Christopher Russell's Blog, page 2

BOOK LAUNCH PROMOTION!

In Celebration of Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth's birthday, these deals are running from now until October 11th!

Get Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth on sale for the fantastic E-Book price of $0.99. That's 500 pages of Epic Fantasy adventure for less than ONE DOLLAR!

This riveting tale of metal and magic is now available EVERYWHERE BOOKS ARE SOLD! Look for the physical edition at your favorite bookstore (Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, 2nd and Charles, Waterstones, !ndigo, and various independent shops) or your preferred online retailer.

AMAZON LINK: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B088PB6M5D

All SIGNED COPIES purchased through my website (https://www.christopherrussellauthor.com/) are discounted from $19.95 to $10.95!

Want CONCEPT ART? Get all four fantastic prints by author and artist Celeste Francis Campbell on our website shop for $3 + shipping. EVERY SIGNED COPY comes with a bookmark and your choice of one of these prints (Pyrevant, Airship, Lilith, Valescar)

MEET THE AUTHOR: Our first in-person book signing will be Saturday, September 26 at Book Warehouse in the Williamsburg, VA Premium Outlets (Address: 5625 Richmond Rd ste f-130, Williamsburg, VA 23188,)

TEASER

A world consumed by war . . .

An ancient evil resurrected . . .

A millennia old bargain comes due . . .

When two blades clash, the third will fall, and the fate of all will be jeopardized. To save Lozaria, the failures of the past must be atoned for by a new generation of heroes. The time has come for mortals to cast off sight and, in doing so, truly come to

see . . .

Victory is never absolute.

Seven centuries ago, the forces of order won the Illyriite War on the plains of Har'muth. Darmatus and Rabban Aurelian slew their elder brother, Sarcon, the despotic architect of the conflict, then sacrificed themselves to banish the cataclysmic vortex opened with his dying breath. The first advent of the Oblivion Well was thwarted. Even without their vanished gods, the seven races of Lozaria proved themselves capable of safeguarding their world.

Or so the story goes.

The year is now 697 A.B.H (After the Battle of Har'muth). Though war itself remains much the same, the weapons with which it is waged have evolved. Airships bearing powerful cannons ply the skies, reducing the influence of mages and their spells. Long range communication has brought far flung regions of Lozaria closer than ever before. At the center of this technological revolution are the three Terran states of Darmatia, Rabban, and Sarconia, who have fought a near ceaseless campaign of 700 years in an attempt to best each other. The roots of their enmity lie buried beneath the wasteland of Har'muth, a place all three nations consider best forgotten.

However, an ancient power sealed within Har'muth has not forgotten them, and the

descendants of those who fought on that field must now take a stand to rectify the mistakes of the past.

Please take advantage of these stellar deals and, in doing so, help Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth make the Amazon E-Book bestseller list. Even if you've already purchased the book, every $0.99 purchase—which can be gifted to friends!—brings us closer to that goal. I am eternally grateful for your support and patronage. Thank you so, so much.

"Gravitas" Short Story Preview

As part of the continued celebrations surrounding the physical launch of Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth on September 22, I'm releasing the first scene of my upcoming short story, Gravitas. This piece, centered on Scraw, a character of questionable morals and motives, will be published as part of a villain-focused anthology this December. I'll be sure to post more news about the publication - where you can get it, what authors are being featured, etc. - over the coming months.

Gravitas Teaser: When Lestadt's College of Auguries delivers an omen of doom, the nation's leaders turn to Lord Fixer Scraw for salvation. His ruthless methods have succeeded before and should do so again. Yet with revolution on the horizon, the government on the brink of collapse, and only a month to combat the lurking threat, to what depths of depravity will Scraw descend to save Lestadt? Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease . . .

PICTURE: Storming of the Tuileries, by Jean Duplessis-Bertaux (1793)

Gravitas

Day 1

Scraw stirred in his too hard chair, rocking back and forth while trying in vain to get comfortable. His cravat was too tight, the weave of his suit too fine, and his shiny black shoes were too cramped across the toes. Everything about his audience with the Court of Magisters was irritating—too irritating, to be precise, and precision was of paramount importance to him.

"Are you listening, Scraw?" Asked one of the Magisters, a balding gent whose flowing purple gown couldn't fully hide his plumpness. Horatio, that was his name. Scraw remembered it—he couldn't forget it if he wanted to. But if the vat of lard wasn't interested in using the title they themselves had bestowed on him, Scraw wasn't going to afford him that courtesy either.

He resisted scratching the nape of his neck. The suit was aggravating his skin-rash, covering his collar in dried flakes, but Scraw didn't want to give the Magisters the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. "Fixer Scraw. I'm here because of that role, so you might as well address me by it."

"What we've given, we can take away." Norvea said. The scarlet-haired matron, only woman on the Court, leaned against their curved table, staring Scraw down over lowered spectacles. "You of all people should understand the power we wield in Lestadt."

Scraw smiled. He rose from his chair, sketched a deep, mocking bow toward the Court's raised dais, and began walking away. "Then I suggest you use that unmatchable power to sort out your little governance problem."

Snapping his fingers set the servants flanking the chamber's immense iron doors in motion. Two threw their shoulders into the engraved murals adorning the portals, swinging the history of Lestadt outward. A third rushed along the last row of benches to the hat-rack, desperate to return with Scraw's tricorn before he reached the exit.

No one wanted to cross the Fixer. Not even the Court of Magisters, the ruling body of his beloved country.

"S-stop, my Lord Fixer," Horatio spluttered between blood-sausage lips. Fatty pork was clearly both a distant relative and his dish of choice. "There's no one else we can turn to. Ple . . . please stay." The bloated whale slumped further in his chair when he finished speaking. An impressive accomplishment, Scraw was forced to admit.

The Fixer of Lestadt spun in place, grin widening. "Full autonomy. All departments report to me." Scraw strode back up the aisle, tucking his hands behind him, fully focused on the mission—his mission. As soon as he had the Court's mandate, they would be meaningless. A speck of dust on the city streets, a rotting carcass in a deserted alley. "The army, navy, and constabulary are subordinate to me. I will assemble my own team of architects and designers, I will set the schedule, and you will deliver the labor force when and where I tell you. Nothing less will be accepted."

A spindly Magister with more forehead wrinkles than eyebrow hairs wagged a finger at him. "Preposterous! You ask us to make you a dictator—a king! Lestadt hasn't suffered a sovereign since—"

"Granted," Norvea interrupted, scowling at her fellow oligarch. "We know the Fixer doesn't want our throne, so there's no need to quibble about details or play at democracy. Our farce doesn't fool the revolutionaries, and it doesn't fool him." She turned to Scraw, face stoic and cold. Control was her drug of choice but, like him, she would do anything to preserve the nation that enabled her rule. "How long do you need?"

Scraw shrugged. "I think the more pertinent question is, 'How long do we have?'"

"The College of Auguries gives us a month—no more."

"And they've since been dealt with? If the revolutionaries get wind of their findings, my project is buggered."

Several members of the Court chuckled at Scraw's query. They weren't saints. They were barely human after what they'd done—after what they'd ordered Scraw to do. He nodded knowingly. Assassins had paid the good professors a visit, and they would speak no more.

Rubbing his palms together, Scraw beamed at them, itches and irritations fading before the sheer bliss of purpose. His gilt pocketwatch bounced in his coat's inside pocket, a familiar, comfortable weight. The memory beneath the lid would see him through this latest challenge, just as it had all that came before.

"One final thing," Scraw said, practically skipping up the low steps to the Court table. More etchings, these outlined with masterful brush strokes, filled it from end to end. Blood and fire, executions and burnings, marching soldiers and shouted speeches. It was ironic that the end of the Court's reign may yet mimic its start. "What Gravitas have you prepared for me? No ordinary artifact or edict will do for what you intend."

Norvea held up an unraveled scroll, its waxy, yellowed parchment decorated by flowing lines of ink and official crimson seals. More pages were glued to the bottom; addendums or signatures added in the centuries since the original document was drafted. "Lestadt's Charter, inscribed with all the laws of the land, the names of the founders, and the members of the Court, right up to the present day. It is the Gravitas of the entire country—more mighty than any article that has ever been wielded."

