertain. "If it is as you say, and both sides are being manipulated, then the ritual may be hazardous. Memory is often trapped by the will of those who shaped it."

Twilight’s Dominion

The Broken Crown Saga Book Two

The peace was always a lie. They just didn't know whose.

Queen Eloise of Ardanthia has done everything right. She negotiated the alliance with Caladorn, married the prince, held her court together through blight and borderland attacks and the whispered threat of an ancient secret order. Now, with villages vanishing overnight — crops blackened, livestock dead, people simply gone — she does what any good ruler would do. She sends her best.

Sir Cedric Blackthorn, the precise and principled knight-investigator. Captain Elira, a soldier who has survived too much to flinch at anything. Tomas, a scholar more at home with footnotes than fistfights. Ryn, a street thief from the Saltspire docks whose instincts are worth more than anyone's education. And Auralias — the Court Mage, brilliant and unsettling in equal measure — who brings knowledge of old magic that none of the others possess, and who may be the only thing standing between Ardanthia and the League of the Moon.

Together, they are hunting the League before the League can finish what it started.

What they find will change everything they think they know — about the attacks, the conspiracy, and the true scale of what is being assembled in the dark. There are artifacts, older than any living kingdom, whose power was thought lost to history. There are secrets buried so deep that uncovering them will cost more than anyone is prepared to pay. And there is a question, growing louder with every mile: who, exactly, is the enemy?

Twilight's Dominion is a story about loyalty tested to breaking, courts where every smile hides a calculation, and the particular horror of realising that the enemy has been in the room all along. It is about a queen learning that the peace she built was built for her — and a company of mismatched, battle-worn companions who keep fighting even after the ground gives way beneath them.

Set across mountain fortresses carved from living rock, fog-wrapped port cities, a besieged royal palace, and the treacherous corridors of two kingdoms in collision, this is epic fantasy for readers who like their politics sharp, their magic consequential, and their betrayals earned.

Perfect for readers who love:

*The political intrigue of A Song of Ice and Fire

*The ensemble loyalty of The Lies of Locke Lamora

*The world-building depth of Robin Hobb

*Characters who are competent, scarred, and worth caring about

"There's no certainty in what's ahead. But I'd rather die among friends than watch the world go to monsters."

The Broken Crown Saga:
Book One: The King's Fall
Book Two: Twilight's Dominion
Book Three: Echoes of Kings - coming soon

 

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Twilight's Dominion opens on two stories running in parallel. In the first, Lady Seraphina D'Argent — a diplomat travelling alone through the unforgiving Crownspine mountains — has just been surrounded by armed strangers on a mountain pass. She has been riding for ten weeks on orders she doesn't fully understand, heading toward coordinates her queen gave her without explanation. She is about to discover something that will change everything she thought she knew about the world she serves.

~820 words

 

The figures came on in absolute silence, fanning out across the trail with the efficiency of wolves. In a matter of seconds they had closed off her retreat and were sliding, almost bonelessly, down the talus to encircle her.

Their leader wore a helm that entirely concealed his face, its visor painted with a crude snarl of animal fangs. The others carried composite bows at the ready, arrows nocked, but pointed down — a gesture that managed to be both merciful and contemptuous at once. Seraphina drew Cassia to a halt and set her hands openly on the pommel, every muscle rigid with calculation.

"State your business," the leader growled, voice rendered inhuman by the tin of his visor.

Seraphina debated, for perhaps two breaths, whether to attempt bluff or bravado. The bows decided the matter. "I am Lady Seraphina D'Argent, of Armathor," she replied, "on a mission from Her Majesty Queen Evelina."

The leader turned, a lazy gesture that made mockery of her authority, and a snort went up among his lieutenants. "And your escort?"

"Was not permitted." Seraphina kept her gaze level, though the blood pounded furiously in her ears. "I am to meet with a representative of the Riders, if you are such."

