Destiny of the Daystar- 100k words down and sample chapter!

A few days ago, I crossed the 100k mark for Destiny of the Daystar (book 4 of my Absolution of the Morning Star series)! As I’ve said before, I always consider this a major milestone in any writing project, and usually, after this point, the book writes itself. After a very productive week, my actual total is currently at 113,563. Since last Thursday, I’ve written 35,268 (or about 5000 words daily). Also, I have mapped out the remaining chapters (7-8 left), so I know what will happen and just need to write it. It should come in around 140k. If I can keep up this rate, I may finish the first draft by the end of next week.

To celebrate, below is the first chapter of Destiny of the Daystar (still a little raw). If you haven’t read the prior three books, you may want to refrain from continuing and check out the other books here first, as there are some spoilers. If you’ve read the other books, enjoy! The rest should be available in January. As always, constructive feedback is welcome.

Cheers!

Chapter 1

A sliver of alabaster sliced the hoary sky as twenty thousand Nornish knights surged over the hill, their black-and-white banners snapping in the wind, emblazoned with the ouroboros of the fallen emperor. Time was a luxury they could not afford. Ivar the Usurper’s crime of patricide demanded swift vengeance, and Norn had called upon every horse they could muster. The thunderous crush of eighty thousand hooves had shattered all resistance before them on their long journey from the Pendant Citadel at Norn.

Grand Master Doran squinted against the cold rain as he surveyed the fields, which had turned into a quagmire. He rubbed the aching stump of his right arm, lost years ago to a bone crab in the catacombs of Norn. “Yet another battle upon the bloody leas of Battenridge. How many of our dead must these fields swallow before something of substance grows in Lucardia?”

“I do not presume to know, sir,” said Commander Armand, his young face smooth and taut with focus. “But the lay of the land favors a cavalry charge.”

“Six,” Doran muttered.

“Pardon, sir?”

“This is my sixth battle fought on this damned mud. The Battenbornes may be dead, but their cursed land still thirsts for our blood.”

“Yes, sir,” Armand said, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle, likely too young to know anything about a kingdom that was erased almost thirty years ago.

Doran nodded, watching the vast field ahead. “But glory demands sacrifice. The Knights of Norn live only to fall.”

A silence fell over the commanders nearby, their eyes turning toward the ridge. Tension rippled through the ranks as they awaited the sight of their enemy. Doran grimaced, squeezing the rain from his beard. “If Ivar has the stones to face us in open battle, it will be a short fight.”

“He’s no coward, just a murderer,” Armand added. “I suspect he’ll choose open battle over a siege.”

Doran raised an eyebrow. “High words for the usurper.”

“You taught us to respect our enemies.”

“Hmm. Ivar killed his father while he sat on the Crystal Throne. I can muster no respect for such a man. He’ll die for what he did. We are oath-bound to avenge the emperor.”

Ahead, movement stirred on the ridge, a ripple in the trees. Armand pointed. “Sir, I see something.”

Doran raised his spyglass, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “By the grace of Caspia… he came. The fool came.” He passed the glass to Armand. “You were right. Battenridge will get its blood sacrifice this day.”

Armand peered through the spyglass. “It’s an inferior force. Ten, maybe twelve thousand. Mostly infantry. I see two thousand horses, if that.”

“Do you see him?” Doran asked, his eyes narrowing with grim satisfaction.

“There. On the knoll by that great elm. He wears his father’s stolen crown.”

Doran took back the glass and focused on the center of the enemy formation. A figure stood tall, dressed in yew-bough heraldry. But it wasn’t the crowned man that concerned him—it was the crimson robes beside him. “So… he consorts with the Red Clothes.”

Armand blanched. “The Followers of Eosphorus? Here, in daylight?”

Doran lowered the glass, his face hardening. “This may be a more difficult fight than we anticipated.”

****

Across the field, Ivar adjusted his crown, its weight unfamiliar and uncomfortable. The cold drizzle from the sky smeared the fresh dye of his heraldry, the red berries of the yew boughs running into dark streaks. He stared at the approaching wave of horsemen, cresting the ridge like a thunderstorm rolling in from the sea. His grip on the reins tightened.