Ream by ream, Norvea rolled it up, then passed it to Scraw. "It's yours now, Scraw. Save Lestadt."

His fingers trembled; his skin tingled, hairs rising on end. Scraw forgot his rash and, for an instant, forgot how to breathe. Timidly, he touched it. That little taste did nothing to sate his sudden hunger. Forgetting propriety, he snatched it with both hands.

Ecstasy raced through his veins—the raw, unmitigated power of all Lestadt had been, was, and could be. A burning sensation filled him, a different feeling from the agony of his sores which ached no more. Scraw wanted to use it immediately. Witness what his magic could do when fueled by the history of a country itself!

Time and place, Scraw thought, controlling himself. He took the scroll under one arm, bowed to the Court, and said three words he'd never imagined uttering. "It's not enough."

"Absurd!"

"Nothing in Lestadt possesses more Gravitas. That's all we have!"

"Be glad we gave you that, Fixer!"

Scraw suffered their invectives, endured them for the sake of something greater. Absently, the Fixer's free hand drifted to his breast pocket, where he palmed the outline of his pocketwatch. Killing the Magisters with the very Charter they gave him would be rapturous . . . but accomplish nothing.

After a moment, Scraw glanced at Norvea, who waved to silence her comrades. "Explain, Fixer," she said.

"Do you want to preserve this country? Your country?"

"Yes."

Scraw nodded, all humor, joy, and delight gone. Buried under the pressure of what had to be done. "Then I suggest you vote in favor of these supplementary measures . . ."

To Be Continued

Asian Fantasy Standalone Novel Prologue Preview!

For those of you who've read Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth, you know I have a penchant for writing . . . lengthy prologues. The initial framing of a story is, after all, extremely important. It's the first thing a reader sees, so it has to draw them in, hint at where the story is going, and leave them craving more.

Yet while Rebirth's prologue is a suitably titanic foundation for the immense series to follow, not all tales need the same level of exposition. Some can stand on a narrow pedestal, one filled with mystery and intrigue, desperation and audacity.

So it is with the following preview, definitive proof that I can write a brief introduction to one of my worlds. Enjoy!

Untitled Asian Fantasy Prologue

"Are you certain you wish to do this?"

Hiritaka Senbei's eyes snapped open and pain came rushing back into his temples, a pounding migraine worse than any he'd suffered before. How could I have dozed off in the middle of such agony? Gingerly, like a newborn babe, he raised his head from the bloody palm of his gauntlet, fingers tracing crimson furrows on his mud-caked cheek.

The sight before him set his heart to racing in time with the invisible hammer wailing against his skull. Senbei's hand leapt for the short wakizashi at his side as he made to stand. Then clarity returned, and he slumped down on his zaisu seat. Back bent; strength spent; bereft of honor.

Waiting to die.

"I'll ask again. Are you certain you wish to do this?"

Was Senbei certain of anything at this point? Glancing up, he briefly met the Yokai's gaze. Brilliant blue, piercingly so. Frigid enough to cover his land, a domain that had never seen a snow, in ice and sleet.

But while the eyes were human, the rest was not. What human's robes flowed about them in an unseen wind, strands black as pitch that melded, broke, and danced to a tune all their own? What human's limbs could not be discerned? The creature—the demonic Yokai—had gestured at Senbei several times during their conversation. Yet when his arm withdrew, it appeared to join the shifting cloud—a mere tendril among hundreds that made up his spectral form.

Across the tent, one of Senbei's commander's found the courage to speak. "L-lord Hiritaka is master of all that surrounds us! An Aratama will not address him so casually!"

Aratama, an evil spirit. A Yokai bent on mischief and mayhem. It was an apt label for the revenant before them, one the phantom did not seem to mind. It turned in place, glacial eyes glinting at the commander, who looked straight down at the tatami mat beneath him, perhaps searching for the secret technique of its weaver.

Senbei imagined that to a being without mouth, nose, or ears, that shimmer was a smile.

"Lord Hiritaka was the chief power in Ishikara," the Yokai mocked in that melodic, forceful tone it favored. "But he is no longer. Your men are spent, your army lies in disarray, and the rebels will shortly overrun this camp."

"You—all of you," it expanded its amorphous darkness to take in the entire command tent and its occupants: Senbei and his samurai, the final eight lords still loyal to his cause. "Have a choice to make. Will you commit seppuku and retain some small dignity? Fight to the last? Or . . . ."

Its voice fell to a haunting whisper. ". . . will you accept my offer?"

A chuckle burst from Senbei's cracked lips, setting his temples ablaze once more. But he didn't care. Dead men were beyond such things.

His samurai looked at their lord like he had lost his wits, but he was the sane one. Why didn't they laugh with him? The tent was filthy, the mon banners at the entrance were tattered and worn, their tatami armor was slashed to ribbons, and he'd lost his helmet in the last engagement. Valresh, the chief deity of their pantheon, had clearly abandoned them to their fate.

Yet worse still, his father's daito—the long blade with which he'd won their ancestral land—was lying in the muck of the Kirento fields outside, waiting to be claimed as a prize by some peasant soldier who'd sell it for cheap sake. If Senbei didn't fall on his sole remaining sword this instant, did he have any hope of entering the next life with a shred of honor to his name?

Yes, Senbei did have a spider's thread of hope left.

And it was a Yokai with a devil's promise of power.

Senbei stopped laughing. In one swift motion that nearly split his head in twain, he jumped to his feet, prompting his commanders to follow suit in a chorus of groans and clanking dou plates.

Like rushing water, he drew his wakizashi and stabbed his left hand. Blood dripping between his fingers, the heat of his life emptying onto the mats below, Senbei clenched his fist and held it forth in offering.

"Do it!" he roared.

The Yokai nodded, blue eyes glinting, abyssal features inscrutable. "The agreement is sealed in blood, forever binding, never to be broken."

A gust of chill wind swept through the tent. Ropes were ripped from their stakes to snap like serpents in the air; cloth flaps pulled back, exposing the desolate camp beyond. Senbei blinked. The Yokai was gone, vanished, as were his headache and . . .

He opened his wounded hand, watching with slack-jawed wonder as the cut sizzled and sealed. Tiny tendrils of smoke curled from it as it healed, snaking from the chamber into the darkening sky beyond.

Suddenly shouts of exclamation rose from his samurai—not cries of despair or agony, but of amazement. They glowed faintly, and sweat beaded on their unshaved faces. Senbei yanked his right gauntlet off. His skin glowed even brighter than theirs, and though he couldn't feel the warmth, steam wafted from his flesh.

He'd never felt so powerful in all his life.

"It worked!" Senbei yelled. "It worked!"

The gale redoubled, tearing away the tent and carrying it off across the corpse littered plain beyond the camp. Senbei didn't notice. He was transfixed by the radiance pouring from his arm. So mesmerized, in fact, that he failed to witness the impossible flakes of snow drifting lazily from the heavens . . .

. . . or hear the screams erupting all around the battlefield.

Asian Fantasy Standalone Novel Prologue Preview!

For those of you who've read Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth, you know I have a penchant for writing . . . lengthy prologues. The initial framing of a story is, after all, extremely important. It's the first thing a reader sees, so it has to draw them in, hint at where the story is going, and leave them craving more.

Yet while Rebirth's prologue is a suitably titanic foundation for the immense series to follow, not all tales need the same level of exposition. Some can stand on a narrow pedestal, one filled with mystery and intrigue, desperation and audacity.

So it is with the following preview, definitive proof that I can write a brief introduction to one of my worlds. Enjoy!

Untitled Asian Fantasy Prologue

"Are you certain you wish to do this?"

Hiritaka Senbei's eyes snapped open and pain came rushing back into his temples, a pounding migraine worse than any he'd suffered before. How could I have dozed off in the middle of such agony? Gingerly, like a newborn babe, he raised his head from the bloody palm of his gauntlet, fingers tracing crimson furrows on his mud-caked cheek.

