Artwork is from the inimitable Casfeld.

Prashen

Soot pressed her shoulder against the brothel’s wall and lowered her rifle. The sergeant called it a tavern—a reasonable mistake given the lack of patrons and looted interior. This city was her home, though, so she knew the building all too well. It was once a tacky place filled with faux gold ornaments set with painted glass made to look like jewels. The items of actual expense were the erotic paintings of ladies and lords too impossibly gorgeous and too impossibly into each other to be real. At least the place was well built, with a solid stone foundation that had held up against stray fire. Most of the tiled roof was intact, offering welcome shelter from the weather.

It was pissing outside and she couldn’t even see the inner keep’s defenders anymore. They were certainly there since she could smell their filth. Every few minutes some Union bastard hurled an insult at the sergeant, beginning a brief exchange of linguistic venom and the occasional ill-aimed projectile from behind the ramparts.

The enemy wouldn’t be so glib tomorrow once the cannons were in position.

“I kill any of your mates, doggie? Shot a good twenty!” taunted a voice from atop the wall.

Sergeant Malin Seth rolled his eyes. “Fifty here. ‘Round forty by axe. Probably Starmgardians, considering they tried to run instead of fight.”

The voice laughed back. “Heard some of your moonkin bitches yelp!”

“Oh yeah? They sound like your mother squirting after a good fucking?” The moonkin sergeant’s gray wolf ears twitched just before a bolt struck the opposite side of the wall. He knew where the shot came from.

Swinging out to the window, he aimed his crossbow and fired. As he pirouetted back to cover, Soot heard the satisfying crunch of his shot piercing armor and flesh, followed by the pained cry of his victim. Bullets and bolts punched against the wall in reprisal, with others flying through the now-vacant window. One man cursed as his gun failed to fire, his powder ruined by the downpour.

Malin formed a self-congratulatory smile at the pained cries. “Nah, she didn’t sound like that. More like this…” He gave his best exaggeration of a whore getting railed as the defenders impotently hurled insults.

Soot got a kick out of that, barely containing her giggling. Her tail bushed out as it swayed side to side, brushing up against the man behind her who was peeking through a window slat.

Corin brushed her tail aside. “Over at the gate, Sharge. Count’sh ‘bout to have a word with ‘em,” he yelled with an unexpected lisp. He wasn’t drunk, she knew that much.

She peeked at the gate just a stone’s throw from her perch. The Count was always dressed in black, darker than her own wild hair, and would be nigh impossible to see through the night’s rain.

His voice was unmistakable, though: cold and more condescending than the most pureblood noble. “I’m here to parlay. Tell your commander that the Empire’s general is here to discuss the terms of surrender.”

There was a long pause. “Come again?” responded a gruff voice from the walls.

“Your commander. I’m here to speak with him. I’m here to offer terms that might save your lives. Best be quick about it.”

There was no response, although Soot heard Union soldiers shuffling about the defenses. There wouldn’t be a breach tonight as everyone was too bloody exhausted. Taking the city and sweeping it had kept people awake for well over a day and the search for strays continued. They had time on their side, at least: Union reinforcements had been routed by Duke Valmont’s son and, even had they not been, the Trulais crossing’s defenses were scarcely touched by the siege and were now under the Count’s control.

Finally, the ramparts responded with a man’s forced falsetto. “I am the commanding officer here. With whom am I speaking?” The stupid voice was accompanied by snickering.

Probably the same bloody guy.

“Count Ilhan Senvoire, General of the Sancrésant Empire.” He kept his calm. “I’ve taken back our city and cut off any hopes of reinforcement or escape. And who, do tell, are you?”

“It is I, Emperor Cassien Fourier the Second! Thank you for your hard work, Sir Blackberry Count, but can you come back later? I’m rather busy ploughing your mum!” Laughter roared across the walls.

Starmgardians really are shit with their humor.

There was a flash of lightning that revealed the general—shadowy clothes and pale skin, save for the golden eagle signaling his allegiance. He raised a glove and held up two fingers. The fools should’ve known better.

A bolt of blue shot out from a distant tower—practically on the far side of the city—towards the keep. Soot could barely follow it, but one of the defenders’ heads vanished as it was replaced with red mist. The Whitebeak typically didn’t waste shots on common soldiers. During the battle, his focus was on siege cannons and then the castle’s oculus. This was sending a message.

It took the sentinels a moment to even notice as they continued to lob insults. “Shit!” yelled one of them, finally noticing. Several others did as well, throwing torches towards the Count as they scurried to counter.

Gunners and crossbowmen all fired at the exposed general, though half of the powder didn’t ignite. Those who did fire may as well have fired at a rock. The hail bounced off the black mage with crystalline tings. The Count didn’t even hint at exhaustion—he was far beyond the talent of most nobles and, apparently, that realization was setting in among the defenders.

A second flash of blue shot out from the distance, punching a round hole through the stone wall and the chest of a second defender. The victim toppled over the edge of the ramparts and plunged into the moat.

Illuminated by the fires, the Count raised a closed fist as the defending soldiers scrambled to hide. “Were you asleep when we took the city?” His voice was starting to curdle. “You have until tomorrow afternoon to offer up your weapons and commander—particularly the Archduke, if he didn’t flee like a coward—alongside any slaves you keep, unharmed. Only then will you be allowed passage west with your lives.”

“Go plough yourself, pig!” shouted a young man’s voice. The resoluteness was lacking.

“Oh? My terms are understood, then? I’ll have every last one of you gutted if you fail to meet them. Sleep well.”