“They’re here, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Caldwell, his voice laced with apprehension.

Ivar glanced down at the stain spreading across his tabard. “Look at this, Caldwell. I already bleed. Not a good omen.” He lifted his gaze to the horizon, watching the massive force of Nornish knights advance. “It’s a poor day for a battle.”

“On the contrary,” a voice broke in, smooth as the cold wind. Brother Pallas rode up beside Ivar, his crimson robes fluttering. “Would the sun’s bright cheer make death easier to swallow?”

Ivar’s jaw tightened. “You Red Cloths always find a way to make misery poetic.”

Pallas smirked from beneath his hood, his eyes gleaming with hidden knowledge. “This slick mud will be a blessing. It will slow their cavalry.”

Ivar glanced at the monk, his patience thinning. “Have you fought many battles, Pallas?”

The smirk deepened. “It is not dye that stains our robes, sire. I see you’ve opted for your own armor today.”

“My brother’s armor pinched,” Ivar replied flatly, adjusting his grip on the reins.

“Wise choice. The wolf didn’t suit you.”

Ivar’s gaze darkened. “Yes, terrible, sly beasts that they are.”

“On the contrary, wolves are loyal with a sense of duty.”

Ivar glared. “Your point?”

“You must admit. Koen always put Lucardia first. It even superseded his loyalty to his father.”

“My actions were no different.”

“Your actions were for self-preservation.”

“A lesson you should learn by watching your tongue.”

Pallas smirked. “Don’t misunderstand me, Your Imperial Majesty. I meant no insult. You did what was necessary, and Lucardia will prosper as a result. But wearing a wolf on your chest… would be in poor taste now. Yew boughs symbolize rebirth and are much more fitting in your case.”

Ivar scoffed. “Is that supposed to make me feel absolved?”

“It suits you,” Pallas said. “You were at death’s door, and now you are emperor.”

Ivar shrugged, pulling a wineskin from his saddle. He took a deep swig, the fortified liquid burning his throat as he wiped the excess from his chin.

“Careful, sire,” Pallas cautioned, eyeing the wine. “The Boken warns to put new wine in fresh skins, lest they burst. You’re already stretched thin.”

“I’ll rule Lucardia my way,” Ivar growled. “Sober or not.”

Pallas’s smile was cold. “Do as you will, but remember—sweet wine cloys without the pucker of bitter peel.”

Ivar shot him a glare. “I’ve had enough bitterness to last a lifetime. No thanks to you.”

“We were merely the knife. It was your father’s hand that wielded it.” Pallas raised a finger toward the horizon. “You face a formidable foe and should have all your wits about you.”

Ivar followed his gaze and spotted a figure standing at the heart of the Nornish lines. “Doran, the Butcher of Blackdown.”

“Yes.”

Ivar couldn’t help but admire the grim efficiency of the enemy’s formation—thousands of disciplined riders waiting to charge. His own ragtag army of hastily gathered peasants and infantry felt woefully inadequate. “He outwitted my brother, and Koen was always the better strategist.”

“Do not fear. He will fall with the rest of Norn,” Pallas replied, his voice steely. “What’s left of your father’s reign ends today. The ouroboros will eat itself, and Norn will be but a memory.”

Ivar shifted uneasily in his saddle. “Even if we win today, the people will never forget. The ouroboros is burned into their minds. The legacy of Norn won’t vanish so easily.”

“Then we will bury it,” Pallas said softly. “Beneath the bodies of their finest knights. It’s time to break the wheel.”

Ivar was silent for a long moment. His eyes traveled down the ranks of his own forces. “These men aren’t soldiers,” he muttered. “They’ll break under the first charge.”

“They will not need to hold the line,” Pallas assured him. “They are the tinder. We are the fire.”

“What fire?” Ivar growled, turning sharply toward the monk.

A slow smile spread across Pallas’s face. “Turn, sire. Look behind you.”