The sight before him set his heart to racing in time with the invisible hammer wailing against his skull. Senbei's hand leapt for the short wakizashi at his side as he made to stand. Then clarity returned, and he slumped down on his zaisu seat. Back bent; strength spent; bereft of honor.

Waiting to die.

"I'll ask again. Are you certain you wish to do this?"

Was Senbei certain of anything at this point? Glancing up, he briefly met the Yokai's gaze. Brilliant blue, piercingly so. Frigid enough to cover his land, a domain that had never seen a snow, in ice and sleet.

But while the eyes were human, the rest was not. What human's robes flowed about them in an unseen wind, strands black as pitch that melded, broke, and danced to a tune all their own? What human's limbs could not be discerned? The creature—the demonic Yokai—had gestured at Senbei several times during their conversation. Yet when his arm withdrew, it appeared to join the shifting cloud—a mere tendril among hundreds that made up his spectral form.

Across the tent, one of Senbei's commander's found the courage to speak. "L-lord Hiritaka is master of all that surrounds us! An Aratama will not address him so casually!"

Aratama, an evil spirit. A Yokai bent on mischief and mayhem. It was an apt label for the revenant before them, one the phantom did not seem to mind. It turned in place, glacial eyes glinting at the commander, who looked straight down at the tatami mat beneath him, perhaps searching for the secret technique of its weaver.

Senbei imagined that to a being without mouth, nose, or ears, that shimmer was a smile.

"Lord Hiritaka was the chief power in Ishikara," the Yokai mocked in that melodic, forceful tone it favored. "But he is no longer. Your men are spent, your army lies in disarray, and the rebels will shortly overrun this camp."

"You—all of you," it expanded its amorphous darkness to take in the entire command tent and its occupants: Senbei and his samurai, the final eight lords still loyal to his cause. "Have a choice to make. Will you commit seppuku and retain some small dignity? Fight to the last? Or . . . ."

Its voice fell to a haunting whisper. ". . . will you accept my offer?"

A chuckle burst from Senbei's cracked lips, setting his temples ablaze once more. But he didn't care. Dead men were beyond such things.

His samurai looked at their lord like he had lost his wits, but he was the sane one. Why didn't they laugh with him? The tent was filthy, the mon banners at the entrance were tattered and worn, their tatami armor was slashed to ribbons, and he'd lost his helmet in the last engagement. Valresh, the chief deity of their pantheon, had clearly abandoned them to their fate.

Yet worse still, his father's daito—the long blade with which he'd won their ancestral land—was lying in the muck of the Kirento fields outside, waiting to be claimed as a prize by some peasant soldier who'd sell it for cheap sake. If Senbei didn't fall on his sole remaining sword this instant, did he have any hope of entering the next life with a shred of honor to his name?

Yes, Senbei did have a spider's thread of hope left.

And it was a Yokai with a devil's promise of power.

Senbei stopped laughing. In one swift motion that nearly split his head in twain, he jumped to his feet, prompting his commander's to follow suit in a chorus of groans and clanking dou plates.

Like rushing water, he drew his wakizashi and stabbed his left hand. Blood dripping between his fingers, the heat of his life emptying onto the mats below, Senbei clenched his fist and held it forth in offering.

"Do it!" he roared.

The Yokai nodded, blue eyes glinting, abyssal features inscrutable. "The agreement is sealed in blood, forever binding, never to be broken."

A gust of chill wind swept through the tent. Ropes were ripped from their stakes to snap like serpents in the air; cloth flaps pulled back, exposing the desolate camp beyond. Senbei blinked. The Yokai was gone, vanished, as were his headache and . . .

He opened his wounded hand, watching with slack-jawed wonder as the cut sizzled and sealed. Tiny tendrils of smoke curled from it as it healed, snaking from the chamber into the darkening sky beyond.

Suddenly shouts of exclamation rose from his samurai—not cries of despair or agony, but of amazement. They glowed faintly, and sweat beaded on their unshaved faces. Senbei yanked his right gauntlet off. His skin glowed even brighter than theirs, and though he couldn't feel the warmth, steam wafted from his flesh.

He'd never felt so powerful in all his life.

"It worked!" Senbei yelled. "It worked!"

The gale redoubled, tearing away the tent and carrying it off across the corpse littered plain beyond the camp. Senbei didn't notice. He was transfixed by the radiance pouring from his arm. So mesmerized, in fact, that he failed to witness the impossible flakes of snow drifting lazily from the heavens . . .

. . . or hear the screams erupting all around the battlefield.

MIDSUMMER MADNESS PROMOTION!

MIDSUMMER MADNESS PROMOTION!
Now through AUGUST 13th

Get Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth on sale for the fantastic E-Book price of $0.99. That's 500 pages of Epic Fantasy adventure for less than ONE DOLLAR!

AMAZON LINK: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B088PB6M5D

All SIGNED COPIES purchased through my website (https://www.christopherrussellauthor.com/) are discounted from $19.95 to $12.95!

Pre-ordered a Physical Copy or Bought It directly from my website?

Anyone who sends proof of PHYSICAL PRE-ORDER from Barnes and Noble, Amazon, or any other retailer—including purchasing directly from my WEBSITE—will receive a first-edition Divinity's Twilight Bookmark.

TEASER

A world consumed by war . . .

An ancient evil resurrected . . .

A millennia old bargain comes due . . .

When two blades clash, the third will fall, and the fate of all will be jeopardized. To save Lozaria, the failures of the past must be atoned for by a new generation of heroes. The time has come for mortals to cast off sight and, in doing so, truly come to

see . . .

Victory is never absolute.

Seven centuries ago, the forces of order won the Illyriite War on the plains of Har'muth. Darmatus and Rabban Aurelian slew their elder brother, Sarcon, the despotic architect of the conflict, then sacrificed themselves to banish the cataclysmic vortex opened with his dying breath. The first advent of the Oblivion Well was thwarted. Even without their vanished gods, the seven races of Lozaria proved themselves capable of safeguarding their world.

Or so the story goes.

The year is now 697 A.B.H (After the Battle of Har'muth). Though war itself remains much the same, the weapons with which it is waged have evolved. Airships bearing powerful cannons ply the skies, reducing the influence of mages and their spells. Long range communication has brought far flung regions of Lozaria closer than ever before. At the center of this technological revolution are the three Terran states of Darmatia, Rabban, and Sarconia, who have fought a near ceaseless campaign of 700 years in an attempt to best each other. The roots of their enmity lie buried beneath the wasteland of Har'muth, a place all three nations consider best forgotten.

However, an ancient power sealed within Har'muth has not forgotten them, and the descendants of those who fought on that field must now take a stand to rectify the mistakes of the past.

Please take advantage of these stellar deals and, in doing so, help Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth make the Amazon E-Book bestseller list. Even if you've already purchased the book, every $0.99 purchase—which can be gifted to friends!—brings us closer to that goal. I am eternally grateful for your support and patronage. Thank you so, so much.

MIDSUMMER MADNESS PROMOTION!

MIDSUMMER MADNESS PROMOTION!
Now through AUGUST 3rd

Get Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth on sale for the fantastic E-Book price of $0.99. That's 500 pages of Epic Fantasy adventure for less than ONE DOLLAR!

AMAZON LINK:

Send a screenshot of your E-Book purchase receipt to chrisrusselldivinitystwilight@gmail.com to be entered into a FREE SIGNED COPY raffle. Five winners will be drawn on AUGUST 4 and contacted by email for an appropriate shipping address. (US AND INTERNATIONAL)

Pre-ordered a Physical Copy or Bought It directly from my website?

In addition to the giveaway, anyone who sends proof of PHYSICAL PRE-ORDER from Barnes and Noble, Amazon, or any other retailer—including purchasing directly from my WEBSITE—will receive a first-edition Divinity's Twilight Bookmark.

TEASER

A world consumed by war . . .

An ancient evil resurrected . . .

A millennia old bargain comes due . . .

When two blades clash, the third will fall, and the fate of all will be jeopardized. To save Lozaria, the failures of the past must be atoned for by a new generation of heroes. The time has come for mortals to cast off sight and, in doing so, truly come to

see . . .

Victory is never absolute.