月

Chicken bones and celery boiled in water. Almost certainly rain water. That was the meal of the evening. Soot was absolutely delighted to see the tiniest morsel of chicken skin floating in her soup bowl.

Corin gave a wave from the pile of crates they had converted into a dinner table near the entrance of the plundered warehouse. She headed over with Malin in tow.

“I’d kill for a bottle,” the sergeant quipped as he planted his ass on a wobbly crate.

Soot lowered herself onto the sturdier one, carefully balancing her soup bowl, lest the treasured morsel spill out. A proper drink seemed unlikely. The stores had been picked clean of extra food and drink. Malin had, at least, been able to replace his boots after finding a fresh pair in his giant size among the crates.

“As it so happens…” murmured the bald Knott, unveiling a cask about the size of his head.

Her fox ears shot up with her tail. “Paleblood, what’s that?”

“Shtarmgard’sh besh pissh,” laughed the bearded Corin, showing off his two missing front teeth. He had them the night prior.

Malin shook his head. “Sod it. Hand it over here. Let’s see what the bear fuckers put down.” He unplugged the cask, gave it a quick sniff, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and then proceeded to down several gulps of the slosh. He plonked the container on the makeshift table and let out a long, satisfied belch. “Smells like ox fart, but ain’t bad tasting.”

“And that, brothers and sisters, is how Malin gets all of the ladies. Every last one! Leaving the rest of us boys maidenless.” Knott gave a flourishing bow towards him.

“Grife, just grab a whore and quit your whinging.”

“Whore’s not a maiden, Sarge!” retorted Soot.

“Could be if it’s her first day!”

The group groaned before downing their soup. Soot took a moment to savor the sliver of flesh, rolling it around on her tongue and slicing it up with the edges of her teeth to release its pittance of flavor. It was gone too quickly.

The chiming of a hand bell rang from the entrance of the warehouse.

Knott grumbled, “Ready for the dinner sermon?”

An elderly priest in gray, ash-stained robes shook the bell once more as he wandered among the famished soldiers with a paladin in tow. “Long was that dark night. Before all thought and motive! We must never forget that greatest of gifts. They who granted Will to the living!” His voice was weak and he shakily clutched a gold serpent pendant hanging from his neck.

“We give our thanks,” spoke the nearby diners.

“Children of Humanity,” continued the priest. “Spare a moment to mourn the lost in this terrible conflict! Scour the hatred from your heart!” The priest rang his bell once more. “Bitter though this war be, we fight our brothers and sisters. We must always remember that the true enemy of Humanity lies beyond the borders of our kingdoms and empires!”

Some of the humans nodded, but the crowd stayed their tongues. Many of the beastkin were on edge. The paladin surveyed the room through his thin visor, his flesh obscured by thick plate. Soot wondered who lay under the armor and what his beliefs were. The Church took beastkin as well as humans among their ranks.

“Forgiveness is the highest of virtues,” continued the priest, wandering deeper into the hall as his voice grew fainter.

“Not bad for an older fellow,” Malin remarked. “Didn’t even mention the bloody Temptress.”

Soot clicked her tongue. “Didn’t need to.”

A young lad ran into the warehouse. “Sergeant Malin Seth, orders from the Count!”

“What’s the word?” he replied, standing up to greet the newcomer.

“We think there’s a mutiny going on ‘side the inner keep,” the boy shouted, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Lotsa shouting and the clashing of steel. We’re doubling up the watch. Want to make sure you’n the others get some shut-eye. Got three hours, then you swap in.”

“Standby, then?”

“Aye, plan’s the same, ‘less they come running out first.”

“Shame,” he replied with a shrug. “I wanted to bleed them myself.”

日

It looked like it was going to rain again. Soot used to think it would wash away the blood and shit, but a five-year campaign taught her that most of the time all it did was spread everything around. She hadn’t seen a defender since before dinner and the deathly silence from the keep was far from comforting.

The Count had given his final warning and a small group of cannons was aimed at the gate, preparing to fire. Unlike the cheap and slow powder-charged weapons, these ones relied on anima and would work through any potential downpour.

The green-clad Duke Valmont appeared to be bickering with Count Senvoire. A plum-maned moonkin watched them from a distance, her arms crossed and tail bristling as her golden eyes burned into the second man. Soot and the other three walked up to her as the sergeant pushed a fist into the back of the lass’s shoulder. She looked back at him, then the others as her face relaxed into a smile.

“You look like you slept about as well as I did,” said Malin.

Aliya sighed. “Somehow, nearly two days without a wink hasn’t gotten to me.” She ran her fingers through her wild hair, trying to straighten out the tangles and matting. “But more than sleep… I want a bath. I am jumping in the Trulais if I’m denied a bath.” She grimaced at the film of oil that had formed on her hands just from combing.

Soot chortled. She and Malin had been holding off on their usual rest time activities until their collective hygiene had improved. “What’re those two going on about?” she asked.

“The Duke’s been feeling the squeeze,” answered Aliya. “Especially since our Count’s been earning all the glory, lately.”

“And now he just took back the Duke’s capital for him…” Corin added.

“Such a troublemaker,” Knott chuckled.

The two generals appeared to have reached an agreement and it was time for the breach.

“Break it open,” ordered Count Senvoire.

Malin, Aliya, and Soot flattened their ears as the humans plugged theirs. The cacophony of cannon fire drummed, shooting up a dusty cloud that obscured the gate and its surrounding walls. Those not shielded pointed their rifles and crossbows from positions of cover, aiming at the haze in anticipation of a desperate charge. Soot felt safe enough in the open, so long as she was near Aliya.