Ivar twisted in his saddle, frowning as he caught sight of a new force marching onto the field. Thousands of men in red pluderhosen, their golden cuirasses gleaming, feather-topped morions nodding as they marched in perfect formation. Half carried pikes, and the others carried strange iron tubes slung across their shoulders. They marched under black flags marked with red chalices crossed with an X.

“Who are they?” Ivar asked, eyes narrowing.

Pallas’s smile deepened. “Your vanguard. The fire I promised.”

“Fire?” Caldwell echoed, uncertain. “I’m not familiar with their colors.”

Pallas glanced at Ivar. “These are the heralds of a new age. You may call them arquebusiers.”

Ivar blinked in confusion. “Arquebusiers?”

“They wield hand cannons,” Pallas explained, his voice rich with anticipation. “It is said even the thickest plate cannot stop their bite.”

Ivar stared in silence, watching the soldiers take their position.

“I bring you fire, sire. The Knights of Norn will charge, as they always do, full of pride and arrogance. They’ll expect to crush your peasants, but they’ll be met by thunder instead.”

Ivar nodded slowly, watching the arquebusiers line up. “I hope you’re right, Pallas.”

“I am certain,” the monk said, his voice like iron. “Today, you will be more than an emperor. You will be Ivar the Reformer.”

****

At first, the Knights of Norn advanced at a steady trot. The rhythmic beat of hooves echoed across the field as if the earth itself trembled beneath their approach. Grand Master Doran surveyed the line to either side, his expression grim but resolute. A forest of lances, held high and swaying with the motion of the charge, stretched for nearly a mile across, several rows deep. This was the might of Norn, an army that had broken ten kingdoms and forged an empire. Today, it would break Ivar the Usurper.

“Look at them, Armand,” Doran called out to his young commander, his voice carrying over the rumble of hooves. “Have you ever seen anything more magnificent?”

Armand nodded, his eyes wide with awe. “No, sir. The Knights of Norn are unmatched.”

Doran allowed himself a brief smile, pride swelling in his chest. “They answered my call—all of them, even those who doubted me in court. This is the day we make history.”

“Victory is certain,” Armand agreed. “We outnumber them two to one.”

“Yes,” Doran said, though a shadow of doubt flickered across his mind. Something about this felt too easy. Ivar’s forces were little more than hastily gathered peasants, and yet… there was that infernal Red Cloth monk. His presence unsettled Doran more than the numbers before him.

At two hundred yards, Doran raised his hand, signaling the knights to increase their pace. The line pulled into a gentle point, with Doran at its center. The natural elegance of the cavalry took shape, the lances lowering as the speed of the charge intensified.

“Steady, boys!” Doran shouted. “Close ranks! No gaps!”

The line tightened—horses shoulder to shoulder, the thunder of hooves now a deafening roar. As they closed the distance, the enemy lines came into sharper focus—ragged peasants and farmers with pitchforks, a pitiful sight.

Doran’s lips curled into a sneer. “Prepare to charge!”

But then, something unexpected caught his eye. Tendrils of smoke rose from Ivar’s line—thin and unnatural, curling upward like the fingers of a dark spell.

“What is that?” Armand called beside him, his brow furrowing.

Doran’s sharp eyes followed the smoke to its source. The front lines of Ivar’s army had stepped back, and in their place stood soldiers—men clad in strange red trousers and golden armor. And they weren’t holding spears. They were holding something else. Iron tubes.

Doran’s stomach tightened as realization struck him like a hammer. His hand shot up. “Hold! Hold the charge!”

But it was too late.

The arquebusiers unleashed their volley. A wall of noise swept across the field, louder than anything Doran had ever heard. The line of arquebuses spewed flames and smoke and, with it, death. The air was alive with the sound of lead zipping through the ranks of the knights, cutting down man and horse alike with brutal efficiency. The front line of the Nornish charge collapsed in an instant, their bodies tumbling to the mud in a cascade of blood and broken armor.

Doran’s shout died in his throat as he saw knights—his knights—falling all around him, their lances snapping in half, their destriers shrieking as lead tore through their flesh. Men tumbled from their saddles, crashing into the quagmire below, writhing in agony or lying unnaturally still.

