Sample chapter, but first…

An Author’s Note

What follows is a rough draft of the opening chapter of my current work-in-progress—a dark fantasy tale that offers Jezelle’s backstory. For those who haven’t yet stepped into Absolution of the Morning Star (AMS), Jezelle is one of its core viewpoint characters. In Dawn of the Lightbearer, she hints at her traumatic past with a kind of practiced nonchalance, the way many of us learn to skim the surface of our own pain. But the truth of her story begins in one of the most brutal and harrowing places I could imagine. This opening chapter reveals the depth of that abandonment and betrayal—moments that will shape future plotlines in the final two AMS books, which are still to come.

I’m 20,000 words into Jezelle: Thief of Oaks and halfway through Chapter Six. I knew I had something from the moment I wrote the first lines. But I debated sharing it—not because I questioned the writing, which is some of the rawest and most unguarded I’ve ever done—but because of what this chapter asks of the reader. It is not an easy read, and I don’t offer it lightly.

So, before you continue, I want to be transparent about the content. This chapter contains the following content warnings: child abandonment, grooming, implied sexual exploitation (not explicit), emotional abuse, and trauma. If any of this resonates too closely with your wounds, please know that I understand. You owe me nothing, and your well-being always comes first. I’ll be back soon with something lighter.

That said, I believe that to show real growth in a character’s journey, you must begin with truth. And truth, more often than not, dwells in darkness. It’s tempting to skip the hard parts and chase the triumphs in stories- especially in fantasy. However, the most meaningful victories often arise from the most profound suffering. Jezelle’s story is not about staying in the dark. It’s about what it means to rise from it—to claw free of the mud, run, and become something greater than what the world tried to reduce her to. Why use fantasy as this lens? Simple, it is a vehicle for miracles, and Jezelle will need them.

Jezelle is not a passive victim. She is a survivor. A thief of her own future. A girl who will grow to blaze bright in a world that tried to extinguish her. But I had to show you where she begins to honor that rise. And that place is not easy. It’s cold. It’s cruel. It’s the bottom. But from that bottom, she climbs, and I hope you climb with her.

Jezelle doesn’t ask for your pity—though you may feel it. I do. She would find pity uncomfortable. All she asks is that you bear witness to the grit of the human spirit because that is where the best stories are born.

Cheers!

Jezelle: Thief of Oaks

Part 1: The Roost (updated 1/4/26)

Chapter 1

By seven, she was no longer his daughter—just another girl stained by red light.

The memory of his hand was the last thing she would carry of him. Calloused, rough fingers clamped tight around her thin wrist, dragging her through the alleys of a strange city, barefoot as she had lost her shoes in the suck of mud soon after they entered the gate. She had tried to fetch them, but he pulled her along.

He didn’t speak today. Not once. She wished he would. Even if to scold. Even if to say she’d been bad again. Silence was worse — silence meant he’d already resolved, already decided. It meant he didn’t care. His shoulders were hunched beneath a threadbare coat, and he smelled of the flask of theriac he kept in his pocket. It made his steps heavy and wide, but he never slowed, never looked down at her.

The rain fell in a slow, bitter drizzle, soaking her shift and plastering her hair to her forehead. She had become a lamb being led to market. She had spent many days watching the market from the small window in her room. She knew what happened to lambs, and this terrified her.

Her father called this place Grafton Notch, a trapper’s city on the edge of the world, and everything smelled of wet fur. She wrinkled her nose but said nothing. She was scared and cold, but she didn’t cry. She knew better. Since her mother left, her whole existence had been a grasp at the precipice, hoping not to fall into abandonment, but today her fingers were slipping.

They crossed a bridge where the water ran black beneath, a slick snake curling between the city’s bones. She stared down at the flow. A bloated body slipped by on its way to the sea. She didn’t shout. She had seen bodies before and almost envied the traveler. At least the river carried things somewhere. She was being pulled to nowhere. What would it be like to be on such a voyage to the sea? Cold, she thought, and wet, just like she was now. It was all the same. The river didn’t matter. Nothing did, except his grip and where it dragged her.