Nothing came out of the fog. After the cannons were rearmed, another salvo went off at the Count’s command. Eventually, the dust settled, revealing the shattered gate. Some of the stonework had crumbled, littering the bridge with hazardous bricks. Several sappers ran forth with shovels and pickaxes, clearing the debris as some of the heavy infantry moved forward to investigate beyond the gate.

“All clear!” shouted the infantry captain. “I don’t see anyone!”

“I don’t like this,” Soot whispered to Malin.

“Neither do I,” he growled back.

Blood stained the courtyard, yet not a single body was in sight. The castle remained barricaded by its oversized wooden doors, responding to the knocks and demands from the Duke’s men with silence. The Count kept to the center of the courtyard, responding to requests from various messengers as he kept an eye on the castle.

Aliya accompanied him with Malin’s team. Soot remembered when the young lady was just a scout, albeit a talented one. Jealousy flared in her chest as she studied the silk-swathed handle of Aliya’s prized sword. The Virgin of Angiers was nothing special before she pilfered that weapon.

Stop it, Soot.

A piercing howl startled the group. Duke Valmont had blasted the front door open with his runed glaive.

“Eager to have his home back?” questioned Aliya.

“As would I,” responded Count Senvoire, tightening his gloved fists. “He can have the Archduke, as far as I’m concerned, but I have my doubts he was here to begin with.”

“Do they even have a proper commander?” asked Malin.

“Their formation and rotations suggested so. But I have no clue if it’s anyone of consequence, assuming they’re still alive.”

Soot still wasn’t used to the Count’s candor with his rank and file, despite fighting for him almost as long as Malin. His haughty tone continued to trigger pangs of dread and memories of bondage, but Angiers was quite a different place from Ducai. Aliya and many others were evidence of that. Still, she didn’t have the courage to address him directly.

One of the Duke’s messengers approached, an inari like her. “Milord,” he spoke as he bowed. “Duke Valmont be requesting the help of one of your mages in a sweep of the castle. He requesting Aliya of Angiers, Milord.”

Everyone looked at the golden-eyed moonkin. “I am happy to serve, if my lord commands it,” she replied.

Count Senvoire cocked his eyebrow. “Duke Valmont’s just inside the great hall?”

“He is, Milord.”

“Come along, you five.” The Count waved the quintet to follow him as he marched over to the entryway. As Aliya and company caught up with him, he leaned over to whisper. “Sizing you up, I reckon. But nothing to trouble yourself with. My concern remains with the defenders.”

Soot noticed the stench before she saw the bodies. “The blood?” she whispered, stepping over the threshold with the others.

“Your thoughts, Count Senvoire?” began the Duke, his face rightfully puzzled. “This is my ancestral home and yet… I can’t fathom what happened here. Quiet as a windless night.”

The Count kept his fingers tightly wound about his sword’s grip but did not respond as he studied the scene.

Soot and the others looked at the hundred dead strewn about. A man sat slumped against the table with a knife buried in his ear and dried blood all along his side. It was a butter knife—that must’ve taken some effort. Another soldier hung from a banner pole, closer to the ceiling than the floor, with the point sticking through his neck. How did he even get up there? A third was torn in half, his lower portion having made it to the far side of the hall. Quite the trek for a half-man. Others had died in a more traditional manner associated with mutinies: axe to the skull, spear through the lung, and bolt through the throat, to name a few.

Last night’s food appeared to be uneaten, some of it sitting at open tables while other dishes littered the floor. It looked like a real feast: lots of meat, carrots, and cabbages. Soot would even be jealous if the smell hadn’t made her want to retch. A decapitated man’s head was well gravied, complete with a putrid dollop of cream lying in a fork-punctured eye socket.

“This looks more like madness than mutiny,“ said Aliya. “And there aren’t enough bodies.”

The Count finally cleared his throat. “Your Grace, Aliya is restricted in her use of offensive magic, but her defensive capabilities are excellent. You wish for her to take lead?”

“Alongside myself, Lord Ilhan,” replied the gray-haired duke. “One of a few parties. My home is quite large, as you can see.”

“May I suggest an alternative?”

“You may.”

“Several parties led by a mage each. I can have enough here in a matter of hours if—”

“No!” barked the Duke. He lowered his voice. “I won’t have Starmgardian filth in my home for a minute longer than I need to. And if they have hostages, how much longer do you think they will last?”

Soot looked around at the slaughter. If there ever were hostages, they likely weren’t a factor any longer.

“My concern,” countered Count Senvoire, “is that these desperate defenders will sully their honor.”

Duke Valmont crossed his arms. “Have they not already? We’ve more than enough troops and I know these corridors well.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “Lord Ilhan… My castle. My honor.”

The Count relented. “Of course, Your Grace. My apologies.” Turning to Aliya and the others, he nodded. “Malin, you and your party are with her. Keep her safe and raise a ruckus if something goes wrong.”

“Aye, General, sir.” He turned to Soot and the two humans. “Ready up. We’re taking a castle today!”

The second floor was home to dozens of additional bodies. Soot grimaced at a pair that had run each other through. Their faces were stretched into agonized shapes as if they had died screaming at the top of their lungs.

Duke Valmont led the group with a pair of his own heavy infantry as more of his men fanned out to clear the rooms they skipped. They opened cupboards, tossed beds, and broke down doors as they searched for signs of any life, shouting all the while.

Aliya was forced to walk beside the Duke, a position she clearly didn’t relish given the constant adjustments she made to her clothes and sword belt.