Seven centuries ago, the forces of order won the Illyriite War on the plains of Har'muth. Darmatus and Rabban Aurelian slew their elder brother, Sarcon, the despotic architect of the conflict, then sacrificed themselves to banish the cataclysmic vortex opened with his dying breath. The first advent of the Oblivion Well was thwarted. Even without their vanished gods, the seven races of Lozaria proved themselves capable of safeguarding their world.

Or so the story goes.

The year is now 697 A.B.H (After the Battle of Har'muth). Though war itself remains much the same, the weapons with which it is waged have evolved. Airships bearing powerful cannons ply the skies, reducing the influence of mages and their spells. Long range communication has brought far flung regions of Lozaria closer than ever before. At the center of this technological revolution are the three Terran states of Darmatia, Rabban, and Sarconia, who have fought a near ceaseless campaign of 700 years in an attempt to best each other. The roots of their enmity lie buried beneath the wasteland of Har'muth, a place all three nations consider best forgotten.

However, an ancient power sealed within Har'muth has not forgotten them, and the descendants of those who fought on that field must now take a stand to rectify the mistakes of the past.

Please take advantage of these stellar deals and, in doing so, help Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth make the Amazon E-Book bestseller list. Even if you've already purchased the book, every $0.99 purchase—which can be gifted to friends!—brings us closer to that goal. I am eternally grateful for your support and patronage. Thank you so, so much.

National All-Author Cover of the Month Contest WINNER!

On June 2, almost a month ago, Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth was published on E-Book platforms. It was a nerve-wracking release. As a first time author, I was uncertain how my work would be received and whether anyone—not just strangers, but family and friends as well—would care about it.

The All Author June Cover of the Month Contest shattered those doubts into 696 splinters: one for each incredible supporter who took the time to find my page, make another social media account, and vote for Chris McGrath's breathtaking illustration. An outpouring of love and kindness came from every corner imaginable. Old classmates, football teammates, and martial arts peers and students. Morgan James, my fellow authors, and my budding fanbase. My church, the Knights of Columbus, the Little Sisters of St. Francis, and believers all around the world.

It was as if I'd left a little length of string behind with every connection I'd made. And with the slightest touch, the weakest nudge, I was able to set those threads to dancing once more. This experience has taught me that relationships never die, and that my communities can be counted on when it really matters. You, each of you, are the reason for this victory. You are the reason I can be an author; the reason my voice carries beyond the ink and pages where it lies. You are the reason for the warmth in my chest, the tears in my eyes, and this moment of profound clarity and peace.

No amount of gratitude can repay my debt. But I will continue to write, craft new worlds and stories, and take you on adventures to far-off places you've never dreamed of seeing. I shall ensure that the support you've given is returned a hundred-fold in everything I do.

So . . . thank you for your love . . . for that is what your vote truly conveys.

With Profuse Appreciation,
Christopher Russell
Author of Divinity's Twilight: Rebirth

See the winning cover at:

Find Divinity's Twilight at these retailers and more:

In-Stores Everywhere September 22, 2020

First Draft Fridays #6 — Back To The Past (Star Wars story part two)

Think about all the characters in all the books you've read. Do you have a clear picture of a few? If you do, start contemplating not their strengths, but their flaws. Were they originally cowards? Slow to trust? Manipulative? Selfish? Belligerent? Insensitive?

The list of potential flaws goes on and on—and those are just character traits or personality quirks. What about something more deeply rooted, like an old injury, a disability, or nagging trauma? Individuals shouldn't be belittled for being hung-up on these issues. Everyone has demons, some self-inflicted, many not, and it is by accepting and challenging them that we grow past who we are now.

What's most important about these traits is that they make characters interesting. Hyper-competent characters like Sherlock Holmes work for stories that are focused on an external trial, like a mystery, but most tales benefit from dynamic protagonists who develop along with their adventures. The best source of this growth is conflict—often with one's own flaws. And when these internal flaws are directly challenged by external events, that growth is all the more compelling to a reader.

So it is with Aisha, who may find her past isn't buried as deeply as she would prefer . . .

,,NOTE: Written in 2014. For excerpts from the Divinity's Twilight universe, read the samples in the "Online Library" tab or "Side Story: Ahrs."

,,PART TWO: "Your flying could use some work"

5 Years Later, 10 BBY (Before the Battle of Yavin - Star Wars Episode 4)

The jerking deceleration unceremoniously flung Aisha from the upper bunk in their crew quarters where, until an instant prior, she had been fast asleep. With milliseconds between her and a rough reintroduction to the metal floor below, she thrust out her hands and halted her fall with an invisible layer of cushioning. Inches from the ground, she concentrated, feeling the Force flow through her body and into the air molecules around her…before with a second, smaller gasp, the ship spasmed and threw her into the nearby bulkhead.

“Master, I thought we agreed not to come out of hyperspace so suddenly! What happened to slowly backing down the engines?”

Aisha picked herself off the floor and gingerly rubbed the shoulder that had struck the wall. No permanent damage. She wiped strands of her long, black hair from her eyes and stretched her body to its full height. Once considered short for her age, she was now almost as tall as her instructor, though still lithe and thin like she’d always been. Stretching her muscles to shake off lingering fatigue, Aisha’s green eyes scanned the chronometer mounted above the room’s single exit. 22:26 GST, about six hours of sleep. She’d had that dream again, the one about the day she first met her master, but aside from that it was better rest than most of her recent nights. After contemplating the nature of the dream for the umpteenth time—since, as Sirhc had told her, the nightly musings of Force users often held deeper meaning—Aisha waved open the door and stepped into the vessel’s central corridor.

From the fore of the ship, where an open cockpit ended with a glass canopy and a view of the stars, her Master, Jedi Knight Sirhc Rulless, answered in a jovial tone. “We also agreed not to yell about our problems, at the top of our lungs, after forgetting that we left the intercom system in our room on.”With an unseen reddening of her cheeks, Aisha glanced back through the open door to see the intercom flashing green. Since the sound from that transmitted throughout the ship and directly into the headset her master was wearing…she'd probably all but blew his eardrums out.

“Apologies, master,” she managed, grabbing a tie for her hair from the shelf before heading forward to sit beside him in the copilot’s chair. Aisha flipped her hair back into a ponytail before the inevitable continuation, “But, if you were a little more careful with your hyperspace calculations or your piloting, I wouldn’t have to practice saving myself from ramming into the wall, floor, or various other protrusions using the Force every time I wake up.”

He glanced over at her and grinned. “I concede you the point, though practice is important. Maybe I send the ship into a gravity well every time you’re sleeping just to test your reflexes…or to make sure you’ll actually wake up.”

“Touché.”Aisha reached forward and grabbed two ration bars from a compartment directly between them and underneath the instrument panel. She passed one to Sirhc and began absentmindedly working through her own. The breakfast of champions, or, in their case, the fastest, most convenient, and cheapest they could get.

“Of course, the old girl doesn’t make piloting very easy. I swear half the systems are broken and the other half are held together with Naboo swamp paste. It shows how important the Council thinks our missions are that they don’t give us a better ship.” Aisha snorted around a bite of her ‘meal.'In truth, the small, and in exile, UREC (Unknown Region Exploration and Colonization mission) Jedi Council cared deeply about each and every one of its remaining members. As far as they were aware, there were less than two score Jedi left in both their care and the galaxy at large.

After Order 66, some ten years prior, the Jedi had nearly gone extinct, with only UREC, a group dispatched by the official Jedi Council during the Clone Wars for the mapping and exploration of the unknown regions, surviving that horrific purge due to ignorance of their existence. Aisha knew far more about the history of the Jedi Order than the average Padawan, since her master was one of the remaining historians and data experts, but considered most of it insufferably boring. She’d much rather practice her Force and martial arts or train with her lightsaber, since those skills actually mattered in the long run.

With a loud pop, the cabin lights went out and red emergency lights lit up angrily throughout the cockpit and hall behind them. Sirhc threw a couple of switches on a panel to his left before giving up and returning both hands to the steering yoke. “Seeing what we’re doing isn’t that important, right? Just something else to fix when we finally get her back into the shop.”

