Hello!
It was a holiday weekend here in the US. I hope you enjoyed the extra day off (assuming you got one!). I've been writing up a storm, and this weekend was no exception.
I have finished the first book, and I'm in the midst of writing book 2 now, which is titled Cry of Talons. I think most authors would say the same, but I find writing the first book of a new series takes longer than writing the subsequent books. There's obvious things like world building that take time, but I think the next books come easier because you've gotten to know the characters and you find yourself in the "flow" of the story.
But my writing routine will be thrown off this weekend because I'll be at Con Nooga in Chattanooga TN. I'm running the writer's track this year, and we have 24 hours worth of panels across all 3 days. If you're an aspiring author, or an established one, come check it out!
We'll have a ton of awesome authors in the Authors Alley as well, including James Hunter and Nicole Conway!
You can find the full panel schedule in the Eventeny app by searching Con Nooga 2026, though I'm not sure if you have to have a ticket or not to see it. But if not, my fellow author and good friend Keith Robinson used his graphic design skills and put it on his website here.
Speaking of events, I mentioned in my last newsletter that I was going to Carolina Carnage. Wow, that was a fun event! I did OK in sales of my books, but the fighting was entertaining. I learned some of the rules, and on the last day, they had big melee battles of 30 vs 30. It was a good glimpse into medieval fighting of days past.
I added a new event to my appearances, and in March I'll be at Awesome Con in Washington DC. It'll be my first time there, so if you live in the area, come by and say hello!
I think that covers everything for now.
Until the next newsletter!
Below you'll find some free ebooks and a sneak peak of Whisper of Wings!
What I’m reading: I'm still (slowly) reading Reckoning by Michael R Miller.
What I’m watching: I watched The Running Man (new one). I liked it. I'm sure it's different from the book, but the story in the movie was definitely engaging. Apparently it was written by Stephen King, which I found interesting since he primarily does horror.
What are you reading/watching?
As always, a huge thank you for the support!
Richard
Sci-fi, Fantasy, and LitRPG Freebies
I'm not part of any giveaways this week, but I'm offering you some first in series ebooks from my own catalogue. You might already have some of them, but if not, feel free to get one or all of them!
WHISPER OF WINGS SNEAK PEAK
The morning bell hadn’t yet rung when Iden descended into the lower aeries, a bucket of fresh fish slung over one shoulder and the day’s first feeding clutched in his free hand. The stone steps were slick with condensation—they always were this close to dawn—and he’d learned years ago to keep one hand on the wall as he navigated the spiral down into the belly of Stormwatch Eyrie.
The smell hit him halfway down: griffon musk, hay, leather oil, and beneath it all the sharp copper tang of the meat stores. It was home in a way the cramped servants’ quarters three levels up had never been.
Iden emerged into the vaulted space of Aerie Six, the lowest and largest of Stormwatch’s griffon chambers. Forty stalls lined the circular chamber, each one designed to house a griffon and carved directly from the mountain’s stone. Dawn light filtered through the massive eastern archway—open to the sky and wide enough for three griffons to launch abreast.
He set the bucket down and rolled his shoulder, working out the ache. Nineteen years old and his body already kept a catalog of small pains: the perpetual knot in his left shoulder from hauling feed, the calluses on his palms, the trick knee from when a spooked griffon had knocked him into a wall two winters back. The riders never seemed to collect these small damages. Then again, they didn’t haul their own water or muck their own stalls.
A low chirp echoed from the third stall on the left.
“I know, Zephyr. I know. Hold on.”
The blue-gray griffon stuck her eagle’s head over the stall door, amber eyes fixed on the bucket. She was young—barely three years old—and still had that adolescent scrawniness that made her look like all beak and talons. Her rider, a minor lord’s daughter named Cassia, had bonded with her eight months ago and promptly decided that actual griffon care was beneath her station.
Iden knew Zephyr’s feeding schedule, her favorite scratching spots, the way she favored her right forepaw when the weather turned cold, and the particular chirp she made when she wanted attention. He doubted Cassia knew any of it.