The man stopped and leaned over to her. “Tell me, girl. How many have you killed with that blade of yours?”

“I–I don’t know, Your Grace. In the hundreds, I’m sure.”

“With magic?”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, Your Grace.”

He grinned, giving a nod. “Of course not. By hand, then? Impressive!”

The noble’s interrogation continued as they patrolled the second floor. He wanted to know everything about Aliya’s weapon and her newfound magic. She stuttered with every yes and no. Soot hated seeing her like this. Even Malin was getting antsy as he popped the knuckles on his fingers one by one.

They approached a large stairwell leading to the third floor.

“Who is the most powerful mage you’ve defeated?” continued the Duke, taking the first steps as he jerked his head, signaling for the much shorter Aliya to keep up.

“I’m not sure... Perhaps the magic archer was the most dangerous, Your Grace.”

That seemed to pique the Duke’s interest. “Were you struck by this magic archer?”

“Once, Your Grace.” She began to wring her hands.

“And clearly unscathed! Did you shrug off the shot entirely?”

“N–No, Your Grace. I was knocked back into a wall.” The poor lass kept it together as they reached the third floor, just in front of closed double doors.

One of the Duke’s infantrymen tried to force it open, but it barely budged. Something was blocking it.

“Who is behind this door?” bellowed Duke Valmont, his voice growing wrathful. “This is my home you squat in!”

As with every other barricade, no one replied. The three beastkin looked at each other. Something on the other side smelled awful.

“Give me some space,” he commanded.

As everyone stepped away from him, he pulled back his glaive, preparing for a forward thrust. Blue runes lit up upon his silver spear as his infantrymen plugged their ears. Soot reacted too late—it was like a bolt of lightning struck the door, half-dazing her as Corin caught her by the shoulders. The woodwork was shredded to splinters that flew back into the open hall, burying themselves in the mound of flesh at the center of the room. It was almost dome-shaped, made of dozens of bodies all smashed together. Limbs were twisted into perverse knots and each face told a story of pain and terror.

The Duke froze, his spear still pointing forward at the end of its thrust. Soot could sense the man’s fear mirror her own. He lowered his weapon, but kept it ready. “Go… Go to the Count,” he commanded, his gaze fixed on the amalgamation. “Tell him what we have seen.”

No one moved.

“He means you four!” shouted one of the Duke’s men, gesturing to the group save Aliya. “Get moving!”

“Y–Your Grace,” began Aliya. “What about me?”

“Stay. I may need help.”

Malin and Aliya nodded at each other as the sergeant turned to his team. “You three. Right behind me, yeah?”

“Aye, Sarge!” they replied.

Taking off down the stairs, Soot thought she saw one of the heads twist. She shuddered, keeping close to the sergeant. There was a thunderclap from above once they reached the bottom of the steps. At the end of the long corridor in front of them was the stairway down to the first, but madness filled the stretch between. The Duke’s men were fighting Starmgardians, the same ones that had been lying around in their own entrails earlier. The clashing of steel and screams filled the castle.

A soldier in black and gold armor marched towards them. His stilted walk caused him to erratically shift sideways every step or two. He raised a sword skyward as Malin sank his axe into the man’s shoulder, cleaving down to his chest. The sword swung down as the moonkin narrowly leapt out of the way.

Guns began to roar from outside the castle walls.

The dead Starmgardian, axe still buried in his body, lurched forward but struggled to raise his blade arm again. Malin grabbed the handle of his weapon once more and slammed the body to the floor. He crushed the bones of one arm as he severed the other.

More Union soldiers approached, their jagged movements betraying their nature.

“To the courtyard!” yelled Knott, barreling into an enemy with his shield. A jawless man tackled him as they both fell through a door and out of sight.

Soot pulled out her sword but froze as she noticed the Duke’s men were already splattered across the hallway, now motionless. A brute lunged at her with a mace. She sidestepped the blow just in time and forced her blade into the man’s throat. His eyes bulged at her, nearly popping out of his skull as he dropped his weapon and grasped her throat. His filthy nails tore into her flesh. She tried to cry for help but her voice wouldn’t come out.

Malin hacked off one of his arms at the shoulder, pulling her free as Corin, wielding both a short sword and the bruiser’s mace, bashed and sliced his way through another.

The hallway filled with dozens of the reanimated monsters and yet no allies were nearby. Another thunderclap echoed from above, accompanied by a glassy hum that grew to a shriek.

“Back ta da Duke!” yelled Corin. “An’ Aliya!”

Soot ran for the stairs. As she rounded the corner, there was a body crumpled by the first step. As she tried to leap over it, an arm reached up and caught her ankle. Her shin crashed into the stone nosing, forcing out a pained yell. She sank her blade into the man’s back again and again, but it didn’t let go. Its grip grew tight until she stabbed through its elbow.

“Malin?” she shrieked, realizing both he and Corin had vanished. She could’ve sworn they were just behind her. His shout answered her, calling her name, but it sounded distant and pained.

A searing flame shot up her leg as she saw a dagger planted in her foot, just below the ankle. The bastard’s other arm twisted the blade as she cried out. She stabbed the tip of her sword into the arm until it stopped.

Panting, she slumped against the stairs. Two figures were walking down from the top of them—not the kind of walk she wanted to see. “Malin!” she screamed, tears flowing down her cheeks.

Another monster reached around the corner whence she had fled. A large, muscular one. Were they all gone now? Was he…

She wailed and plunged into the newcomer, forcing him to drop his weapon. Her crossguard smacked against his chest as he was run through, but he grabbed her mane, holding it tight. Pushing forward, she tore into his neck with her fangs and ripped out a mouthful of blood and muscle. Indifferent to the mortal wound, he pulled her head back as she plunged her thumbs into his eye sockets, churning the milky orbs into paste.