The momentum of the charge faltered- the mighty tide of horseflesh broken by a weapon Doran had never faced before. He fought to control his steed as it reared in panic, its eyes wide with terror at the sound of the cannons.

“Regroup!” Doran roared, but the words felt hollow in the cacophony.

The arquebusiers stepped back in unison, and another line moved forward—a second volley. The air erupted again with fire and smoke, the screams of dying men and animals drowning out everything else. Doran watched in horror as another wave of his knights fell, torn apart by the invisible sting of lead.

“They… they’re breaking,” Armand stammered, his face pale with shock as he clung to his horse.

Doran barely heard him. His gaze locked on the distant line of arquebusiers, the smoke still rising from their barrels. He had never seen a charge broken so swiftly, so violently. The knights of Norn had always been invincible, the terror of every battlefield. But now…

A surge of panic rippled through the remaining knights. Some turned, attempting to flee, their destriers wheeling in confusion. Others continued forward in desperation, pushing through the broken ranks, but the pikemen behind the arquebusiers were ready.

The few who made it past the volleys were met with long pikes; their horses impaled as they crashed into the line. The scene was one of chaos and carnage. The precision of Norn’s cavalry shattered into fragments, their once-majestic formation crumbling in the mud.

Doran could barely breathe as he looked down at his chest. Three bloody blossoms bloomed there, vivid and red, staining his pristine armor. Each pulse of his heart made the wounds scream with sharper pain. He swayed in his saddle, his vision blurring as the strength drained from his limbs.

His sword, once a symbol of Norn’s might, now dangled uselessly at his side. He tried to lift it, to rally what was left of his men, but his arm refused to obey. A profound, bone-weary exhaustion crept over him.

Armand’s voice was distant now as if coming from a world away. Doran’s gaze drifted to his young commander as another volley echoed, but Doran never heard it. The Grand Master of the Knightly Order of Norn fell from his destrier, his head all but obliterated by the shot that ended his life.

****

On the other side of the field, Ivar watched as the great charge of the Knights of Norn disintegrated. His mouth fell open in disbelief. He had expected a long, drawn-out battle, a grinding test of endurance—but this… this was something else.

The arquebusiers stepped back to reload, the smoke of their weapons hanging thick in the air. The smell of sulfur and blood filled Ivar’s nostrils as he gazed across the killing field. What had once been an unstoppable tide of horse and steel was now a broken mess of men and animals, bodies lying in grotesque heaps.

Beside him, Brother Pallas watched with cold satisfaction. “The fire,” he whispered. “It consumes all.”

Ivar let out a bark of laughter, a wild, disbelieving sound. “Lord beheld, what a sight!” He thrust his fist toward the sky. “I accept your mandate, Lord! I will be your chosen!”

But Pallas’s gaze drifted away as the emperor reveled in his newfound power. Without a word, the monk turned his horse and disappeared into the chaos, his crimson robes vanishing into the smoke like a shadow.

The battlefield lay in ruins, the once-proud banners of Norn trampled in the mud, their gleaming armor now smeared with blood and filth. The great charge had crumbled into chaos, and the Knights of Norn—those legendary warriors who had struck fear into kingdoms—were now nothing more than broken bodies scattered across the field.

Ivar sat tall in his saddle, surveying the devastation with a grin that stretched wide across his face. His chest rose and fell with exhilaration, his heart still pounding from the surge of battle. Brimstone and the metallic tang filled the air, but to him, it was the scent of victory—sweet and undeniable.

He had done it. He had faced the mightiest knights in all of Lucardia, the chosen protectors of the empire, and he had crushed them. The arquebusiers had done their work—far better than even Pallas had promised. The fire had consumed them, and now Ivar stood atop the ashes, crowned by his triumph.

Caldwell rode up beside him, his face pale with shock but his voice steady. “Your Imperial Majesty… the day is ours.”