The tired two-story hovel sat at the end of a long, narrow lane, where the stones of ruined buildings rose from mud and the air stank of boiled cabbage and sour ale. The portal to this hell was black oak, swollen with dampness, its iron latch rusted and slick. A red lantern swung above it, the glass smeared with old grease, casting red ghosts across the sign- a beacon more than a source of illumination.

The girl spelled out the letters—Ruby’s Roost. She focused on the bird in flight painted beneath. She narrowed her eyes, suspecting it was all a lie. This didn’t look like a place of escape. It was a cage.

A woman waited on the stoop, also tinted by the red light, Ruby perhaps. Hard eyes. A thin gash of red. Her hair pulled tight beneath a stained kerchief, her arms folded across her chest, squishing bosoms close to escaping. The woman’s face was painted in ceruse like the noblewoman that ate at her father’s table, the ones she wasn’t supposed to greet. The girl could smell Ruby from here, even over the stench of the street—smoke, booze, stale flowers. The girl didn’t know this woman, but she knew she was bad.

This painted creature studied the girl with a strange smile. It was the same expression the girl had seen on the patrons of the market where the lambs were led—inspecting the slaughtered for imperfection to haggle a better price.

“This her?” Ruby asked.

The girl looked up to her father. His gaze didn’t meet Ruby’s. It stayed on the door, focused on the crack of shadow, wincing slightly at the noises from within- clinking glasses, laugher, squeaking wood. His jaw tensed, his mouth opened, but no words came out. Perhaps it was a flicker of doubt upon realizing he stood upon a terrible threshold.

The cruel ember of hope reignited in the girl’s heart. She pulled away ever so slightly to coax him along on his decision to flee from this place. To give him one more chance to renege on his decision.

His arm held firm.  

Ruby’s eyes narrowed as they raked across the girl’s face, down to her thin arms, to her legs streaked with muck and bruises, and finally, her bare, muddy feet. She reached out and took the girl’s chin between her fingers. There was no hesitation about this child not being hers to touch, no taboo. Her grip was dry and cold, nails digging into soft skin.

The girl didn’t flinch. She only stared, wide-eyed and silent. She was no stranger to such inspections.

Ruby clicked her tongue. “Pretty thing, but she’s awfully small.”

“She’ll grow,” the girl’s father finally spat out. “We had a deal.”

Ruby worked her mouth like she wanted to say more. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out her other hand, palm out.

The girl’s father hesitated. His breath was heavy, his shoulders stiff beneath the cloak, which concealed clothing too fine for Grafton Notch—a disguise. The girl watched him search his pocket. He didn’t belong here. He lived in towers and polished stone, feasted on fine food within grand halls. She didn’t belong there either. He had always kept her in the shadows, but they were still shadows within a magnificent castle, not this terrible speck of mud.

But none of that mattered now.

He dropped a coin into Ruby’s palm. The glint of it was more golden than copper. The woman’s eyes flicked to it, and her mouth tightened into a crooked smile. She slipped it between her bosoms.

“That should be more than enough,” her father said, “for her care and your silence.” His grip tightened on the girl’s wrist. “Silence is paramount. I was never here.”

“But she is mine now, yes?”

“Yes.”

The girl’s heart sank. No pause. No hesitation.

“What’s her name?”

“It doesn’t matter. Call her whatever you want.”

And that was it.

The girl’s heart beat a drum in her chest. She looked up. Waited. Hoped.

He didn’t meet her gaze. He was already looking back the way they had come.

“Be good,” he said.

And then, he let go.

As the last, tender bond between them broke, a pressure rose in her chest, begging to be free. She wanted to cry out, to make him know how much he hurt her. But she had tried that before, back when her mother left. The girl had bawled for days. But it didn’t bring her back. Maybe all that carrying on was why her father was leaving, too.