The old YT-100 freighter given to them by the Council was condemned during the Clone Wars and had probably still been a rust bucket back when Revan had been both a Sith Lord and Jedi Master. But she had a hyperdrive, two turbolaser turrets in the roof and belly, a crew quarters, workshop, and a crazy half dismantled assassin droid named HK-47 that came with the package.That last one really shouldn’t be listed as a positive, Aisha reflected, grabbing the toolkit from the overhead bin and heading aft to check on the central power supply. In retrospect, having a bunch of tools in an overhead bin also probably wasn’t a good idea, given how many G’s the ship seemed to pull on a regular basis. But…one problem at a time.

As she walked, bent over in some places due to pipes and wires spliced erratically wherever there was space for them, she talked to her master over the shipboard intercom. “So what’s the mission for today? More supply running for the Tjiilari refugees we’ve been working with?”

She could hear him fidgeting with the navicomputer as he responded.The keys of that particular device tended to stick, so using it wasn’t so much a matter of typing as physically pounding in the desired coordinates. “No. We’ll be returning to the Outer Rim to briefly link up with an old friend—A Jedi friend—who acts as sort of an…informant, or spy, for us.Gives us a little more heads up on how the wind might blow out here. Anyway, we’ll be meeting him, getting his information, loading up on supplies, and then jetting back this way. In fact, Masters Blanco and Cirone will also be there in the old Nebulon-B doing the same.”

“What planet? Maybe something tropical for once? If I get any pastier I’ll look like one of those Force ghosts you’ve told me about.” Aisha giggled a little as she stopped near the rear boarding ramp and removed a small wall panel to her right. Inside was a mass of tangled wires, some labeled, some not, and almost all of the writing incomprehensible. From long hours of practice, she grabbed two wires, red and blue respectively, near the back, pulled them until she found where they were—poorly—joined, and then grabbed a length of soldering wire from the toolkit. Holding it against the frayed segment with the Force, she touched the soldering iron to the spot, let the sparks fly, and then stood back to admire her handiwork. With a flicker, and a warm feeling of pride in her chest, the hallway lights came back on.

The whole process had taken thirty seconds, and yet her master hadn’t answered her.She trudged back to the front with toolkit in tow. “Didn’t you hear me, master? What planet are we going to?”

Sirhc turned his chair around to face her, compassion and a little worry written on his features. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, Aisha. I’m sure you’ll be fine—in fact I know you’ll be fine—but it’s probably not a place you have the fondest memories of. Our contact set it up, so we can’t change it, but you can always stay on the ship if you’ll feel better.” He gestured at the images on the navicomputer, as though to save himself the burden of naming the place out loud. Aisha glanced at the name, in Basic, floating on the device, and felt her heart sink in her chest.

Nar Shadaa.

Oh boy. At least that explains the dreams.

Fantasy Hive Author Spotlight - June 2, 2020

Curious about all the things I never discuss because I'm too busy promoting Divinity's Twilight. You're in luck! The popular SFF blog Fantasy Hive recently sat down and asked me a bunch of prying questions such as:

What D&D class would you play?

How do you dress when you write?

If you were forced to take a day off, what would you do?
And . . . what is the air velocity of an unladen swallow?

I stumbled a bit on the last one and got thrown off a rickety foot bridge, but don't worry, I got better. Anyway, here's the full transcript. Enjoy!

Welcome to the Hive, Christopher Russell. Let’s start small: tell us about a great book you’ve read recently!

Wow! Contrary to your assertion, this question is incredibly difficult to answer. Who could pick just one great fantasy book to hold above all the rest?

However, if pressed, I have to say that the best novel I’ve (re)read recently was Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson, the third entry in his epic Stormlight Archive series. I did this as part of my Sanderfan obligations – read the fine print on the 17th Shard – in order to get ready for the Rhythm of War release this November.

Why is Oathbringer amazing? Without getting into spoilers, I can say that Dalinar, the focal POV for the novel, is the most nuanced character I’ve ever read. Too often we get heroes who were once “bad,” but now they’re “good” – and they’re going to stay good for the rest of the series. Yet what if we had a morally grey character who merely hid their atrocities, even from themselves? How would uncovering their past affect the person they’ve become? Their sense of right and wrong? Their relationships with others? Sanderson does a brilliant job examining these themes through Dalinar, so I have to give him the nod for my best recent read.

Okay, time to escalate things: reality warps and you suddenly find yourself leading a D&D-style party through a monster-infested dungeon. What character class are you, and what’s your weapon of choice?

Crusader with a sword of undead smiting raised to whatever plus value I can get with the gold I have on hand. Dungeons are notorious for hiding crypts, and crypts are bound to be infested with hordes of skeletons, zombies, liches, and the like. When the noxious dead need to be put back in their shallow graves, nothing beats a tank with holy magics.

When you’re not trawling through dungeons, how do you like to work? (In silence, with music, or serenaded by the damned souls of a thousand dead shrimps? Do you prefer to type or to hand-write? Are you an architect or a gardener? A plotter or a pantser? D’you write in your underwear, or in a deep-sea diver’s suit?) Tell us a little bit about your writing method!

As with most writers, I imagine my process combines a bunch of seemingly incongruous elements.

To prepare, I listen to videos on writing, BookTube reviews, or music appropriate to whatever kind of scene I’m about to dive into. Somber and melancholic for tragedy; bold and dynamic for action sequences; spunky and dissonant for comedy and oddball character interactions. Two Steps from Hell is my go to for these pieces 90% of the time.

Then, once I’m in the proper frame of mind, I settle down at a desktop keyboard with an overlarge monitor – a TV at least twice the size of what most people would consider reasonable. For some reason, this helps me take in a page. I imagine it has something to do with not having to squint despite my poor eyesight.

I am an unabashed gardener/panster/discovery writer. Well, that’s not quite true. I desperately want to be an architect, but find that if I know more than the five critical plot points I need to hit on the way to my finale, I lose most of my motivation. I want to feel the same surprise that my characters do when someone unexpectedly betrays them, or a monster lurches out of the depths to confront them. I want their fear to clutch at my heart, for my breath to come in short, ragged gasps. When I’m on the adventure with my creations, the story beats are always stronger for the fact that I deigned to join them in their world. And at the death knell, when the revision reaper inevitably comes calling, you can go back into your manuscript and make everything neat and tidy so that your head – your story – might remain attached.

However, I’m currently taking steps to broaden my skill-set. The writer that doesn’t try to improve their craft is one that will never advance past where they are now. So, while I’m unwilling to disclose details at this time, I am approaching a new single entry Asian Fantasy WIP as an architect would: designing the magic system in advance, plotting each chapter and part ahead of time, sketching the character arcs, etc. I’m sure my discovery roots will burst forth at some point, but only to improve the final product.

I write bare-footed in a pair of sweatpants and one of three University of Virginia football T-shirts that rotate through the wash on a regular basis. Weird, eccentric, and eclectic garb, just as a writer should wear.

What (or who) are your most significant fantasy influences? Are there any creators whom you dream of working with someday?

Most fantasy writers are voracious readers, and therefore their influences can be counted in the number of books they have read. But even more than that, a tiny bit of everything I’ve read, seen, learned, or experienced has found its way into my writing – either consciously or unconsciously.

This answer is, of course, a pithy cop-out. My apologies to the interviewer; I shan’t derail the conversation again.

Brian Jacques is the earliest fantasy author whose work I consumed. His anthropomorphic heroes and villains were delightful, his medieval world deep and storied, and his feasts a source of much salivation. I think my love of detailed prose grew from rereading his Redwall series over and over again.

Tolkien, practically required reading for any aspiring fantasy author, was my next stop. His brush strokes represent a manifesto on world-building, and I was more than happy to take notes.

I’ve also read almost every Star Wars book in existence. Grand Admiral Thrawn is my favorite character, Palpatine was working for the good of the galaxy, and the Jedi deserved to be cast down for their hubris. Okay. Only one of those is true, maybe one and a half. I’ll let you sort out which.