“Good morning to you, too,” Iden said, fishing out two of the larger fish. Zephyr snatched them with delicate precision, her beak clicking softly as she ate. He scratched behind her tufted ears—that spot that made her lean into his hand with a rumbling purr—and checked her talons while she was distracted. Clean, sharp, healthy. Good.
He moved down the line, greeting each griffon by name. Starwind, who always tried to steal extra portions. Copper, who’d been limping last week but seemed sound this morning. Dawnfire, ancient and scarred and unbonded since her rider had died of old age five years back, who let Iden near her but screamed bloody murder if any rider approached.
The manifest said Aerie Six needed fresh straw in stalls seven, twelve, and eighteen. That meant at least two hours of hauling bales up from storage. His back twinged in anticipation.
“Talking to them again?”
Iden looked up to find Tabatha leaning against the archway, her dark hair already escaping from its braid despite the early hour. She had a bucket of her own—medicinal salves and bandages for the morning health checks—and the long-suffering expression of someone who’d just climbed six flights of stairs.
“They’re better conversationalists than most people,” Iden said.
“They’re animals.”
“So are most people.” He moved to Copper’s stall and ran a hand down the griffon’s lion flank, feeling for heat or swelling in the previously injured leg. “Just less honest about it.”
Tabatha snorted and joined him, pulling out her checklist. She’d been working the aeries for three years—a year less than Iden—and had the efficiency of someone who’d learned not to waste time. “You hear about the Tribute Day preparations?”
“Hard not to. Commander Aldric’s been barking orders for a week.”
“They’re expecting a good crop this year. Ten candidates, including High Commander Varen’s son.” Tabatha’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, even though they were alone. “Severin. Apparently he’s been training for this since he could walk.”
Iden had seen Severin around the Eyrie. Golden-haired, broad-shouldered, moving through the halls like he owned them. Which, in a sense, he did. The High Commander’s son would bond with one of the finest griffons in Stormwatch, probably one of the juveniles from the upper aeries. The ones Iden wasn’t allowed near.
“Good for him,” Iden said neutrally.
Tabatha shot him a look. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I’m not pretending anything.”
“You watch them, Iden. Every evening when the patrols return, you’re out on the landing platforms, staring up like—” She stopped herself, shook her head.
“Never mind.”
Like a starving man watching a feast. That’s what she’d been about to say. And she wasn’t wrong.
Iden had been born in Stormwatch’s shadow, in the lowtown that clung to the mountain’s base like barnacles on a ship’s hull. His mother had worked the laundries until fever took her when he was twelve. No father he’d ever known. No family beyond the other laundry workers who’d made sure he ate until he was old enough to find work of his own.
He’d been fifteen when he’d first climbed the long road to the Eyrie, looking for any job that would take him. The steward had looked at his thin arms and hollow cheeks and sent him to the aeries. “See if you can handle it,” the man had said. “Most can’t.”
Four years later, Iden could handle anything the griffons threw at him. It was handling his own wanting that proved difficult.
“I should finish the feeding,” he said, moving to the next stall before Tabatha could push the subject further.
They worked in companionable silence for the next hour, the rhythm of the morning routine taking over. Feed, check, clean, repeat. The sun rose higher, and the aerie filled with the sounds of waking griffons: chirps and screeches, the rustle of feathers, the scrape of talons on stone.
The riders began arriving around the third bell. Iden heard them before he saw them—boots on stone, voices raised in conversation or laughter, the jingle of tack and weapons. They descended from the upper levels in ones and twos, moving through the aeries with the casual confidence of people who’d never had to question their right to be there.
Iden kept his head down and his hands busy. It was easier that way.
“You there. Stablehand.”
Iden looked up from the stall he was mucking to find Commander Aldric standing in the center of the aerie, hands clasped behind his back. He was a tall man, iron-haired and iron-spined, with the bearing of someone who’d spent forty years in the saddle. His griffon, Stormclaw, waited behind him—a massive male with silver-tipped feathers and scars that spoke of decades of battle.