Ivar barked a laugh, throwing back his head. “Ours? Caldwell, it is mine!” He raised his sword high, the blade gleaming in the fading light. “By the gods, look at it! The Knights of Norn shattered like so many brittle bones. I’ve broken the unbreakable!”

Caldwell nodded, though his eyes lingered on the mangled bodies of the fallen knights. “It is a victory, sire. A great one.”

Ivar turned to him, his eyes shining with a fevered light. “Great? It is more than great—it is legendary! History will remember this day as the moment Ivar the Reformer destroyed the might of Norn. The songs will tell of how I took the empire by force… by fire… by the will of the gods!”

Behind them, the peasants—those who had watched the battle unfold in stunned disbelief—began to cheer. The sound grew slowly at first, then louder, swelling across the field. They had expected to die beneath the hooves of the Nornish cavalry, but now they stood victorious, emboldened by the impossible victory they had just witnessed.

Ivar’s grin widened as the cheers washed over him. He relished the sound, letting it fill him with power. He had done it. He had proven himself worthy of the crown, worthy of the empire.

“Look at them, Caldwell,” Ivar said, his voice thick with pride. “They cheer for me. The people cheer for me. Not for my father, not for my brother—but for me. I am the emperor they will follow.”

Caldwell glanced at the cheering peasants, then back at Ivar. “Yes, sire. They are yours.”

Ivar nodded, his gaze shifting back to the battlefield. The arquebusiers were reloading, their discipline precise and efficient, as they prepared for whatever might come next. There was no need, though—the battle was won. The Knights of Norn had been broken, and there would be no counterattack. There was nothing but open fields, his fields, as far as the eye could see.

“Have the arquebusiers stand down,” Ivar said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let them know they’ve done well, but the slaughter is over. We’ve made our statement.”

Caldwell hesitated, then inclined his head. “As you command, sire.”

As Caldwell rode off to relay the order, Ivar allowed himself a moment to savor the scene before him. He could already see the future: the nobles bowing to him, the other princedoms falling in line, and the world reshaping itself in his image.

He dismounted, his boots sinking into the blood-soaked mud, and strode forward toward the shattered remains of the Nornish line. His heart still raced, not with fear or hesitation, but with the thrill of power coursing through his veins. Each step he took felt like a proclamation—this land and empire now belonged to him.

Ahead, he spotted the body of a knight, face-down in the muck, his broken lance still clutched in one hand, the other a stump. Doran. Ivar rolled the man over with the tip of his boot. The Grand Master’s face was unrecognizable, his armor battered and torn, but the heraldry on his chest was unmistakable.

Ivar chuckled, shaking his head. “So much for the Butcher of Blackdown. You’ve been avenged, dear brother.”

Ivar turned to face the distant line of his troops. They had proven themselves today, and more than that, they had proven him right. The blood of Norn had stained the fields of Battenridge, and in that blood, his reign was born.

The emperor felt unstoppable as he moved through the battlefield, stepping over bodies and broken armor. The death and carnage meant little to him now—only the victory mattered. He had outsmarted Doran, crushed the might of Norn, and set a new course for the empire. And he had done it all with fire, just as Pallas had promised.

“Lord beheld,” Ivar muttered, his voice filled with wonder. “I truly am chosen.”

****

Far behind him, watching from the shadows, Brother Pallas observed the scene with cold calculation. The monk had not joined in the cheers, nor had he sought out Ivar after the battle. This was the emperor’s moment- it was his triumph. Or so the people would believe. Pallas had no need to bask in the moment—his work was far from finished.

Ivar was drunk on victory now, riding the high of his unexpected triumph. He saw only the glory, the power that fate had handed him. But Pallas knew better. This victory was only the beginning, a first step in the greater design that had yet to unfold fully.

The fire had consumed the Knights of Norn, yes. But the true flames, the ones that would reshape Lucardia, were still waiting to be lit. And when the time came, Pallas would be there to strike the match.

For now, though, he would let Ivar have his moment. Let the man believe he was invincible. The cracks in his armor would show soon enough. They always did.

With a final glance at the battlefield, Pallas turned and disappeared into the smoke, leaving Ivar to revel in his fleeting triumph.