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Please give this a quick read and provide some constructive criticism, this is my first medieval fantasy and I'm willing to learn. Thank you so much!!!
This is the first short chapter of a book idea I have.
Chapter One.
The tower creaked like an old lung, breathing against the gray breath of morning. Each gust made the timbers groan and whisper, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the high moors beyond the castle walls.
Timn pressed his hand to the rung above him and climbed, feeling the wet cold of dew seep through his wool sleeves. His breath came sharp and white in the air. Below, the kingdom lay drowned in fog—its tiled roofs and crooked chimneys barely visible, its castle towers rising like black teeth above a mouth of mist. The paupers’ huts of the lower quarter were dim, scattered coals from some dying fire of men.
He climbed higher, the old rope ladder sighing under his weight. He had done this every morning since his twelfth birthday, when the Keeper of the Light had first placed the flint striker in his trembling hands and said, “This flame binds the realm, boy. Guard it as you would your heart.”
The tower stood where stone met timber, where rich met poor—a bridge between the gilded halls of the castle and the smoke-stained alleys of the commonfolk. It had been raised in the first days of the King’s peace, when men still believed that light could hold back darkness, that a single flame might make brothers of lords and herdsmen.
When the bowl torch burned, its light could be seen for leagues in every direction. Shepherds in the northern highlands would lift their heads to it, and fishermen at sea would murmur blessings under their breath. To the croppers of the eastern plain and the lumberers of the southern wood, that light was the King’s promise—of order, safety, mercy.
But promises, Timn had learned, dim more easily than flame.
He was fourteen now. Lean, wiry, his palms rough from rope and rung. The morning chill bit into him as he climbed, but he welcomed the sting; it meant he was alive, and the world still turned. Halfway up, he paused to rest his legs and turned eastward. The horizon was a sheet of pale steel, the kind that holds its breath before dawn.
Then he heard it.
Not the usual groan of chains or the mutter of sentries changing watch. This sound was softer. More deliberate. The steady, rhythmic pulse of hooves striking wet cobblestone.
He froze, pressing himself against the tower’s frame. His eyes found the castle courtyard far below—movement there, just visible through the thinning mist. Shapes, half a dozen or more, gliding like wraiths between the stables and the keep. They wore no heraldry, no torches. Cloaks of green and brown, mottled to blend with stone and fog.
Something in their gait chilled him. They moved like men used to killing.
Timn narrowed his eyes, straining to see. The shapes halted near the keep’s inner doors. There—a brief flash of steel, then a cry strangled before it could rise. A guard fell. The others slipped through the entryway, swallowed by the shadows of the King’s hall.
Moments later, they reemerged.
This time they were not alone. Between them struggled a man in white nightclothes, his bare feet dragging, his crown of gray hair catching what little light there was.
The King.
Timn’s heart stuttered in his chest. He gripped the rung so hard his knuckles bled white.
The men bound the monarch’s hands, flung him across a waiting horse, and spurred toward the north gate. All of it wordless, efficient, unseen but for the boy on the tower. The fog swallowed them whole.
He turned upward. The great bowl torch loomed above him—cold, unlit, the kingdom’s symbol of peace. His hand went to the flint at his belt. One strike, one spark, and the fire would blaze for all to see. The light is lit. The King is safe. That was the law.
But the King was not safe.
And only Timn knew.
The wind rose, moaning through the slats, whipping his hair into his eyes. His fingers hovered between truth and duty, between silence and signal. If he lit the flame, the lie would spread across the realm, comforting thousands. If he didn’t, panic would rise with the dawn—and the blame would fall squarely on him.
Then came another sound.
This one not from the castle, but from below. Inside the tower.
Wood creaked. Boots scraped against rungs. Someone was climbing. Fast. Silent.
Timn’s pulse thundered in his ears. He peered downward and saw only darkness between the beams, the faint glimmer of movement—a shape ascending, wrapped in shadow. Not one of the watchmen. Too quiet. Too quick.
“Who’s there?” Timn called, voice cracking against the wind.
No answer. Only the soft rasp of leather on wood.
He reached for the flint, gripping it like a dagger. The figure halted a few feet beneath him. Then a voice came—low, rough, the tone of someone who had seen too much of war.
“You saw them,” the man said. Not a question.
Timn hesitated. “Who are you?”
The climber moved closer until his hooded face came into view—sharp features, a scar dragging down one cheek, and beneath his cloak, a glint of darkened metal. A guard’s badge, blackened by flame.
“They can’t know,” the man said quietly. “Not yet.”
Before Timn could speak, the stranger climbed past him, nimble as a wolf, and hauled himself up to the torch’s rim. From his satchel, he poured a thick, tar-black oil into the bowl, the smell acrid and wrong.
He struck the flint himself.
Fire leapt skyward with a roar that shook the tower. The light blazed against the gray dawn, brighter than the sun, a pillar of gold piercing the mist.
The man turned, eyes hollow in the firelight. “You’ll tell them you lit it,” he said. “And if you value the King’s life—say nothing else.”
He dropped the flint into the flame and descended the other side without another word, vanishing into the fog as quickly as he’d come.
Timn stood frozen, his face lit orange and gold, the wind thrashing his cloak. Below, the castle walls caught the light and gleamed. Across the valley, farmers and fishers, woodsmen and shepherds—all lifted their heads toward the tower and smiled.
The Light was burning.
