Once a queen. Now an exile. Soon, a reckoning.
Once upon a time (or possibly next Tuesday – time is slippery where elves are concerned), I decided to write a novel about a world where royal power is just another illusion. The kind of illusion that looks very impressive from a distance, like a tapestry, or a particularly expensive hat, but unravels the moment you tug at the wrong thread.
Thus On Wings of Ruin was born – a story where thrones totter, oaths splinter, and dragons remember things that kings would prefer everybody forgot.
Ara wore a crown once. She wears scars now. But in a world where thrones fall and dragons wake up even an exiled queen still has a role to play.
At the centre of this inevitable catastrophe is Storey, who can travel through time, but he’s the sort of hero who stumbles into history sideways, a little too brave, a little too exhausted, and a little too good at asking the questions that nobody wants answered.
Worldbuilding for this novel was a matter of listening carefully to the silences between kingdoms. I didn’t start with a map or a grand manifesto. I started with a hum – the ancient pull of ley lines, the slow breathing of the earth, and the sense that somewhere deep below all the grand castles and glorious wars, a forgotten agreement was still holding the bones of the world together. (For now.)
One thing fantasy has taught me: kings, queens, empires they all think they’re solid. They speak of destiny and divine right as if those things can’t be stolen, misplaced, or quietly eaten by dragons. And the world of On Wings of Ruin knows this better than most. Here, authority isn’t a sword or a crown. It’s a story – and like all stories, it changes depending on who dares to tell it.
Which is a slightly ominous way of saying that if you enjoy tales where crowns slip, where dragons choose loyalty over politics, and where one weary time-traveller holds history in his shaking hands , well, you might find yourself at home among these ruins.
And if you don’t –
well, no kingdom lasts forever.