Preview of Sylvanus

I just got back from a two-week vacation to celebrate my 20th wedding anniversary. I will share more about that trip and how it helped recharge my writing batteries soon. It was a great trip with many adventures, but I am sick as a dog and jet-lagged right now, so I am being a little lazy with this post. I had pre-written and scheduled my posts for the last two weeks, but I didn’t have the foresight to do one for today (we arrived back last night).

Thus, I thought it was a good time to give you a little preview of what I have been working on. Sylvanus: Swords and Sons is the direct sequel to Koen: Quills from the Raven’s Nest, continuing that story through the eyes of Koen’s younger brother. I hope you enjoy it. Keep in mind, this is still a rough first draft.

Cheers!

Sylvanus: Swords and Sons

By Scott Austin Tirrell

Chapter 1

The prince’s mother had taught him not to be entranced by the dance of smiles. Lips could stretch wide and hide teeth, yes, but the actual danger lay in the eyes—cold, calculating, constantly measuring the moment to strike. Tonight, every glance was a blade.

These were not courtiers but descendants of rebels, the same blood whose defiance his father had used to shatter the Twelve Kingdoms. That fire had never died. It smoldered still, flaring when whim demanded, bowing to no master. Sylvanus did not always agree with their defiance, but neither did he oppose it. To survive in West Gate, it was wiser to feign alliance than to invite enmity. But now, in moments like this, he realized how deeply their infliction had seeped. He knew it stained him, but he no longer cared.

The high-arched glass doors of Runemaul’s great hall lay open to the warm spring air, spilling golden light across a terrace perched above narrow Lake Constance. Once Salsbury Crag, it had been renamed for his mother, the late empress of Lucardia, and few had opposed the change. Though this was his principality, given to him by his father, these lands would always belong to her—especially in spring, when her roses began to bud.

The lake was a million diamonds in the last fire of the sun, twinkling as the desert breeze carried the scent of brittlebush and lavender. Beyond the walls, merchants folded their awnings along the lakeshore, caravan bells chimed faintly, and traders led their animals toward the gates. All of this added to the show’s charm. For that was what it was: performance. Sylvanus knew the golden hour was the best time for toasts, when sunset fanned the wine into prisms of nostalgia.

Inside, cultivated beauty. Columns wound with silk caught the breeze, juniper crackled in the brass braziers, and the cut of every guest’s sleeve or collar proclaimed elegance. On the high table, goblets gleamed among gold plate islands heaped with bounty.

None wore finer attire than the prince. He sat upon the dais in deep violet, the cloth drinking the orange light. Lace fanned his wrists as he raised his goblet to let the ruby liquid catch the sunset. His dark hair curled loose across his brow, his signet ring angled to catch every gesture. Rule was not only a matter of steel—it was art. To be admired was to be obeyed. In Runemaul, appearance was survival.

This gathering of his lords honored his mother’s birthday. It was a day of opposing thoughts and conflicting emotions, but vital to his tender rule. Constance Anworth had been the last sovereign of her house before her union with Vesper Zulikaarme forged an empire. To Runemaul, she would always be their last queen. Though Sylvanus adored her, it was not love that demanded this feast. Honoring her meant choosing his side in a city that would forever test his allegiances.

The air was taut, stretched thin over old wounds. Though his father’s ouroboros flew from the towers, the hall’s streamers were purple and gold. In every mind, they were ghosts of Anworth banners—for when the present suffers, nostalgia reigns.

At the far end of the table, Lord Harwick leaned toward his companions, his voice pitched for all to hear. “That tint of purple suits our prince. Far better than the funeral colors his father wears… though I wonder where he came by Grim Point sea-snails so far from the coast. Yes, I wonder how that cloak would fare in the rain.”

A few lords chuckled—tight little laughs, eager to fit in.

Sylvanus let the sound settle, circling the rim of his goblet until the laughter frayed. Only then did he look up, smiling as though in agreement. “You run much of the dye trade here, do you not, Lord Harwick?”