“Sir?” Iden straightened, pitchfork still in hand.
Aldric’s eyes swept over him without really seeing him. “Stall twenty-three needs attention. The straw’s fouled.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
The Commander was already turning away. “See that you do. We have candidates arriving this afternoon. Everything must be perfect.”
And then he was gone, Stormclaw padding after him, and Iden was left standing there with a pitchfork and the ghost of irritation in his chest. He’d already changed the straw in twenty-three two days ago. It didn’t need attention. But arguing with a Commander was a swift way to lose your position, so Iden set down the pitchfork and headed for the supply room.
Tabatha caught his eye as he passed. She didn’t say anything, but her expression said enough: That’s just how it is.
He knew. He’d always known.
The sun climbed higher. The aeries filled with activity as more riders arrived for their morning routines. Iden moved through it all like a shadow, present but unnoticed, until even that became a kind of invisibility. He hauled straw, cleaned tack, checked feed stores, and tried not to watch the riders too closely.
Tried and failed.
There was an art to flying, he’d learned. Not just the mechanics of it—the bond between rider and griffon, the signals and commands—but the artistry. The way a skilled rider could read the wind, could coax a griffon through maneuvers that seemed to defy physics. Iden had spent four years watching, and he could name every rider’s style, every griffon’s personality, every subtle variation in formation.
Not that it mattered. Knowledge without opportunity was just another kind of torture.
By midday, Iden’s back was screaming and his hands were raw. He’d hauled enough straw to bed half the Eyrie, repaired three broken stall doors, and somehow found time to help the smiths move a new feeding trough into position. His reward was a bowl of thin stew in the servants’ mess and fifteen minutes off his feet before the afternoon rounds began.
Tabatha slumped onto the bench beside him. “Three candidates just arrived. I saw them in the upper courtyard.”
“Anyone interesting?”
“Define interesting.” She tore into her bread with the enthusiasm of someone who’d also spent the morning hauling. “There’s Severin, obviously. Two girls—one looked nervous, one looked like she could punch through walls. A few boys about our age. All dressed like they’ve never seen honest dirt.”
“So, nobility.”
“Every last one.” Tabatha chewed thoughtfully. “Do you ever wonder what it’s like? Having everyone tell you from birth that you’re special, that you’re destined for great things?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Iden smiled despite himself. “Maybe sometimes.”
The afternoon brought more chaos. The candidates toured the aeries, escorted by senior riders who explained the bonding process, the training regimen, the glorious history of Stormwatch. Iden kept his distance, focusing on the mechanical tasks that kept the place running.
He was checking water levels in the lower aeries when he first saw Severin up close.
The High Commander’s son moved through the chamber like a prince surveying his future kingdom, flanked by two older riders who clearly knew their role was to nod and agree. Severin himself was everything the rumors suggested. Handsome in that clean-featured way of highborn youth, tall and built like he’d been training for combat since childhood. His clothes were fine but practical, his bearing confident without being openly arrogant.
He stopped in front of Dawnfire’s stall.
“This one,” Severin said. “Tell me about her.”
One of the escorts cleared his throat. “Ah, that’s Dawnfire. She’s... unbonded, my lord. Has been for some years.”
“Why?”
“Her previous rider passed from old age. She’s proven... difficult to rebond.”
Severin studied the old griffon with the focus of someone evaluating a piece of equipment. Dawnfire stared back, unimpressed. “She looks sound. Strong. Why hasn’t anyone claimed her?”
“Griffons are particular about their riders, my lord. Dawnfire has rejected every candidate since her rider’s death.”
“Then perhaps she hasn’t met the right candidate.” Severin turned to his escorts. “I want to try bonding with her.”
“My lord, I’m not sure that’s—”
“I’m sure.” Severin’s voice didn’t rise, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. “Arrange it.”
