u/Good_Cattle2011

I'm trying to nail down my blurb and it is SO hard! My first book is with my editor and almost complete. I am planning to self publish. Feedback and advice on my blurb for slow burn, low fantasy book would be greatly appreciated!

Rhivah must marry before she can inherit her father’s throne. She has decided on the groom, but her father refuses to accept her choice. She thinks she has plenty of time to change his mind. And she’s never been one to give up easily.

Elan is the dagger in the dark - working for the King. Or for the King’s rival family. Or for gold. Or information. But, for once, he’s decided to work for himself. But the details of his personal agenda are for only him to know.

When Rhivah meets Elan in a seemingly chance encounter, he seems odd, but harmless enough. Even kind of interesting. At first. But when Elan’s friendliness sours and he starts demanding answers to questions he has no business asking, Rhivah is furious. And shaken. 

She composes herself for dinner with another suitor her father wants her to meet - whom she knows she has no interest in. Only to have Elan interrupt the meal, being warmly welcomed by her father.

Before the following morning, Rhivah’s father is dead and, as duty demands, she is married. To Elan.

​

A little patience and positivity can remedy most any distress. A cheerful proverb that, within the strong, protective walls of the Citadel, Rhivah has the luxury to live by. The only heir to her father’s throne, the law requires her to marry before she can inherit the crown. When she finally finds the man she wants to marry, her father’s objections are real, but Rhivah isn’t overly concerned. She believes she has both time and the determination to eventually get what she wants. 

Until a seemingly chance encounter with a stranger changes her life. The cozy and comfortable way she was raised devolves into dangers that render her increasingly dependent on a man she barely knows, doesn’t like and cannot trust.

Elan is the dagger in the dark, working for gold - whether it comes from King Daraen or House Behira. His flexible loyalty has been a lucrative asset for him. But when necessity demands it, he must choose between his allegiances: Go back for the girl he couldn’t save or move forward with the Queen who abhors him but needs his protection. One lets him be the man he has become. The other requires him to be so much more.

The Flame of Val: Sand and Stone is a slow-burn, low fantasy that explores clashing ideals and the differences between who we present ourselves to be, who we really are and who we want to become - or avoid becoming.

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Feedback appreciated! MS is currently with editor and planning to self-publish.

I have a question: Does anyone have experience using Reedsy? I have researched writing contests, which is where I came across Reedsy. They have some tools, but I'm not sure about using them. Just curious if anyone else knows anything about it. If not Reedsy, are there other online tools/communities that you would recommend? That's my question, but i don't have enough characters to post this, so now I am just typing for the sake of meeting the six hundred character minimum. Go away 'red outline' so I can post this, please. A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY Z?

Elan waited. He peered through the smudged and sooty windows watching a table of four men. Like the rest of those inside the seedy tavern, they were swigging tankards of ale. And, like Elan, they were waiting for someone.

Finally, the last of Elan’s prey entered the inn. The heavy wooden door closed behind him and Elan had to rely on his view through the window to know when Shelles arrived at the table. Tall and hulking, he was every bit as menacing as Elan remembered him being. 

Approaching the other four, Shelles grinned darkly as he tossed a fat, velvet purse full of shiny Golds onto the table. Cups were raised and cheers arose.

That’s what Elan had been waiting for. He slipped across the road and into the tavern. He didn’t pause as all eyes turned on him. No one in a place like this welcomed a newcomer, especially one moving quickly in a heavy, dark cloak with the cowl pulled forward covering his face. 

His purposeful stride did not break as he passed the table he had been watching. “Come with me,” he commanded. And to ensure they would be inclined to obey, his hand darted out and snatched the purse of gold.

Shelles wasn’t as slow as he was thick. As his fingers closed on Elan’s left arm, Elan spun and sank a heavy dagger into Shelles’ forearm. There were plenty of men that could just be shown a knife as a sufficient warning to give them pause. Shelles was not one. 

He was also more likely to be angered instead of cowed. Experience enlightened Elan that the damage of the dagger was too sudden and sharp for Shelles body to feel harmed by it. Instead, a flood of hot blood would make him stronger and faster than he already was.

So, Elan pulled the dagger back out in the same movement and threw his left elbow against Shelles chin. Tightening his grip on the hilt in his right hand, he connected a glancing blow to Shelles chin.

That was enough to make him stumble back, but the four other men with him were now rallying to their feet. 