The mention of the Riders produced a shift in the circle. The archers exchanged glances, some wary, some almost amused. The leader drew closer, boots crushing the shallow crust of snow.

"You speak too much for a courier," he observed. "But too little for a spy." He swept a gauntleted hand at her pack horse. "Open your satchel."

She untied the travel case from the gelding, working fingers gone numb in the cold, and fished out the scroll tube. It was heavy, made of dark wood and brass, the wax seal untouched. She held it up so they could all see the sigil of Caladorn: a pair of crossed sabres over a seven-pointed star. There was a stillness, then a slow, careful release of tension among the archers as the leader nodded, almost respectful.

"Walk forward. Slowly," he said.

They escorted her up the ridge, off the trail, through a section of scree so loose that even Cassia balked. For an hour, maybe more, they wound through impossible switchbacks and across narrow spines of rock, each step a new exercise in balance and terror. Finally, the leader raised his hand and the party halted at a narrow saddle between peaks.

Seraphina caught her breath, took a long swallow from her water skin, and paused as she noticed what lay beyond the saddle.

The city was carved into the living stone of the mountain's interior, hidden from the world by both geometry and design. Terraced galleries spiralled down the inside face of a gigantic crater, studded with windows and fire-gleaming vents that gave the place an eerie, hive-like vibrance. Slender bridges of bone-white stone spanned the void between rocky spurs, connecting to massive towers whose roofs gaped open to the sky. Far below, at the crater's deepest point, a plaza of blue granite caught the light of a hundred lanterns, transforming it into a pool of shimmering stars.

She had never seen such a thing. She had never heard of such a thing. And yet, as she stood there, wind plucking at her cloak, Seraphina understood instantly, with a sick clarity, that Queen Evelina had always known.

They did not take her down the public steps. Instead, the archers led her along a narrow spiral cut into the stone, half-tunnel, half-balcony, with just enough space for one person and a horse at a time. The air grew colder with every turn, and the hum of unseen machinery — bellows, pulleys, some kind of water-driven elevator — echoed from deep within the walls. At last they emerged onto a flagstoned platform where the leader, visor now up, gestured for her to dismount.

"Wait here," he said, less threatening now. "You will be summoned."

Seraphina did not ask how long. She untethered her gloves, flexed her hands, and tried not to shiver in the thin mountain air. The view from the platform was staggering; across the chasm, the terraces of the city glimmered with what looked like glass or ice, and tiny figures moved between the arcades.

A boy in a grey tunic arrived, bearing a tray of tea and something that looked like bread but tasted of cedar and salt. He smiled at her with a gentleness that belonged to another world. When she asked him his name, he merely gestured for her to drink.

Time stretched, then snapped back when the leader returned, flanked by two more guards in matching visors. "You will come," he said.

I am a new author writing under the pen name Orlan Drake, my real name is Chris Hills Farrow.  I've worked as a freelance writer for magazines in the past but have always wanted to write fiction, and after having more free time during the lockdowns, I have made some progress. I enjoy fantasy because it opens my mind to other worlds or ways of life that do not exist in real life, or have ever existed.

 

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Leah Miles Baby Consealed Release Tour and Giveaway

 

The family he didn't know he wanted might be the only thing worth dying for.

Baby ConSEALed

SEAL & Shelter Book 1

by Leah Miles

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Baby ConSEALed won the 2024 Georgia Romance Writers' "Maggie Award"!

 

Rissa Parker struggles to support herself and her daughter by working overnights as a home health nurse. After witnessing her employer's murder, she has no choice but to grab her two-year-old and run toward the one person strong enough to protect them, the Navy SEAL who fathered her child during a one-night stand.

Navy SEAL Bernard "Burn" Cruz is a straight arrow, approaching work and play in equal parts. He doesn't regret much in life, except for one woman he's never forgotten. Nearly three years after their initial encounter, she shows up in San Diego at the bar his team likes to frequent, and he believes Forever might have knocked on his door. Until a child cries, and all hell breaks loose.