Then, she remembered some of the last words her mother said to her before she left. The voices of the past say there are many forks in life. For most, the choice is a gamble. One path to heaven, the other to ruin. The power of our ancestors rises from this juncture. No matter how terrible your path becomes, know that it is the right choice.

The girl bit her quivering lip. And shut her eyes tight to push back the welling tears. When she opened them, his shape was already being swallowed by mist.

Ruby clapped onto the place still warm from her father’s touch and held tight, expecting a struggle. But the girl didn’t fight. Somehow, she knew this moment was approaching when they landed in Bleakwharf two days prior. She just watched her father leave until he turned the corner and was gone from her life.

Ruby tugged the girl inside. The door closed, and a heavy bolt, well out of the girl’s reach, slid into place. The finality of that iron latch sat cold and heavy in her chest. This was now her prison.

Ruby spun her around and took a step back as she rubbed her chin. She checked the girl’s teeth, felt her backside, and tugged on her chestnut hair. “Hmm. I’ll call you… Jezelle. You’ll call me Mistress. Understood?”

Jezelle barely heard her as her eyes scanned the room.

The air inside Ruby’s Roost was cloying, a haze of elderflower struggling to smother the stench of sweat and smoke. The place, too, wore filthy makeup—moth-eaten silk curtains, like painted cheeks hiding the rot beneath. Jezelle stood still, her toes curling on the sticky floor, her head bowed beneath the weight of the dark.

It wasn’t quiet. The Roost breathed. Whispers and laughter bled through the walls. The creak of beds. The gasping breath. The muffled slap of skin. Somewhere, a girl sobbed into the dark. Somewhere else, someone laughed, rough and breathless. There were no windows here. No sky. Only the heavy fetid heat of bodies, much like the hold of the ship that brought Jezelle to this terrible land.

Ruby clapped her hands. Jezelle’s attention snapped to her mistress.

“Understood?”

Jezelle nodded.

“Good.” Ruby’s taloned fingers pressed into her wrist again. “Come on, then.” She tugged Jezelle forward. “No sense standing there like a ghost. We wouldn’t want the riffraff to spot you. They’d pester me day and night to play with such a little toy. But, oh no, my little Jezelle. You are for the high rollers. You’ll be a treasure—a treat, to be hidden away and only come out when the bidding begins, and the prices rise. Yes, you just may bring some prosperity back to the Roost.”

The hall stretched ahead, narrow and hazy. Lanterns swung on rusted hooks, casting long shadows. Velvet curtains draped the doorways, hiding what lay beyond. Jezelle smelled salt on them and something old and fishy beneath the perfume. Her stomach turned. She walked where Ruby led, her feet light on the floor, her head afraid to lift to the horrors.

The other girls watched from the shadows, their eyes glimmering behind curtains and faces peeking around doorframes. Jezelle caught glimpses when she dared to look up from her feet. A girl older than her, owl-eyed and thin, leaning against a post with arms crossed. Another, maybe twelve, sat on the stairs, her legs bare, her eyes flat and empty. Other girls huddled in corners, arms wrapped tight around their knees, their thin hair tangled and dull. They stared at Jezelle like animals: curious, hungry, cold.

They didn’t speak with Ruby around. But even if they did, what would they say? Warn her? Plead for help? Lament their lowly state? Why? She was one of them now. The thought raised Jezelle’s heart to panic.

Ruby stopped at the end of the hall and opened a door. Behind wasn’t a room—just a closet beneath the stairs. The air was damp, the boards swollen and dark. A cot lay in the corner, sagging and stained. The smell of mold curled up from the wood. Rats scurried in the shadows, squealing and their claws clicking.

“This is yours,” Ruby said. She dragged Jezelle inside and gave her a push. Not hard, but hard enough. “Until you earn yourself a paying room.”