The memory seared through Elan. The five of them, grabbing him roughly…He throttled the unwelcome image with practiced brutality. “The Commander sent me,” he informed them crisply. Unlike a knife, among these men, brandishing the will of The Commander did give them pause.

Elan swept away from them and up the wooden staircase with threadbare, faded carpet leading to the even less savory upper floor of the inn. If the invocation of The Commander didn’t move them to follow him, then the gold he had stolen from them should. If those two motives were not enough, then Elan had already failed.

He waited outside the plain wooden door at the end of the hallway at the top of the stairs. He rubbed his thumb down the long, crescent-shaped scar that had marked his face since Broag had carved it there. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. He needed this to work. He needed this finished before he set foot back in the Citadel. 

He heard their grumbles and shuffling feet before he saw the first of them step into the hallway. Broag. He was the thinnest of the five men Elan had been hunting. A nimble-fingered assassin ostensibly in the King’s army but loyal only to House Behira. 

Elan forced a cold smile. “This way, friend,” he invited as he stepped through the door.

The room inside was sparsely furnished. Three stained and sticky tables. On the one closest to the door was a glass bottle filled with a deep amber liquor. Six short glasses were stacked next to the bottle. Exactly as Elan had left it hours before. The rest of the furnishings were eight straight-backed wooden chairs. The one large window that overlooked the street below had heavy, dusty curtains drawn tightly.

Elan moved away from the door to allow them to file in. Shelles was the last to enter, clutching his wounded forearm. “Who do you think you are?” He snarled at Elan.
“Just another humble servant of The Commander.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. Elan had worked many jobs, both for The Commander on behalf of House Behira and for King Daraen of House Arcis. This night, however, was different. He had no orders.Only a very old wrong. And the skill and will to right it. Or, if not right it precisely, to see it was addressed. “I am terribly sorry about that,” he waved in Shelles general direction. “Some of Daraen’s men were two tables over and I couldn’t have them see my face. And from everything I’ve heard, a little scrape like that won’t slow you down much.” As he spoke, he tossed the purse of Golds, less one for his trouble, onto the table next to the bottle. 

Shelles dark eyes narrowed, but he grunted. “I saw those King’s men down there. What’s The Commander want now?”

“First, he sent me to congratulate you with a little gift”—Elan gestured toward the liquor and glasses—“and with a new assignment.” He unstopped the bottle and poured out a drink into each of the small glasses. The decanter’s contents, evenly distributed among the six small glasses, Elan slid one closer to Shelles. “Compliments of The Commander for a job well done.”

“He’s going to hear about this.” Shelles was tying a makeshift bandage around his fresh wound as he spoke.

“Of that, I am sure,” Elan agreed.

His eyes were small, black beads in his heavily featured face as Shelles skeptically viewed the six glasses. “I’m not drinking that. It’s probably poisoned. You already tried to kill me once.”

Elan shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he casually suggested as he downed the liquid in a swift swallow. “I’ll take yours.” He reached out to take another of the glasses.

Satisfied by seeing Elan drink from the same bottle, Shelles grabbed up his own glass greedily. “Hands off!” he barked at Elan, as if he hadn’t just rejected the glass.

Elan shrugged again and watched with cool satisfaction as the other men belted down their drinks.

Shelles turned to his partners and loudly proclaimed, “It’s well deserved, lads. With our connections in the Citadel now, Daraen’s days are numbered, as well as that red-headed rat daughter of his.”

Laughter erupted around the room, except from Elan. He just waited.

After their self-congratulations died down, Shelles turned toward the stranger in their midst. “So, what’s this new job?” he slurred slightly, swaying a little on his feet.

Without word or expression, Elan pulled back the cowl of his cloak. Shock fell on their faces—Broag first, recognizing the long, crescent scar that he had carved into Elan’s face all those years ago. 

Shelles finally had the sense to look frightened. “How did you…” the end of the big man’s sentence didn’t come. Instead, he dropped heavily to the floor. Four more thick thuds followed.

“I see you remember me,” Elan noted aloud. “Tell me who you have in the Citadel.” The Still Root Elan had put in the drinks robbed them of most of their ability to move. He thanked his mother’s Kehlan blood that gave him a high resistance to such things. Those native to Val required only a small dose to paralyze them. Even Elan’s joints already felt slower and stiffer thanks to his father’s Valin blood. 