As bullets fly and bodies drop, Rissa must outrun a killer whose connection to her past threatens to destroy any chance at a future with the father of her child, and Burn discovers the family he didn't know he wanted might be the only thing worth dying for.

Baby ConSEALed, an award-winning contemporary romantic suspense novel, is fast-paced, steamy and suspenseful. Pick up your copy today!

  

“A tightly plotted, fast-paced whirlwind of a ride fraught with secrets, danger, and an emotional love story that focuses on family—the kind you choose.” —Lena Diaz, Publishers Weekly best-selling author

 

“With a to-die-for hero, sizzling tension, and edge-of-your-seat suspense, this romance delivers all the feels in an unforgettable, heart-pounding read!” – Charlee Allden, Goodreads Review

 

“A fast-paced, slow-burn romantic suspense where danger, secrets, and second chances collide….  With bullets flying and hearts on the line, Leah Miles delivers high stakes and emotional impact in equal measure.” – Cam Torrens, Goodreads Review

 

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 “A Cosmopolitan, please.” After this, she’d call it a night. Get a cab back to Liesel’s place. Maybe read a few chapters of a book. Wild and crazy. That’s me.

She took a sip of the drink the bartender delivered, letting the tart cranberry linger on her tongue as she watched the television mounted above the bar. A bowling tournament played, of all things, the announcer droning on about a perfect strike. A man slid between her stool and the next one, close enough that the heat of his body radiated toward her.

“Sorry to crowd you.” His voice was deep, smooth, and impossibly calm despite the chaos of the crowd around them.

She turned—and nearly forgot how to breathe.

He was tall and built like he actually used his gym membership. His dark skin contrasted against the crisp blue of his button-down, and when he tilted his head, the light caught his short black curls. But it was his eyes that stole her attention, a golden shade, piercing yet unreadable.

For a moment, she thought he might be about to hit on her, but he only raised a hand, signaling to the bartender. Of course, he wasn’t interested in her. She needed to finish her drink and go back to the apartment. Rissa gulped down a large swallow and barely managed not to cough.

“Patrick. Beer for me and one of those for the lady.”

She blinked. “You’re buying me a drink?”

Amusement flickered in those striking eyes. “Only if you want it.” He wedged himself farther into the space, turning sideways to fit, with one elbow propped on the bar and his free hand tucked in his pocket.

She absently swirled a finger through the condensation on her mostly empty glass. One more drink might be too much. “I think I want a soda,” she said.

He gave a slight nod of approval and called out the order to the bartender. While he did, she took the chance to study him more closely. The sharp angles of his face, the short-cropped hair, and the faintest hint of a scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

“The golden color of your eyes reminds me of a stray cat I sometimes feed near my apartment. I mean, they’re nice,” she added quickly, when she realized that may have sounded a little weird. “Not that I’m calling you a cat.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound. “I’ve been called worse.”

She glanced down at her glass, unsure what to say next.

“You here alone?” he asked.

“No. My friend is over there.” She motioned toward Liesel, who was dancing with a guy who looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster.

His gaze followed hers, and something flickered in his expression. “The guy she’s dancing with is from my SEAL team.”

Rissa’s stomach dropped at his words. “You’re a Navy SEAL?” He was so far out of her league.

“Nine years.” His eyes locked on her, and he seemed to be waiting for her to comment.

She didn’t know much about military ranks, but the way he carried himself suggested he wasn’t just some guy on weekend leave. “I’ve seen that TV show, Navy SEAL, but I don’t know anyone in the military.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You do now.”

 

Leah Miles writes romance and paranormal fiction from her small-town in South Georgia, where she lives with her husband and cocker spaniel while running an insurance agency and Airbnb business.

After a dozen years in news production at CNN, Leah Miles now manages an insurance agency and an Airbnb business in rural Georgia, while writing romantic suspense and paranormal romance featuring take-charge heroes and fierce heroines.

 

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Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Enter the Baby ConSEALed Giveaway Here