Jezelle stumbled but didn’t fall. She stood there, staring at the cot, the walls, and the narrow slivers of light bleeding through the cracks between the buckling stairs.

Ruby lit a single candle. “You’ll sleep here. You’ll work. You’ll eat when you earn it. You’ll speak when you are spoken to—no gossiping with the other girls. I don’t run a chatty house. We’re all business here.”

Jezelle turned and looked at her. A single tear ran down her cheek.

Ruby blew out the reed and sneered. “There will be none of that. A million tears have tried to wash the Roost away, but it’s still here. Ours is the first industry and will be the last. We open in a few hours, and I’ve got too much work to do to coddle a child. I’ll have one of the older girls bring you a basin so you can wash up, and something nice to wear, too.”

The door shut.

The bolt slid into place.

And Jezelle was alone.

Even with the candle, the dark pressed against her. Heavy. Thick. She was frozen like a hare seeing the shadow of a hawk, but she could listen. The murmur of voices through the wall, the scrape of boots on wood, and the clink of glass. Somewhere, a man laughed. A woman’s voice rose, shrill and piercing, and then fell again—heavy steps stamped up the stairs, raining dust down upon her. Her cell was grotesque, but it was safe compared to all that.

She broke the rigidity of her legs and sat on the cot. It sagged and creaked like a thing ready to die. She curled her legs beneath her and crossed her arms tight to her chest. Once the flush of nervousness faded, the dampness seeped through the fabric of her shift, clinging to her skin. It climbed her hair and pressed into her scalp. A lonely, tormenting cold. The pressure built in her chest again, but she pushed down once more. She stared at the candle, waiting for something to happen, waiting to be woken. To be told it wasn’t real.

But it didn’t come. Here, even the candle struggled against the dark and cold. Jezelle wanted her mother, but the world was full of wants, and she knew better than most that providence was stingy. Her mother’s gods left with her, and only her father’s Caspian faith remained. It taught her that misery would prevail until the great sword saw the light of day again. Here, no other truth was more evident.  

“I hate you,” she whispered. Not aimed towards her father or his faith. Not even towards this terrible place. They were aimed at her mother for leaving her to this. The words made her guilty, but why should she be?

There was a gentle knock, the lock slid back, and a girl on the threshold of womanhood entered with a steaming basin with a bobbing boat of soap. The candle grew a little brighter upon her entrance, and the light seemed to get trapped in her golden hair. It was not much more than a shimmer, but it was something hopeful in the gloom.

The girl paused upon spotting Jezelle. “My, Mistress Ruby found a drowned rat this time.” She smiled. “I’m Meg. You’re Jezelle, right?”

“I used to be called…”

“Shh. That was the old you, the real you. You lock that away deep inside where they can’t get it. You’re Jezelle now. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good. My aunt’s name was Jezelle. In some languages, it means hostage, but in others, it means a divine promise. I suppose it will be up to you to choose which path you take. Now, let’s get you cleaned up. Life here is rough, but the one thing it has in abundance is soap and hot water. They wash everything away and will become your closest friends.”

“What… what is this place?”

“A brothel.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, a bawdy house, a lupanar, a bordello, a harlot’s house.”

Jezelle just stared at her.

“Not even a Stew House?’

Jezelle shook her head.

Meg glanced at the door, then back at Jezelle. She set the basin down and knelt beside her, the steam rising between them. She seemed to weigh her words carefully.

“It’s a place where men come to spend time with women,” Meg whispered. “Sometimes they talk, sometimes they share a drink, and sometimes…” She hesitated, then offered a small, wry smile. “Sometimes they wrestle. But that’s nothing for you to worry about. For now, you’ll scrub floors and fetch water until Ruby decides it’s time to give you a room and put you to real work.”

Jezelle’s eyes lingered on the basin, her brow furrowed. “And if I don’t want to wrestle?”

