Wyrmheart's Heir

Wyrmhearth’s Heir is exactly the kind of brutal, broken, and beautiful story I wanted to write and I make no apologies for it. I built a world rotting from the inside out, where loyalty is a death sentence and survival costs you pieces of your soul. The opening is raw and cinematic: a bleeding dragon chained by lightning, a betrayer saint with trembling hands, a crowd on the edge of witnessing the impossible. If that scene doesn't sink its claws into you, you're reading the wrong book. Lyra is the gutter-rat heroine I needed to see: stubborn, furious, cracked but unbroken. She doesn't get handed magical powers or plot armor. She scrapes survival from the ruins with bleeding fingers and broken ribs. Every chapter drags her deeper into hell, and every time she spits blood and keeps going, she earns it. Her fear is real. Her hunger is real. Her rage is real. The world of Seresthos is a graveyard and I didn't shy away from it. There’s no neat, sanitized fantasy here. It stinks of rust, mold, blood, and failure. The ruins are haunted by more than bones; they’re soaked in memory, betrayal, and broken faith. Even the magic carries weight and cost. Power in this world is as much a curse as a blessing. Pacing? Ruthless. Language? Sharp enough to cut. Atmosphere? Oppressive, cold, and utterly alive. Every choice I made... the broken cities, the muttering skeletons, the aching flashbacks, the endless teeth of the dark was deliberate. I wanted readers to feel the hunger, the hopelessness, the tiny, defiant embers of hope refusing to die. I wrote Wyrmhearth’s Heir not to be safe, but to be honest. To show that sometimes surviving is a rebellion in itself. That sometimes, the smallest, dirtiest thief can tear down a world that thinks it's too big to fail. If you want sunshine and easy victories, look elsewhere. If you want a storm, a grave, and a stubborn gutter-rat fighting like hell anyway. Welcome to Seresthos. I regret nothing.