Her head slammed into the rock wall. Her jaw cracked and a pair of teeth came loose. She tried to shield herself, but the force of the second blow shattered her hands and her cheekbone.

She moaned, trying to call out his name.

Emperor Cassien Fourier II. Fourier was the first mathematician (last) name I put in The Hatred. Functional approximation via mixtures of simpler functions is close to my heart and the Fourier Series of Calculus came to mind. Of course, so did a bunch of other concepts such as Gaussian mixtures, Taylor polynomials, and many more infinite-dimensional function spaces. My love of French history and culture came from reading all sorts of literature back in the day and even non-French authors such as Tolstoy (he wrote the definitive Bonaparte-era epic, in my mind). The French language is called Romantique in my world, by the way. I’ll find a way to sneak in Gauss somehow… Starmgard is very German-coded, with its indigenous people having Germanic names, so that will likely be where it pops up.

I wanted the mages to be in charge—it didn’t make sense to have these people with so much power act in advisory or other subservient roles when they can decimate legions of opponents. As to whether anyone can become a mage? Both yes and no. Circumstances vary wildly, but for the average commoner, it’s incredibly unlikely due to restrictions on the resources and artisans that make a mage.

These mages have formed powerful houses using hereditary magic, a means for mages to produce more powerful offspring in their bloodline. This theory came from a legendary researcher called Julian Markov (not French, I know), who established the Markov College in Sancrés. Hybridization theory using Markovian crests is his biggest contribution to what I consider a pretty on-the-nose reference to inherited wealth/power. The funny part is this seems anti-Markovian at a glance, but is in fact very Markovian as I will explain later.

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Mathematics, Yurii Nesterov, and Magic

If you haven’t guessed already, I have a fondness for mathematics. Optimization and probability, in particular, were my biggest interests in how they linked to healthcare operations and medicine. Of course, I saw plenty of applications in fields such as fluid mechanics and economics too.

I always wanted the greatest mages in my world to be formidable mathematicians. While I had already formed my magic system long before graduate school, I ran into an unexpected source that further inspired my choices. I had the pleasure of attending several of Yurii Nesterov’s lectures in person (he is one of the greatest living mathematicians as of the date of this publication), which would occasionally go beyond theory and into the realm of philosophy…

To put it simply, Yurii would sometimes wonder if the nature of the world, that which we call natural law, was the end result of latent optimization. The boiling point of water under our atmospheric conditions, the gravitational acceleration of a point mass relative to a universal origin… That which we might consider first principles were actually the end products of a complex system of constraints that bounded a singular universal: to minimize. This would mean our concept of first principles in science is a misnomer—we simply lack the means to see deeper. I was reminded of Andy Weir who used the conjecture that even advanced species might not even be aware of certain spectra we use in our science due to their civilization never requiring them.

Anyway… Often, but not always, it is the case in practical usage that perturbing a constraint changes the optimum. That’s my magic system in a nutshell: you perturb constraints in something known as the Dual to affect reality, the Primal. I am stealing optimization language like it’s an AYCE buffet. Go read about what Duality actually is, if you’re curious.

Now, the Dual seems highly abstract and, frankly, it is if you’ve little mathematical training. It’s not a Euclidean space nor is it isomorphic to one of finite dimension. It’s also not important for a reader to understand. What matters is that certain things can act as triggers to alter Dual constraints due to entanglement phenomena (yes, now I’m stealing terms from quantum, but I swear I know jack shit about quantum outside what I’ve learned via probability). The most well-known of these things (in-universe, that is) is anima, a mineral used to create runes and tattoos. Runes give you magical tools and tattoos give you first-generation mages. Hybridization theory that requires Markovian crests gives you second, third, and higher-generation mages.

A quick aside about Markovian crests being Markovian… The child inherits only from the parents (regardless of the grandparents) and usually produces some kind of improvement through the fusion of two different styles. What they pass on to their children, in turn, is solely what they possess. But notice that each child’s magical blueprint (tattoo) grows increasingly complex as it effectively captures the history starting from the first-generation mage. This is kind of like exponentially growing the dimensionality of your state space to capture history in a Markov process. Such blueprints etched into the flesh are not achievable in a human lifetime once they reach the third generation and higher, so hereditary magic yields unparalleled mages. Granted, while mages have yet to see an upper limit on the complexity of the tattoos (which grow so fine and detailed, even the best scholars can make little sense of them), hybridization can also yield duds. In fact, duds become more common the higher the generation.

I’m only scratching the surface of magic in my world, but this is a simple taste of the things that have influenced my writing. Perhaps I would be better suited as a science fiction author, you say? Maybe I already am. Fantasy is just a label, after all.

Progress on The Hatred

I’ve effectively provided you a spoiler, although I feel it’s not too much of one. This is a character-driven epic fantasy, so such an explanation must be earned by circumstances (which have yet to arrive). It is more likely I’ll be taking a scattered approach, a la Dark Souls and Malazan, requiring the reader to piece things together.

As far as writing new content? Not much luck, sadly. I’ve written half a chapter since last time and did a lot of revisions on earlier stuff. I think I’m around 85K words still. ごめんなさい！

Why have I been inactive? Well… It’s been over a month since I developed a vestibular condition which makes me walk like a drunk and accumulate dizziness the more my head moves or the more I stare at screens. This includes simply turning my head… I’ve been giving people a lot of side eye as a result.