Meg’s smile didn’t falter, but it didn’t reach her eyes either. “Shh. Don’t worry about that now. Scrub well and keep your head down.” She brushed Jezelle’s hair from her face. “You’re a pretty girl, and that’s dangerous here. Work hard, stay quiet, and let the dirt hide you. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep them from noticing you, but eventually, no matter how dirty you are, someone will pay to wrestle, and you’ll not have a choice in the matter if you want to live.”

Jezelle swallowed.

“But we get ahead of ourselves, don’t we. Let’s start with making it through the week, huh?” Meg dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it out. “Come on, let’s wash away the old and start fresh. It’s easier if you don’t think too hard about it.”

Jezelle said nothing, but she lifted her chin, letting Meg press the warm cloth to her skin. It was soft, and the soapy water was fragranced with rose, but only a hint of it reached Jezelle. She sat still, unmoving, letting Meg’s hands wipe the dirt from her face and scrub the mud from her neck. Meg’s touch was gentle, but that didn’t soften the scrape of linen over bruises. Jezelle flinched once, but Meg only murmured soft, meaningless sounds, the way one might to a frightened animal.

“It’s not so bad,” Meg cooed. “You’ll get used to it. We all did.”

Jezelle didn’t answer. She kept her eyes down, watching the water turn brown in the basin. Meg began to hum as she rinsed Jezelle’s arms, legs, and hair, then finally had her dip her mud-caked feet into the water. As Meg worked, her eyes kept darting to the door, jolting slightly at every loud noise. She tried to act the older sister, but fear was a customer that never left Ruby’s Roost. It loitered, waiting to take advantage. Watching Meg, Jezelle began to realize that, at any moment, laughter could turn to shouts, kisses to bleeding lips.

When the washing was done, Meg handed Jezelle the dress, which was draped over her arm. It was linen, or it had once been. Jezelle was not its first owner. It was faded pink, patched at the seams, softened by years of wear, and dotted with faint rusty stains. Jezelle stared at these stains as if they were going to bite her.

Meg smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s clean.”

Jezelle didn’t move.

“It’s not so bad,” Meg said again, though it sounded more like a plea each time she said it. “You’ll eat. You’ll sleep. You’ll learn. Trust me. It’s better than the streets. I’ve been on the streets. They’re nothing but cruelty. But here, here, you can sometimes find kindness in a lonely soul.”

Jezelle still said nothing. She took the dress and slipped it over her head. It hung loose on her frame, sliding over thin shoulders, the hem brushing the tops of her feet. She tugged at it, trying to make it sit right. It wouldn’t.

“There,” Meg said, her voice bright. “You look… pretty.”

“I thought pretty was dangerous.”

Meg nodded. “Good. You’re a quick learner. Don’t worry. I imagine by the time you’re done with Ruby’s chores, you’ll be plenty dirty when the men come along.”

Meg stood and took the basin, her hands gripping the porcelain edges. She hesitated, her lips parting like she wanted to say something more, but in the end, she only shook her head. She walked to the door, slipping through it as quietly as she had come. The bolt slid into place, and Jezelle was alone again. Locked away in her dirty little prison. The candle dimmed, and the dark pressed closer. Ruby’s Roost grew louder.

Jezelle sat on the cot, hands in her lap, the dress’s fabric rough beneath her fingers. It didn’t feel like hers. None of this did. The walls, the floor, the shadows that skittered beyond the cracks in the door. She didn’t belong here. She missed the castle, the oaks, the sea, and her mother, even if she hated her. Those pesky tears rose again, but Jezelle wiped them away. She was here now. And there was no one coming to take her back.

Jezelle didn’t sleep that night. She couldn’t. The later it grew, the louder it became. She lay on the cot, her head resting on the damp, stained pillow, staring into the black. She listened to the sounds of the house. The muffled voices. The creak of beds. The groan of wood. The laughs, the shouts, and the screams.

She was only seven, but she knew this was a horrid place.

Thank you for your time. Feedback is welcome here.