“Hence my concern. That fabric is not my own.”

“Of course not. Your merchants are far too skilled at cutting corners. That is why I do not buy from them.”

The table tittered, laughter turning against Harwick. The man’s jaw shifted, but he pressed on. “You wrong me. I speak only in concern, Your Highness. If the color should fade, it might tarnish your mother’s house.”

“Hmm. Common things do fade,” Sylvanus replied. “True Grim Point purple endures. You must certainly know that—as a former guest at Anworth tables.”

Lords glanced between them, weighing whether the words cut deeper than dye. Harwick leaned back, feigning ease. “Still, I have seen many cloaks trimmed in that color, only to prove false.”

Sylvanus’s laugh came low and deliberate. “Then you speak from experience. It is always the counterfeit who fears unmasking. A prince does not question whether his purple is true—nor his station.”

This time, the laughter was louder, some of it brittle, eager not to wound Harwick too deeply. The man’s smirk curdled, his eyes burning.

Sylvanus raised his goblet in mock toast. “And should the rains come, my lord—may they anoint us both. Then we will see whose colors bleed first.”

The hall roared, though beneath it lay the hush before thunder. Harwick was bested—for now. Sylvanus drank, slow and untroubled, though his heart hammered. His lords were growing bolder. Always restless. They saw him as a key to old glories. If he weren’t careful, he would again become his father’s son- become an enemy.

The great doors groaned wide. A cloaked rider staggered in, dragging a gust of cold air. Red mud from the northern roads bled across the polished floor. Breath ragged, the messenger knelt and raised a scroll bound in black wax.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I bring news from the North.”

Silence spread, sudden and absolute, at the strangeness of those words. The north had been silent for more than three years.

Sylvanus descended and took the scroll, turning it to right the seal. A wolf stamped deep into the wax, teeth bared and ready to bite. He looked to Daelic, his captain and confidante. A single name escaped him, quiet as a prayer: “Koen.”

It was enough. A goblet shattered, music faltered, whispers coiled through the gallery: Koen? But he’s dead—three years dead…

Sylvanus cracked the seal, knuckles whitening, a bead of sweat dripped from his brow, heart pounding. Koen the Gray, the wolf slayer. His brother.

The hall, moments ago a stage for ritual cheer, had become a tomb.

One old lord broke the silence, tossing his napkin on the table. “Well? If dinner is spoiled, shall you also make us wait for the reason why?”

Sylvanus unrolled the parchment. His scowl deepened. He looked to the lake’s diamonds. “My brother… he lives.”

The chamber erupted—fear, hope, suspicion flashing across every face. Daelic came to his side. “Come, Highness. We should retire.”

Sylvanus gathered the scroll under his cloak and dismissed the hall, voice gracious but cold. Lords bowed, ladies curtsied. Harwick was last to rise, smile faint, eyes hawk-sharp.

In his chambers, Sylvanus read again by lamplight. The hand was Koen’s—sharp, deliberate.

Alive. Returned to Blackdown. I recall our last discussion. You were right about him. Come if you would see me. We’ve much to discuss.

No other could have written it.

“A miracle,” Daelic whispered.

“We shall see.” Sylvanus’s gaze held the window, the moon laying a white road across the water. “How long to the Northern Rise?”

“A month. Longer with storms.”

“Then we leave at dawn.”

Daelic hesitated. “Your father’s spies—”

“My father will not know. We ride as though to Houndhold, then turn north along the Red River. Small retinue, light supplies. We’ll buy the rest on the road.”

Sylvanus fetched a riding coat of black and silver, his own house’s colors. “Wake the stablemaster. Have the bays ready, and extra remounts shod for cold roads.”

Daelic bowed and left.

Alone, Sylvanus lingered over the broken seal. Koen lived. Brother, ghost, legend—flesh again.

He poured a final glass of wine, raised it toward the letter, and drank. Tomorrow, he would ride—not for court, not for show, but for blood and bond. The time had come, the choice that was delayed by loss was here again, bright, burning, dangerous.