However, the series that convinced me to write my own epic was Shadows of the Apt by Adrian Tchaikovsky. It’s not that his storytelling, formulated around humans who bore the traits of insect ancestors, did anything that hadn’t been seen before. Rather, its execution of mundane concepts like espionage, technology, politics, military maneuvering, and other hallmarks of a fantasy war was outstanding. I won’t spoil any specifics, but Tchaikovsky examines the consequences of innovations and extrapolates them out to every other aspect of society and culture – which is, in my opinion, the crux of fantastic worldbuilding. Start small, change one thing, and figure out how it dominoes into every adjoining thread.

It will come as no surprise to anyone that my dream collaboration would be with Brandon Sanderson. Though Divinity’s Twilight was already out for queries when I first picked up a Cosmere book in 2019, I find the overlap in our approach to worldbuilding and mythology to be considerable. Mind that this is like a filthy cobblestone staring up at a pristine marble statue and thinking they have kinship because they’re both, on some level, rock. Yet once I hone my craft and get to the point where my hard magic systems are as well-defined as his, then I’d be delighted to work alongside him.  

What was the last thing you watched on TV and why did you choose to watch it? Alternatively, what games have you enjoyed recently?

These questions are right up my alley, so I’ll answer them both in turn. I’m presently on a “Viking” binge, having just finished the eponymous Viking show on Amazon Prime before moving to The Last Kingdom on Netflix. I find the latter more enjoyable than the former, primarily for its historical accuracy and the fact that it was drawn from source material by Bernard Cornwell, the king of historical fiction. Beyond simple enjoyment, there’s a yet to be introduced culture in Divinity’s Twilight that will have Scandinavian roots, so taking an entertaining look at their martial past counts as research . . . I think . . .

It might throw readers for a loop, but I’m a fan of most genres of games. Chief among these are RPGs – story driven adventures like Final Fantasy, Witcher, and Dark Souls – and strategy games like Total War: Three Kingdoms. Though I haven’t had much time to play, I’ve been working on a Three Kingdoms campaign as the Han Dynasty circa 184 AD, which is when the empire began to collapse into the chaos that preceded the Three Kingdoms era. I once again claim this indulgence as research, since the Han court may play a role in that Asian Fantasy WIP I mentioned earlier.

The world shifts, and you find yourself with an extra day on your hands during which you’re not allowed to write. How do you choose to spend the day?

I should spend it working on networking and marketing, but that seems a little too much like work, so we’ll forego that misery.

Instead, I’d wake up at the crack of 10 AM, shamble slowly through consuming a small snack and some water, then head out for a five-mile jog. To most, exercise is also work, but I can forgive myself for a lack of productivity if I wear myself out first thing in the morning. Breakfast consists of a blend of various yogurts and granola consumed in front of the computer, on which I’ll either be watching shows or playing games. I will contentedly spend the rest of the day in this manner unless I decide to break for reading. As a binge reader, I will dedicate all my free time to reading a series until I finish it, whereupon I’ll switch back to digital entertainment until I select a new series. An ideal dinner consists of stir-fried rice with a selection of meats and veggies blended in. As I cannot eat without visual stimulation – do normal people really talk while they eat? – this meal would also be enjoyed in front of my computer.

In this way, I will endeavor to accomplish absolutely nothing of value on my day off from writing.

Can you tell us a little something about your current work(s) in progress?

Divinity’s Twilight: Rebirth is the first entry in my epic Divinity’s Twilight series. These books take place on the war-torn world of Lozaria, home to seven distinct races and the deities that spawned them. However, these gods, the Veneer, have departed for planes unknown, leaving mortals to fend for themselves. The result is as expected: chaos, destruction, and despair.

Seven centuries after the Battle of Har’muth, a conflict between the races that nearly eradicated life on Lozaria by splitting the fabric of existence, a cold war simmers on the continent . . . a stalemate that is about to be broken by an ancient evil that isn’t buried as deeply as everyone believes. Now a band of unsuspecting heroes will have to rectify the mistakes of the past and, in doing so, shoulder a cosmic struggle two millennia in the making.

The novels follow both these protagonists and a cast of morally grey antagonists, all with sympathetic motivations, all with ambitions they wish to see realized. Some would doom Lozaria; others would see it saved. Most lie somewhere on the spectrum in between, and loyalties are not always what they seem.

Three books, of which Rebirth is the first, have been drafted. Since the story continues beyond that point, it is likely that the series will be at least six books long. Fortunately, I’m a prolific writer, so I don’t envision great delays between books and other projects will be mixed in along the way.

Working Title: ??? (Asian Fantasy): This is an architect style single entry novel intended to take place in the same universe as Divinity’s Twilight. What that entails is spoilers, as are information related to its plot, characters, and setting. I can tell you it will have a hard magic system based on real-world principles – specifically those I’ve picked up during my years of engineering study. It will also feature an expanded emphasis on martial arts, courtesy of my years of training in Songahm Taekwondo, in which I hold a third-degree black belt. I expect to have this project completed by the end of 2020.

What’s the most (and/or least) helpful piece of writing advice you’ve ever received?

“It’s okay to write something that isn’t good. What matters most is getting it down on the page.” ~Paraphrased from Brandon Sanderson

I’m a perfectionist. Whether it’s engineering, athletics, gaming, or writing, I want to be the absolute best. Therefore it can be immensely frustrating when a scene isn’t working. Is the dialogue stilted? Are the characters too introspective? Have I fallen into the tell versus show trap? I used to end up sitting there, staring at the page for minutes on end, trying to determine what the magic formula for the next paragraph was.

Yet all this really does is pull you out of your flow. Better to write, and write poorly – especially as a discovery writer – than to flounder in place and not write at all. Once it’s out of your head and onto the page it is so much easier to fix; it’s no longer an intangible, but a real set of actions, description, and prose that can be manipulated at will.

Write, study, write, study, then write some more. Only by spouting words will you find your voice. Only by trying will you have an opportunity to succeed. The individual that stands still has already lost. Write . . . and give yourself a fighting chance.

Every writer encounters stumbling blocks, be it a difficult chapter, challenging subject matter, or just starting a new project. How do you motivate yourself on days when you don’t want to write?

Ha! I feel like I spent half of the last question answering this. Purely coincidence, I assure you.

Force of habit. My deadlines aren’t stringent, but if I don’t meet a certain word count each day, the following day, week, or month is going to be miserable. Golden prose and ideas won’t fly from your fingers every session. This is simply a fact of life; everyone has ups and downs. In my case, I set a minimum daily word count of 1500 words. I’d love to get to 3-4k, but if fog has settled on my brain, each sentence is like wading through a pit of mud, and I seem to be giving in to “worldbuilder’s” disease instead of progressing the plot, then I hit 1500 and stop.

Naturally, I’ll finish the sentence I’m on. Only apostates cut-off mid-sentence.

If you could visit any country at any point in history, where/when would you go, and why?

Sengoku Jidai: The warring states period of Japanese history. While I might find myself beheaded as a spy within minutes of my appearance, this is an acceptable risk for meeting some of the great leaders and generals I’ve admired during my studies. Yes, many of them were monsters, but I can’t deny the allure I feel from their tales of triumph and glory. Just a minute with Oda Nobunaga, Tokugawa Ieyasu, and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, then back in the time machine – head still securely fastened to my shoulders.

Tell us about a book that’s excellent, but underappreciated or obscure.

I’ll bring back a title I used before: Shadows of the Apt by Adrian Tchaikovsky. Though Tchaikovsky is published by TOR, he doesn’t get nearly the same press that their other contracted authors do. I find this odd given that his worldbuilding is every bit as nuanced as theirs, and his approach to war and politics are among the most realistic I’ve seen. Anyone reading this interview should immediately go out and find Empire in Black and Gold, the first book in Shadows of the Apt. Fans of epic and military fantasy will not be disappointed.

Finally, would you be so kind as to dazzle us with an elevator pitch? Why should readers check out your work?

A world consumed by war . . .

An ancient evil resurrected . . .

A millennia-old bargain comes due . . .

When two blades clash, the third will fall, and the fate of all will be jeopardized. To save Lozaria, the failures of the past must be atoned for by a new generation of heroes. The time has come for mortals to cast off sight and, in doing so, truly come to see . . .