I started physical therapy which involves a lot of nods and shakes and spins and twists and… You get the picture.

Did I do anything new?

Why, yes I did! I added a couple of new chapters, but I also have been doing a full run-through of the manuscript so far. Mostly because I wanted to alter pacing in some areas, create another purposeful misdirection (:p), and recontextualize a character’s actions.

This means most of the progress was editorial work, including cutting down on some things. On the flip side, I do feel like the writing quality has vastly improved and I need to move on to the second half of the story. Final run-throughs are going to be rough…

Chronology

Right now, I’ve been pushing three POVs forward (a fourth if you count Malin Seth’s) that have yet to meet. This means, temporally, things don’t always happen in chronological order as I change POV every chapter—no same POV for consecutive chapters is a stylistic choice I’ve made and am, potentially, up to changing down the road. For example, Chapters 4 and 6 feature the first and second half of Aliya’s heresy trial, the latter picking up mere seconds after the cliffhanger of the former. Chapter 5, meanwhile, follows Homura’s journey north and, technically speaking, it doesn’t even occur on the same day as Aliya’s trial, taking place a matter of weeks before instead.

I claim that chapters happen in chronological order plus epsilon, where epsilon is a normally distributed random variable in days centered on zero with a standard deviation that I keep secret because this is an imaginary explanation.

Suffice to say, once I get to working with high-level editors, I expect this conversation to come up. I will also have a timeline in the book that can show where things occur on a calendar.

Progress Check

I’m at ~83K words. Considering the standard for epic fantasy that I like to read, I’m around the halfway point.

The Virgin of Angiers

Aliya of Angiers’s lawyer assures me the title survives scrutiny under Imperial law and medical practices.

She’s the only heroine (so far) to appear as a secondary character before she becomes a POV character. A former slave from the Imperial county of Angiers, she joined the war effort in exchange for the Emperor’s promised freedom.

Jeanne d’Arc was a clear influence for the character: she earns her title as a war hero and becomes an exemplar of the historically enslaved beastkin races. And, like Jeanne, she finds herself accused of heresy by the Church…

She met with the Emperor, received formal recognition as a Hero of the Empire, but now she faced a charge of heresy for violating conventions established in the Synod of Something-or-Other. The guillotine would be a mercy if she were found guilty. She wasn’t an expert on the history of Church doctrine, but she found it dumbfounding that the use of a specific weapon was such a crime while the Church had naught to say on slavery.

As to how that resolves? You’ll have to read to find out when it releases!

A minor note: The world at large is quite different from Jeanne’s times. My Empire is closer in technology and politics to the First French Empire as opposed to the Hundred Years’ War era of France. Rifles and cannons are in play, but crossbows are not obsolete, especially due to weather resistance. Self-propelling vehicles are in their infancy, with a prototype railroad only spanning a short range between two adjacent regions.

Mages rule practically everything: Aliya's battles are increasingly fought in courtrooms, councils, and ledgers rather than trenches. Expect a politician first and a soldier second, although the soldier never quite leaves.

The Prettiest Wolfgirl I know

She is a moonkin, one of several beastkin races that inhabit my world that have the features of wolves. The name is curious as it does not seem to tie to Old World religions like many of the others.

Her character design was inspired by Makoto Aki from Princess Connect. Makoto is the prettiest wolfgirl I know and comes from much bubblier media than The Hatred. Yes, I know all my women are hot…

Giving Casfeld a handful of her chapters and some Makoto Aki references (along with various Pinterest references for more “adult-appearing” oukami-mimi ladies, since Aliya is in her late twenties), the inimitable artist produced the following:

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Her armor is the one she wears at the trial—appearances are important, after all.

A Wry One

While not as darkly humorous as Homura, she still has her moments.

Aside from the middle-aged woman, the rest of the council consisted of old men with various complexions, various levels of baldness, various attempts to cover up said baldness, and a variety of beards all so atrociously fashioned that Aliya—having not memorized their names—decided beard styles were the greatest distinguishing feature between them and would suffice as their names for now.

And perhaps she shares some of my opinions on writing…

She looked at the clock on the wall. The doctor was thirty-seven minutes late and about to be thirty-eight. Was he more doctor than herald? The tardiness certainly matched a doctor’s.

Stacks of untouched documents still rested upon her desk. It was likely enough paperwork to stack higher than a dozen copies of Trial Unto Dawn—the unabridged version with the glossary at the back.

What kind of pretentious fool puts a glossary at the back of a work of fiction? She much preferred reading that required her to puzzle things out. At least the literary classic wasn’t written in first person, a far graver sin for a fantasy novel.

Finally, there was the long-awaited knock at the door. Just the one.

“Com—” Oh, he’s coming in.

I jest, of course! Write what you enjoy writing—no shoe size fits all, as they say.

And yes, the doctor’s knock cliché has made it into my world too, sadly.

The Most Privileged of Beasts

Here’s the thing the title is getting at: among my POV cast, Aliya is simultaneously the one who climbs highest and the one who started with the most.

Unlike the brutal slavery facing most beastkin, her experience was an exception. She essentially became a handmaiden to a noble lady who had her train alongside her in the fine arts: music, history, poetry, and even swordplay—an education worthy of a noble.

Before that, she was a slave. One of the fortunate ones in that her mistress raised her to be more cultured and capable than most free folk in the Empire. She could sing classical repertoire, recite histories of the provinces and nations of Sorcis, dance, write poetry, and even play the tenor viol.