“Tell me who you have in the Citadel,” he repeated, taking out a long, thin blade.

Their eyes looked away in growing panic. The Still Root itself would not kill them. Other methods would need to be employed. Elan smiled darkly. Part of him hoped they wouldn’t talk. They threatened the Heiress. And Elan would use whatever means necessary to exact from them the information he needed. "Tell me who you have in the Citadel."

He felt nothing. No pain nor impatience, no anticipation or anxiety, not even the rising heat from the flames that were beginning to grow. Until…

“...Traiter’s…Daugh…,” Broag choked out.

Elan was kneeling beside him, pulling his face close to his. “Who do you have in the Citadel?”

“The Traiter’s Daughter,” Broag forced the words.

Elan’s heart raced. It wasn’t an answer to his question. It was an attempt to divert him.

“...will…kill…her…” Broag was struggling to say.

“Where is she?” Elan heard the words leave his lips as his fingers tightened on the older man’s tunic. He cursed his lips. She didn’t matter. He needed to know who was threatening the King and the Heiress. But, acrid smoke swelled around him. His chest ached. There were some who called her The Traiter’s Daughter. But, her name was Celia. And she shouldn’t matter. “Where is she?” 

______________

He carefully wiped his blade as he left the tavern. Shouts arose in his wake. By now, the tavern was engulfed in flames, belching thick smoke over the city’s Second Quarter. People ran around him. Some scurried away from the fire. Others rushed toward it to help.

Elan walked to the stables of a nearby inn and mounted his horse, Gaenon. He urged the big, grey steed through the narrow streets until they began to widen into lanes. Tightly packed shops and inns gave way to crowded hovels crammed together. 

He had no trouble finding the barn near the edge of town that Broag had described. He had no trouble disposing of the two guards just inside the barn door. He walked softly from stall to stall until he found her, bound hand and foot.

Her honey brown eyes came up in terror as he stepped toward her.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he assured her, though curtly.

“Elan?” she ventured, trying to peer under his hood as he cut away her bonds. “Is it you? Have you finally come home?”

“No.”

“I know it’s you, Elan,” she asserted, this time more stubbornly, as she stood up and brushed off her dress.

Instead of responding, he asked her, “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

He observed her from behind the darkness of his cloak.

Her mousy brown hair fell limply around her shoulders and her light brown eyes seemed too wide for her narrow face. Her pinched nose and pointed chin favored her mother so strongly that Elan’s stomach turned. She seemed to have aged a decade in the few years since he had last seen her. But all the resemblance to her mother, all the unkindness of the intervening years, could in no way diminish the deep tenderness she extended toward him. There was no doubt of her steady, undying affection. He was a little surprised that despite the bitterness interred since last they met, nothing had diminished his own esteem for the girl. He had been trying for years to numb himself from the effect she had on him. It was disappointing to learn how much he had failed. 

“Please don’t leave me, Elan,” she begged. “I thought you were dead. Don’t leave me again. I need you. I love you.”

“Celia,” saying her name was hard. “I…I can’t stay. Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

She paused, and he knew why. If she said no, he would not fail to care for her. But, the answer was yes. And once given, she knew she would not be able to persuade him to stay.

“Yes,” she finally answered, tears brimming her eyes. “Where have you been?” Her voice broke with the naked pain of the question.

“Go there.”

“How will you find me?” she asked.

She didn’t ask if he would find her. Just how. That she still believed there was some steadfastness of his character, still had faith even now that he was not lost beyond redemption, reached a part of him that he thought had long ago died.

“I will find you,” he vowed. “A little more work, and I promise, I’ll come find you.”

Her eyes searched the muddy, straw-strewn floor before coming up to meet his. “It’s her, isn’t it?” she asked, unmasked bitterness in her breath.

They both knew that it was. To lie was unnecessary. But he knew it hurt her. “I’m sorry, Celia,” he told her. “Just a little longer,” he reaffirmed.

She nodded, her eyes on the floor again. “I’m sorry, too,” she told him.

He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her that it was all over—the humiliation and the suffering and the pain. He wanted to make it all go away. But he couldn’t yet. He still lacked the power he needed to make things right for her. And so, with little choice and, unfortunately, little desire otherwise, he had to impose upon her patience a little longer.

“Goodbye, Celia,” he bid her and walked away from her, wondering if he would ever see those honey brown eyes again.