Do you rave about The Stormlight Archive? Are hard magic systems, scheming aristocrats, and undying warlocks plot elements that excite you more than they should? Have you ever wanted to see WWI battleships floating across the sky, or armies clashing with spell, blade, and rifle? Do you want to read about fantasy races that are fresh – that don’t feel tired and cliché?

Then it’s time for you to pick up a copy of Divinity’s Twilight: Rebirth and dive into the expansive world of Lozaria, a land of forgotten gods, lurking darkness, and a cosmic conflict as old as the soil itself. As you close the book, you’ll find it difficult not to ask this question: when does the next one come out?

First Draft Fridays #5—In A Galaxy Far, Far Away . . .

It's amazing what can change in a mere four or five years. Back then I was still an engineering student at UVA, took Taekwondo classes in my spare time, and didn't bother to vary my sentence structure all that much when writing. Each time I saw the word "as" in today's excerpt, I cringed a little, knowing there are far better alternatives for linking clauses together.

But critiquing my prose is just one element of this blog series—and, if we're honest, the one everyone cares the least about. Instead, you come here for stories. To see what's kicking around in my mind. To be entertained. So as Ahrs's tale draws to a temporary close, I went back into my pile of unfinished projects and grabbed one that's sure to excite: a piece of Star Wars fan-fiction.

Please don't copyright strike me Disney! I'm not profiting off your IP! Whew. Now that we've resolved that little bit of unpleasantness, sit back, relax, and enter the viewpoint of Aisha the waif, a young thief whose life is about to change forever . . .

NOTE: Written in 2014. For excerpts from the Divinity's Twilight universe, read the samples in the "Online Library" tab or "Side Story: Ahrs."

Part One: Run

15 BBY (Before the Battle of Yavin - Star Wars Episode 4)

Run.

Keep running.

If I stop, they’ll kill me for sure.

Her lungs were on fire. Her muscles screamed for release. Every step was agony, every stride an explosion of torment throughout her body. But she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t look back. Only the rapid pattering of her light, short footfalls continued to spare her the even worse fate closing in behind. Neither her ragged breathing nor the incessant thumping of her blood in her ears could fully drown out the litany of alien screams and curses that thundered down the alleyway after her.

An opening in the debris filled lane appeared before her, and she ducked left onto the new path as a blaster bolt scored another black line on the soot covered wall above her head. Sometimes it was an advantage to be short and wiry. At four foot eight, small even for a girl her age, she presented a poor target for the soused gangsters. But she knew her luck wouldn’t hold forever; either they’d finally nail a bolt into her narrow back or catch up to her and carry her back to their den. The former was massively preferable to the latter.

A gruff voice echoed from behind in Basic. “Blast it Kras, I said no blasters! If’n ye hit the goods, it won’t just be your scrawny self feedin the boss’s nexors!” She knew the speaker to be Shor Ek, the lieutenant of local Black Sun crime boss Amari Ataros. She’d dealt with Shor before, and knew the brawny but vacuous Weequay’s cruelty first hand from beatings he’d dealt her in the past. What she didn’t know then, however, was that her previous treatment had been but a warning. She had crossed a line, and any protection her matriarch’s connections with Black Sun may have afforded her were long gone.

As she barreled past a couple of Jawas, completely ignoring the chase behind them as they studied the remnants of a derelict protocol droid, she elicited a raspy chuckle at the irony of her situation. Dust to dust. She was a human, born with no name, abandoned by her parents in the undercity of the capital of gambling, crime, and poverty, Nar Shadaa. She used to think that her parents had no choice, and were still out there somewhere, getting their lives in order so that they could one day find her and tear her away from all of this. Twelve years in the festering pit of galactic scum that toiled day and night in the shadow of the cartels had shattered that notion and left her jaded. Her father was likely a spice addict, her mother a ‘dancer,’ and they had probably abandoned her as an unwanted and unloved burden.

A hulking Gamorrean with tiny eyes and the jowls of a pig stepped out from a doorway ahead and grabbed at her with short, meaty fists. Exhausted as she was, her instinct took over and she slid between his tree trunk legs, jabbed her fist upward into his unarmored groin, and regained her feet to continue running as the thug collapsed at her back. Shouts of dismay rose immediately, and she glanced back to see four gangsters trying to climb over the unmoving bulwark of Gamorrean flesh that now blocked the narrow alley.

That maneuver, along with other less than noble skills, had been drilled into her by her matriarch, Lady Thana. No one knew where she came from, but she was a human of middling years that had established herself as a broker among the crime syndicates of Nar Shadaa. Like herself, Lady Thana had rescued dozens of children from starvation on the unforgiving streets, giving them food and shelter while turning them into her agents to gather information and valuables from across the planet wide city. Smarter and more moldable than her fellows, Lady Thana had given her a title: The Wraith. It was the first time anyone had recognized her existence beyond merely another mouth to feed, and she did not disappoint her mentor. Absorbing skills such as slicing, wiretapping, pickpocketing, safecracking, and more, she accomplished dozens of jobs that further raised the prestige of Lady Thana among her fellow crime bosses and threatened to allow her to expand her operations off world.

Dust to dust. Everything had since come crashing down. The Wraith was sent to steal a data chip containing material and monetary manifests belonging to the local representative of the Trade Federation. The job, ordered by Black Sun, was straightforward and easy: Infiltrate a lightly guarded warehouse, hack the main database, copy the files, setup a dummy program to erase any evidence of intrusion, and get back out again. However, the entire mission was a trap. Vigo Amari Ataros had become jealous of the notoriety Lady Thana had developed, to the point that even Black Sun executives from as far away as Coruscant were courting her favor for access to her intelligence networks. As their voice in the region, Amari couldn’t stand that someone else could possibly be considered equal or superior to her in their estimation. As a result, the Wraith’s ‘mission’ was nothing more than an elaborate trap.

After copying all of the data off the mainframe computer, she found herself surrounded by Shor Ek and a dozen other heavily armed thugs. He calmly informed her that the data she had just copied belonged to Amari Ataros, and that such action represented a breach of the nonaggression pact between Lady Thana and Black Sun. She would therefore be captured, interrogated, tortured, and then summarily executed along with Lady Thana.

Her mind addled with exhaustion from her flight, the Wraith couldn’t remember much of what had happened next. She had loosed a shriek of pent up rage and despair…and then everything around her exploded. Wide eyed gangsters were thrown across the room, crashing into equipment and boxes as they went. Lights hanging from the ceiling shattered and were torn from their mounts, flinging shrapnel down upon everyone and filling the room with darkness. Shor Ek managed to hold his ground, but was pushed back several feet as though buffeted by strong winds. In that instant of wide eyed terror for both her and her enemies, she had let her instincts take over and bolted straight out the warehouse doors.

The Wraith had now been on the run for over an hour, and twilight was coming on. As the shadows lengthened, the dimming light was a friend to her and a foe to her enemies. There were no street lights on the back alleys, and she was used to running under the cover of darkness while her burly pursuers were not. Behind her, the voices from the blocked intersection faded into the distance, and she took another several turns in rapid succession to throw off anyone still following her before ducking into a darkened doorway to catch her breath.

Her adrenaline began to fade almost instantly, and her legs nearly buckled beneath her as they turned to jelly. She had decided to run with a light load this mission, so she had no food or water, just her utility belt with a small knife and other thief’s tools. As her elevated heart rate and breathing began to drop, she listened intently to the end of the day bustle on the other side of the building and plotted how and where she would go to ground.

Tired as the Wraith was, she barely had time to react to the rhythmic humming of the bola as it caught her in mid dash from the alcove. Whipping around her legs, she cried out as the weights on either end bit into her flesh before dropping heavily to the ground and dragging her with them. She tried to scramble to her feet, but her legs were bound securely and she couldn’t shift the ballasts more than a few feet at a time. As the Wraith grabbed her knife from her utility belt, a boot arced out of the fading daylight to kick it from her hand. A wind scarred, leathery hand reached down, grabbed her by her dark, matted hair, and hauled her into the air.