The King was safe.
And the first lie of the new age began to glow.
This is the first short chapter of a book idea I have.
Chapter One.
The tower creaked like an old lung, breathing against the gray breath of morning. Each gust made the timbers groan and whisper, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the high moors beyond the castle walls.
Timn pressed his hand to the rung above him and climbed, feeling the wet cold of dew seep through his wool sleeves. His breath came sharp and white in the air. Below, the kingdom lay drowned in fog—its tiled roofs and crooked chimneys barely visible, its castle towers rising like black teeth above a mouth of mist. The paupers’ huts of the lower quarter were dim, scattered coals from some dying fire of men.
He climbed higher, the old rope ladder sighing under his weight. He had done this every morning since his twelfth birthday, when the Keeper of the Light had first placed the flint striker in his trembling hands and said, “This flame binds the realm, boy. Guard it as you would your heart.”
The tower stood where stone met timber, where rich met poor—a bridge between the gilded halls of the castle and the smoke-stained alleys of the commonfolk. It had been raised in the first days of the King’s peace, when men still believed that light could hold back darkness, that a single flame might make brothers of lords and herdsmen.
When the bowl torch burned, its light could be seen for leagues in every direction. Shepherds in the northern highlands would lift their heads to it, and fishermen at sea would murmur blessings under their breath. To the croppers of the eastern plain and the lumberers of the southern wood, that light was the King’s promise—of order, safety, mercy.
But promises, Timn had learned, dim more easily than flame.
He was fourteen now. Lean, wiry, his palms rough from rope and rung. The morning chill bit into him as he climbed, but he welcomed the sting; it meant he was alive, and the world still turned. Halfway up, he paused to rest his legs and turned eastward. The horizon was a sheet of pale steel, the kind that holds its breath before dawn.
Then he heard it.
Not the usual groan of chains or the mutter of sentries changing watch. This sound was softer. More deliberate. The steady, rhythmic pulse of hooves striking wet cobblestone.
He froze, pressing himself against the tower’s frame. His eyes found the castle courtyard far below—movement there, just visible through the thinning mist. Shapes, half a dozen or more, gliding like wraiths between the stables and the keep. They wore no heraldry, no torches. Cloaks of green and brown, mottled to blend with stone and fog.
Something in their gait chilled him. They moved like men used to killing.
Timn narrowed his eyes, straining to see. The shapes halted near the keep’s inner doors. There—a brief flash of steel, then a cry strangled before it could rise. A guard fell. The others slipped through the entryway, swallowed by the shadows of the King’s hall.
Moments later, they reemerged.
This time they were not alone. Between them struggled a man in white nightclothes, his bare feet dragging, his crown of gray hair catching what little light there was.
The King.
Timn’s heart stuttered in his chest. He gripped the rung so hard his knuckles bled white.
The men bound the monarch’s hands, flung him across a waiting horse, and spurred toward the north gate. All of it wordless, efficient, unseen but for the boy on the tower. The fog swallowed them whole.
He turned upward. The great bowl torch loomed above him—cold, unlit, the kingdom’s symbol of peace. His hand went to the flint at his belt. One strike, one spark, and the fire would blaze for all to see. The light is lit. The King is safe. That was the law.
But the King was not safe.
And only Timn knew.
The wind rose, moaning through the slats, whipping his hair into his eyes. His fingers hovered between truth and duty, between silence and signal. If he lit the flame, the lie would spread across the realm, comforting thousands. If he didn’t, panic would rise with the dawn—and the blame would fall squarely on him.
Then came another sound.
This one not from the castle, but from below. Inside the tower.
Wood creaked. Boots scraped against rungs. Someone was climbing. Fast. Silent.
Timn’s pulse thundered in his ears. He peered downward and saw only darkness between the beams, the faint glimmer of movement—a shape ascending, wrapped in shadow. Not one of the watchmen. Too quiet. Too quick.
“Who’s there?” Timn called, voice cracking against the wind.
No answer. Only the soft rasp of leather on wood.
He reached for the flint, gripping it like a dagger. The figure halted a few feet beneath him. Then a voice came—low, rough, the tone of someone who had seen too much of war.
“You saw them,” the man said. Not a question.
Timn hesitated. “Who are you?”
The climber moved closer until his hooded face came into view—sharp features, a scar dragging down one cheek, and beneath his cloak, a glint of darkened metal. A guard’s badge, blackened by flame.
“They can’t know,” the man said quietly. “Not yet.”
Before Timn could speak, the stranger climbed past him, nimble as a wolf, and hauled himself up to the torch’s rim. From his satchel, he poured a thick, tar-black oil into the bowl, the smell acrid and wrong.
He struck the flint himself.
Fire leapt skyward with a roar that shook the tower. The light blazed against the gray dawn, brighter than the sun, a pillar of gold piercing the mist.
The man turned, eyes hollow in the firelight. “You’ll tell them you lit it,” he said. “And if you value the King’s life—say nothing else.”
He dropped the flint into the flame and descended the other side without another word, vanishing into the fog as quickly as he’d come.
Timn stood frozen, his face lit orange and gold, the wind thrashing his cloak. Below, the castle walls caught the light and gleamed. Across the valley, farmers and fishers, woodsmen and shepherds—all lifted their heads toward the tower and smiled.
The Light was burning.
The King was safe.
And the first lie of the new age began to glow.
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