Iden watched this exchange from the shadows near the water troughs, simultaneously invisible and unable to look away. He’d spent years caring for Dawnfire, earning her trust inch by inch. She was proud, fierce, and deeply loyal to the memory of her fallen rider. The idea of this boy commanding her like a servant made something hot and uncomfortable coil in Iden’s chest.
But that was the way of things. The riders commanded. The griffons obeyed. And stablehands kept their mouths shut.
The afternoon dragged into evening. Iden finished his rounds as the sun began its descent, and the evening patrol was preparing for launch—six riders and their griffons, running the perimeter check that happened every sunset without fail.
Despite everything—the exhaustion, the aches, the frustration of invisibility—Iden found himself drawn to the main launch platform. He always did. Tabatha was right about that.
He stood at the edge of the platform, in the space reserved for support staff, and watched the riders mount up. They moved with ease, the bond between human and griffon visible in every synchronized movement. Commands weren’t shouted here; they were felt, anticipated, executed with the precision of dancers who’d rehearsed the same routine a thousand times.
Commander Aldric raised his hand. All six griffons tensed. Then the hand dropped, and they launched as one, wings spreading to catch the evening thermals, bodies lifting into the golden air with a grace that made Iden’s chest ache.
He watched until they were specks against the darkening sky, then kept watching until even the specks disappeared.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Iden spun to find one of the candidates standing beside him. It was one of the girls Tabatha had mentioned—the one who looked like she could punch through walls. Up close, she was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and darker eyes that held something like understanding.
“Yes,” Iden said simply, because there was no point in lying.
“I’m Cadence,” the girl said. “Of House Ravenshade. Tomorrow’s my bonding ceremony.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” She studied him for a moment. “You work here? In the aeries?”
“I do.”
“Then you know the griffons well. Better than we do, probably.” Cadence tilted her head, considering. “What’s it like? Being near them every day, caring for them, but never...”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.
“It’s fine,” Iden said, which was the expected answer. The safe answer.
Cadence looked at him like she could see straight through the lie, but she didn’t call him on it. “Well. If you have any advice, I’ll be in the upper aeries tomorrow morning. Severin’s already claimed he’ll bond with the strongest griffon here, but I’m just hoping to find one that doesn’t hate me.”
She walked away before Iden could formulate a response, leaving him alone on the platform with the last light of day fading around him.
He stood there until the stars emerged, pinpricks of light in the gathering dark. Then he climbed down the platform stairs and made his way back to the lower aeries for the final checks of the day.
The griffons were settling for the night, their chirps and rustles quieting into the soft sounds of sleep. Iden moved through the chamber, checking locks and water troughs, making sure everyone was comfortable. It was meditative work, this final round. The day’s frustrations faded into the simple rhythm of care.
He saved Zephyr for last. The young griffon was already drowsy, but she perked up when Iden approached, offering that same soft chirp that meant I see you, I know you.
“Sleep well,” Iden murmured, scratching behind her ears one last time. “Tomorrow’s going to be chaos.”
Zephyr rumbled contentment and settled back into her straw, eyes drifting closed.
Iden locked her stall and headed for the stairs. His room was waiting—small, cold, barely large enough for a cot and a trunk. But it was his, bought with four years of labor and loyalty, and that was something, at least.
He paused at the base of the stairs, looking back at the darkened aerie. Somewhere above, in rooms he’d never see, the candidates were probably preparing for tomorrow. Praying to whatever gods riders prayed to, visualizing their perfect bond, imagining the moment when a griffon would choose them and change everything.
Iden had stopped praying years ago. He climbed the stairs to his room, washed the day’s grime from his hands and face, and collapsed onto his cot. Sleep came quickly, as it always did after the physical exhaustion of an aerie shift.
In his dreams, he flew. He always flew. Wings spread wide, wind in his face, the world spread below like a map made real. In his dreams, he wasn’t a stablehand. He wasn’t invisible. He wasn’t nobody.
But then he woke up, and he was.
0 comments