I didn’t want her playing double bass like me… :3

Her privilege is a big part of her character: she’ll gush about history and architectural observations that someone like Homura wouldn’t. Her grace allows her to interact with emperors and archbishops, but it's also a quiet wedge between her and the people she's meant to represent—people whose enslavement looked nothing like hers. She knows it and so do they.

Her Social Circle Is…

Strange.

Unlike many of the other POV characters who form bonds through collective suffering or across wars and journeys, much of her social circle is forced upon her through an unexpected event.

While not all are necessarily friends, she will spend time with the highest nobility and the leaders of the Church, alongside old allies from the war and those who would position themselves to serve her.

Expect lots of politicking and strategizing in her chapters, although she’ll have her fair number of fights too!

“It will be a bluff, mostly,” he continued, stretching his fingers until they cracked. “You will have siege cannons, ships, and magic archers. Many of the cannons will be inoperable, but that will not be immediately discernible from the fortress walls. There will only be one magic archer that is the genuine article. The rest will be there for show, although they are skilled in traditional weaponry. As for the ships, Selcosé is not a fortress that can be taken by sea. Their purpose is for transportation only. Weapons, troops, and then the food.”

Nothing would work, but it would sure look intimidating from a distance. The spares for the actual siege cannons would take at least another six months, and that was an optimistic estimate.

She Already Has a (Complicated) Lover

Unlike the brutal bondage facing most of her kin, Aliya’s enslavement came with silk gloves. She and her former mistress became lovers over the course of their time together. Of course, this brings all sorts of questions about the nature of consent in such a pairing…

“Mean about it? He planted this idea in your head that you, what, took advantage of me? Manipulated me? I’m not going to let that stand!” She had been pacing furiously to the left and right but suddenly made for the door.

“Listen to me, Aliya!” shouted Dana, grabbing the moonkin’s wrist and stopping her in her tracks. “All he asked me was whether I had considered your agency when I was your mistress! His follow-up questions were only to establish facts about our relationship. No threats, no judgment! I think he was… you know, being a doctor!” She lowered her voice as the duchess turned back towards her. “I believe he was being clinical. I’m no healer, but you’re joining the Nasvian Choir for blood’s sake! He has his reasons to evaluate these things.”

I can’t deny the love is real, but she was surely groomed, even if unintentionally. The morality remains gray in a world where consent is stripped from women at scale.

And the Nasvian Choir? Something for later…

What is The Hatred?

The Hatred is my dark fantasy novel that I have been working on for the past half-year. It is a multi-POV epic that will be the first entry in a planned series. These stories follow from an extensive worldbuilding architecture I’ve used over the years while also incorporating my love of history, economics, and philosophy.

I like to write about writing it, since I have opted to avoid webnovel platforms and pursue traditional publishing due to the proliferation of genAI content on those sites (and very laissez-faire attitudes by those in charge). Subscribe to my Substack to help boost my morale and keep track of my progress. Maybe you’ll even see a chapter sample here and there.

Current word count ~80K

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炎

I played FFXIV for several years, eventually settling on a Miqo’te Gunbreaker named Homura Ozuma who also moonlighted as a Sage. Sadly, she’s gone from FFXIV’s servers as I vowed to never let myself get so addicted to a game again (and wiped my data clean).

Frankly, most of my beastkin races draw heavily from that MMORPG. My cat people are known as Bastiens. Wolf people are called Moonkin, as mentioned in a prior article. And there are more…

When making Homura, I described her as a blonde tomboy cat girl like Hiyori Harusaki from PriConne or Leone from Akame ga Kill, but with the adult body and grimdark attitude of Revy from Black Lagoon (I suppose Leone kind of has that?).

After giving Casfeld my character description and a handful of her chapters, he came up with the following and I fell in love…

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Homura and I are married now. I wish.

Her POV isn’t introduced until the third chapter (after Soot’s prologue and Iris’s harrowing debut).

So, a gorgeous cat girl with a katana, what’s her deal? Without going too deep into spoiler territory…

She’s an avenger. Ozuma is the family name she kept from the man who saved her life. The thing is, this man wasn’t exactly a nobody. He might be more comparable to someone like Musashi Miyamoto or Joseph Bologne: someone with great artistic ability combined with terrifying martial prowess. The man fought with many weapons, but his most trusted was a metal-cleaving katana that Homura inherited.

The most baggage and the most wit

Her backstory is the darkest of the POV characters, although everyone experiences their share of bright and dark moments throughout the story at large. Her experiences have led her to develop a form of gallows humor that often comes out as either self-aware justification of poor choices or resigned anger.

The worst part about wearing a whaler suit was how long you had to stay in it. You had to be prepared to sleep in it, for starters. There were roughly two days’ worth of water you could drink via a straw poking out from the collar—a straw that would lodge itself in your nose if you slept the wrong way, causing you to inhale water and hack it out as you were rudely awoken by the sensation of drowning.

You were expected to piss in it, too. If you had to shit—don’t, just hold it. If you had a cock, there was a pocket you could piss into. As long as you stayed mostly upright, there was little to no mess, presumably. If you had a cunt, well, the pocket had an extension flap that you could try to tuck between your thighs as you relieved yourself. But half a bladder of piss was running hot down Homura’s legs when she tried.

Fuck. This. Suit.

She gritted her teeth and imagined what she would do to the man who designed them. Now her ass was itchy. She tried her hardest to push and pull at the seam of the trousers, but couldn’t get it deep enough to scratch the itch.

Fuck this suit!

Why would anyone ever wear one of these? You’ll see…

I also tried to capture some aspect of a cat in her behavior, especially in athletic feats. Bastiens are the most graceful of my beastkin; however, they are not free from error and will attempt to save face when one occurs.