As she clawed and punched at the muscular arm holding her, she found her eyes gazing into those of Shor Ek, “Look’ee what we got here, a lil mouse what scampered off with our data!” So this is how my misery ends the Wraith thought to herself, as with a smirk she spat straight into Shor Ek’s left eye. With a howl of outrage, Shor Ek flung her into the nearby wall, and began kicking her in the stomach, chest, and face, completely oblivious to his orders and the retrieval of the data chip.

As the myriad of blows fell on her, she began to go numb. The first kick ironically smashed the data chip in her jacket’s secret inner chest pocket. Serves him right. The second broke two ribs. I hope the rest of the crew gets away. The third gave her a black eye and nearly broke her eye socket. Lady Thana will protect them, I know she will. The fourth fractured her collar bone. Maybe I should try to smile. Lady Thana once told me you should live such that you can smile when you die. The fifth…she never felt the fifth…or the sixth for that matter. She sensed a warm glow across her exposed flesh, a slight heat that warmed the hairs of her arms and legs without burning them. Cautiously, she opened her eyes to behold a warm glow banishing the darkness of the alley.

There, in front of her, was a tall man, with brown hair, a composed, clean shaven face, and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a tunic and robe of varying shades of brown, and a comlink and slicing tools hung from a utility belt at his waist. Despite his old fashioned garments and calm demeanor, she estimated his age as early twenties. But all that description was secondary compared to the wondrous orange blade that emerged from a metal cylinder he held up against the throat of a wide eyed, slack jawed Shor Ek.

“A-A-A Jetii?! It can’t be, you’re suppos’d to be dead, kill’t off!”

The man smiled and spoke in an amused Coruscanti accent, “As you can see, rumors of our demise are greatly exaggerated.” His tone and inflection were clipped and slow, as though he was delivering a speech to a class at university rather than casually threatening to take the life of an unrepentant criminal. “Would you care to unhand the young lady you surely weren’t just mistreating? It wouldn’t do for you to be injured in retribution for an act you didn’t commit, now would it?”

Shor Ek slowly relaxed his grip on the Wraith’s hair, oblivious to her existence for the moment. She immediately resumed her struggles, and nearly escaped before his hand clamped down again like a vice, “This ‘ere brat has caused Black Sun more trouble ‘an she’s worth! She ain’t gettin away from me, and I know ye ain’t a Jetii. The last of ‘em died five years ago in the purge. Ye just some jacked up wanna be son of a rich bozo that got daddy to buy yous a nice toy so ye can mess with us gutter trash. Just ye wait, as soon as I git finished with’en this girlie I’ll slice yous up nice a-arrggggghhhh!!”

With a twitch of his wrist, the robed man swung his blade down and the pressure on the Wraith’s head instantly disappeared. As it did, a disembodied hand dropped past her head and she let out a surprised squeal as she backed up against the nearest wall. Shor Ek gazed in wonder at his now cauterized stump of an arm, and then back at the ‘Jetii.’ He let out a shriek of pain and anger while drawing his blaster with his remaining hand. The next second he was plastered to the wall across the alley, his blaster left uselessly on the ground where he had been.

The Jetii’s kind eyes had hardened, and his voice was now edged with steel, “You are scum and deserve to die for what you’ve done here today. However, it is not the Jedi way to kill when there are other alternatives.” One hand was raised outwards towards Shor Ek, as though an invisible wall extended between it and the Weequay, holding him tight to the opposite building. The other shut off the magnificent glowing saber and clipped it to his belt, before being waved in front of the gangster as he spoke his next words, “You will leave this girl alone and never bother her again.”

Through the pain from her wounds, the Wraith felt her eyes go wide and her hair stand on end with shock as Shor Ek repeated the stranger’s words, “I will leave dis girl alone and ne’er bo’der her again.”

“You will tell no one that you met a Jedi, and you will fabricate an appropriate story for your friends about what happened here tonight.”

“I will tell no one that yer a Jetii, and will fab-ri—” Shor Ek stumbled over the difficult word, before magically substituting a synonym, “Make up an appropriate story fer my friends aboot what happened to-night.”

“And you will not return to your life of crime, but will instead go home and rethink your life.”

“An’ I will not return to me life o’ crime, but will insteed git home and rethink my life.” As Shor Ek finished the statement, the Jedi lowered both his hands and Shor Ek dropped to the ground. The Wraith, unsure whether he would actually listen to the stranger’s advice or renew his attack, shrank back as far as she could down the alley with the bola weights still wrapped around her legs. However, as though in a trance, Shor Ek nodded sagely to both her and the Jedi before sauntering off the way they had come while whistling the tune of a raunchy limerick.

The Jedi waved in her direction next, and with a start, she found her legs a foot off the ground as the bola somehow unwrapped itself from her legs. He then moved towards her, prompting her to scamper back an equal number of paces. The Wraith didn’t think he meant her harm, but after what she had been through, and the amazing feats she had seen him perform, she wasn’t taking any chances.

For the first time that night, saved from a cruel death and faced with the impossible, she found her voice, “Wh-Who are you? What did you do to Shor Ek?”

He smiled at her and dropped to his haunches so he could speak on her level, “Shor Ek? You mean that ugly Weequay brute? I just suggested that he do what he should have done with his life from the get go: use it for something worthwhile.” She gave him an incredulous look, and shrank a few steps further back.If he was going to play games with her, like most other adults, she was going to make a break for it. Not like he really cared what happened to her anyway.

His expression, though still kind, took on a thoughtful aspect, as though he had deduced what she was thinking, “Sorry, that was just a poor attempt at humor. You’ve probably had enough of adults not taking you seriously throughout your life of hardship and struggle.” The Jedi’s eyes bored into her, and somehow she felt like he knew her, despite them being perfect strangers. “What you just saw is called the Force. It’s hard to explain, but it permeates all living things, connects them, and sustains them. In those especially strong in the Force, such as Jedi like myself, it can be used to move or grasp things or,” he waved the same hand he had used on Shor Ek earlier, “Manipulate the weak minded.”

To the Wraith, the Jedi’s words should have been meaningless. Why should she believe in this pseudo-religious mumbo jumbo?She had heard about the Jedi in snatches throughout her life. When she was young, she heard tales of their gallantry and power in the Clone Wars. At the age of eight, as she stole from freighters that came to Nar Shadaa from the core worlds, she heard of the attempted Jedi coup, Order 66, and the formation of the Galactic Empire.As Shor Ek said, the Jedi should be extinct, and yet she had undoubtedly witnessed this man’s power and seen his—the word sprang into her mind unbidden—lightsaber in action.

She gazed at him, caution and wonder warring in her mind, “You still never told me who you are.And why are you telling me all this?Why does a Jedi care about a street wraith with no name?”

The Wraith waited for the sorrow, the pity to cross his face as she told him she was a street urchin without a name, but the Jedi’s face beamed back at her with kindness, with joy, with an emotion she hadn’t seen in her lifetime…hope. “I am Jedi Knight Sirhc Rulless of the Unknown Regions Exploration and Colonization Mission. Admittedly, I came here to meet a contact, but all that is secondary now.I felt a great movement of the force as I landed here, and rushed towards it to find…you. Your power is raw, full of anger, torment, and despair. But your strength in the force is undeniable, and, if refined, you will become a Jedi above any I’ve known. Will you come with me and find your true destiny?”

With equal parts awe and disbelief, she stared at him as her emotions warred within her. Worry for her former boss and fellow thieves. Anger at her life and circumstances that had led to this point. Excitement at the prospects and possibilities unfolding before her. And hope, for a future better than her life or the lives any like her had ever lived. Throughout it all, she reflected upon the surge of power she had experienced earlier that day, at the…Force…she had unleashed. And with the first genuine smile of her life, the Wraith realized that she truly did have the power to seize her destiny and change her fate.

Sirhc rose to his feet and extended a hand towards her, which she swiftly rose to meet and grasp.His lips broadened into a wide grin as he spoke, “If you are to be my student, you must have a name.I think Aisha would suit a resourceful young girl like yourself.What do you think?”

Aisha beamed back at him, and tears of joy welled up in the corners of her eyes as she received the greatest gift anyone had ever given her: a name.“I like it very, very much.”