Quick as she could, she dashed towards the far side of the perimeter, but as she passed through the line of torches, her foot went through the ground into a mud hole. With a splat, she sank down to her thigh as her body lurched forward, her hands barely stopping her from planting face first in the earth. It hurt, but she was uninjured—save for a bruise and perhaps her dignity. She pulled herself back up and looked over at the gawking man. She waved back, smiling as innocently as a mud-caked bastien could.

“H–Hey!” he shouted. Then he stood up and yelled even louder, “It’s that slaver bitch!”

“I’m not a bloody slaver!” she roared back, although she didn’t push back on the bitch part. Angry at her shit luck, she took off into the forest.

Homura did nothing wrong

Her initial path is vengeance, but I am not trying to make a moral statement about whether such a path is righteous or evil. At most, I simply want to draw attention to the transformation characters undergo as a result of their choices.

As her mission is centered around killing off a list of names, she will kill plenty outside that set. Some will be justified self-defense, others may appear less so, and incomplete information will often lead to poor choices when a decision is forced.

And will she kill innocents?

The man stirred, then opened his eyes and stared at her. He seemed confused by the heavily-armed bastien lass squatting beside him like a thief. He fumbled for a whistle hanging from his neck, but she grabbed it, then slapped her other hand over his mouth.

“Quiet,” she whispered. “I won’t hurt you, but—” Ouch.

The man clawed at her face, scratching her cheek as he kicked her in the side with his shin. Then he bit down on the flesh at the top of her palm. She recoiled from the pain, giving him just enough time to call for…

“Hel—” His shout cut off into a gurgle as she jammed her dagger into the man’s neck. It stuck through the bottom of his jaw and pitched the opposite cheek with the blade’s point.

Maybe there was a better way to handle that. She listened to see if anyone heeded his call, staring at the man’s face as his look glazed over and his grip grew limp. A whistle blew from the direction of the inn, likely rousing the nearby residents.

She is surprisingly knowledgeable of the world given her background

She is the only living POV character who knows Old Ortani. She also provides curious insights into other characters.

It’s first mentioned in passing as a young duchess, exhausted from a trying day, wonders how long it has been since she dreamt of it. That same lady, when meeting her lover after years of separation, recalls that time at the lake house as her happiest memory.

The duchess is a moonkin, a race similar to humans but with markings of the wolf. There are many others of her kind in the story, but it is not until several chapters later—via another moonkin POV—that the attentive reader learns that the moonlit lake is not referring to the duchess’s romantic memory at all, but something else entirely.

“I thought only the moonkin see the lake?” She whirled around to face him with a smile, her black mane more lustrous than he remembered.

I don’t consider this much of a spoiler, but it does give you a sense of how I reveal my world. Some of you may be familiar with this style if you’re into traditionally published fantasy where unreliable narrators can leave midway readers with a sort of Rashomon Effect. Whether or not the uncertainty is cleared up by the conclusion is part of the art itself.

The Hatred is my contribution to the dark fantasy and horror genre, and I’m at around the 75K mark. Roughly the midpoint?

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As cryptic as the world may seem to the uninitiated, the characters’ stories are standard fantasy fare: the prologue begins with siege banter, insults, and gun failures due to rain-ruined powder. Then mage commanders negotiate and deploy tactics of powder weapons mixed with magic before things finally go sideways. Still, you will find enough mysteries from just the first chapter with a peek at religion, politics, and the people of this world.

The POV characters were born and raised in this world—they don’t dwell on lore, mechanics, or structures unless the situation calls for it. The duchess, educated as she is, may gush over architecture and ancient history. Such musings will reveal slivers of the apparent past. A crass mercenary, on the other hand, will give all of two fucks about long lost stories, but they will have a better sense of recent, smaller-scale events and people within the seedier regions of the world.

I have my own wiki that I use to keep track of hundreds of threads and connections, but I’m honestly most interested in what a future community might put together.

How did this start?

I was originally going to make a game and, during the year immediately after completing undergrad, I did have a decent work-life balance, albeit with substandard pay. I had a solid music background in jazz and classical percussion (I play bass guitar and double bass these days), plenty of coding experience, and a love of writing. Surely I could cobble a skeleton-of-a-game together in my free time.

One year later… A combination of starting my doctorate due to pay dissatisfaction and reaching too high for a solo developer forced me to shelve the project. I blame Steven Erikson, Joe Abercrombie, and Glen Cook for my worldbuilding ambitions, which exploded the number of assets I would need. Yes, it is 100% their fault and the only way to punish them is to mention them by name and encourage my readers to never read their masterfully written and hilarious books that inspired me: Malazan, The First Law, and The Black Company.

So, when did I decide to go the book route? Once I had a good work-life balance again (which was shortly after completing my doctorate), I began to explore the hobby space. This brought me back to music and games, but committing to a serious writing project finally caught my attention when some of my friends encouraged me to adapt my TTRPG campaigns into a book. They loved me as a DM. It was probably the terrible accents.

What’s next?

I’ll be posting periodic updates on the writing along with some of the art produced by Casfeld. Maybe I’ll talk about the inspiration for a character or perhaps something about my world. That said, I prefer to avoid jumping into spoiler territory. As I mentioned earlier, Soulsborne-style worldbuilding means even the smallest connection can be a spoiler. I really prefer people puzzle things out themselves.

I’ve got a Discord server too. Come talk to me, I’m lonely!

Casfeld (my artist):

Discord - casfeld

Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/casfeld.art/