Mastodawn

Le dénouement de la première partie du Cycle du Dieu Noir est proche. j'ai programmé les 3 derniers épisodes aujourd'hui.

Vous avez déjà 9 épisodes à lire sur https://fantasy.aemarielle.com/ en attendant vendredi ! 😊

Au menu : érotisme, mystère, magie et aventure ! Un épisode par semaine jusqu'au 29 mai, avant une courte pause.

#LeCycleDuDieuNoir #DarkFantasy #FantasyErotique #feuilleton #écriture

Le Cycle du Dieu Noir | Un univers de fantasy antique sombre et érotique

Anja Weinhold 8h ago

#PhantastikPrompts

12. Wenn dein Protagonist Langeweile hätte: Womit würde er sich die Zeit vertreiben?

Edward besiegt Langeweile mit Alkohol, Nikotin und Sex. Wer auf eine harmlose Antwort gehofft hat wird definitiv enttäuscht. 😅

#phantastik #fantasy #darkfantasy
#literatur #bookstodon #autorenleben

dona 🌿17h ago

I am super excited to announce that my work "Sirens" is on the cover of the sapphic horror anthology, "It Ends With Her"!

Love blooms as swiftly as it devours.
Pull back the layers to delve into the devotion and longing, the lust and the love, the triumphs and tragedy in this sapphic horror collection.

Out June 5, 2026.
Preorders: https://geni.us/itendswithher

#MastoArt #FediArt #bookstodon #illustration #sapphic #horror #LGBTQ+ #DarkFantasy

velgatheobserver 🎨 artist 23h ago

Harvester Woods

People avoid this deep forest that is home to towering trees and the old demons of Persevera, but not the Greenscouts. Greenscouts often come here to forage. Over thousands of years, they have learned how to survive without engaging in combat, because there is no chance of winning against the old demons of Persevera.

#worldbuilding #art #digitalart #drawing #mastoart #lore #environmentart #conceptart #darkfantasy #fantasyart

Coffee Time Romance & More 1d ago

Claimed by Ashlynn Monroe Ashlynn Monroe Lexa never really knew what it meant to live until she was condemned to die. ##LGBTQ+/Bisexual ##Mystery/Suspense/Intrigue #actionadventure #darkfantasy #Futuristic #newrelease #romance

https://coffeetimeromance.com/?p=295597

Kent Wayne 1d ago

He went looking for purpose.

Every path offered the same thing.

Different words.
Same ending.

So he walked away.

👉 That’s when everything changed.

#UnboundRealm #FantasyBooks #SciFiFantasy #IndieAuthor #Storytelling #Readers #BookSeries #DarkFantasy #WritersLife #EpicFantasy

https://kentwayne.com/2026/05/11/he-looked-for-purpose-and-found-nothing/

Finding Your Own Path: Recognizing What Isn't Yours

Join Jon on his journey of self-discovery as he navigates the search for purpose and recognizes what truly matters.

Kent Wayne

Chadwick Rye 1d ago

BRECK: Dead Delivery: Chapter Six

Daily writing prompt What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid? View all responses

BRECK: Dead Delivery

Chapter Six — What Boys Are Made Of

Prompt: What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid? Tags: dailyprompt | Breck | Crestfall | Dead Delivery | Lumenvale

The boy found him at the river.

Breck had come down to the bank after collecting his document — the reply sealed and tucked into the satchel, his official reason for being in Crestfall now fully discharged — and he’d stood at the water’s edge for a while, watching the Calwick move. Rivers were good for thinking. They didn’t require anything from you. They just kept going, which was occasionally the most useful thing in the world to watch.

He heard the footsteps before he saw the boy — light and quick on the gravel bank, the particular rhythm of someone trying to look like they hadn’t been following him for three streets. He didn’t turn around. He waited until the footsteps stopped a careful distance behind him, and then he waited a little longer, because patience was instructive.

“You were at the miller’s house,” the boy said finally.

“I was.”

“I saw you go in.” A pause. “I see most things.”

Breck turned then. The boy was twelve, maybe thirteen — the same one from the cooperage step, brown-haired and serious-faced, with river mud on his boots and the look of someone who had appointed himself to a task without being asked. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets and his chin slightly forward, projecting a confidence his eyes hadn’t quite caught up to yet.

“What’s your name,” Breck said.

“Pell.”

“Your father runs the cooperage.”

Something moved across the boy’s face — brief, controlled, gone quickly. “Ran it.”

Breck turned back to the river. After a moment he sat down on a flat boulder at the bank’s edge, which brought him closer to the boy’s eye level, and he watched the current move around a submerged stone in the middle of the channel, the water dividing and reforming downstream as though the interruption had never happened.

Pell came and stood beside him, not sitting, still maintaining the posture of someone who hadn’t decided yet whether this was a conversation or a surveillance operation.

“What do you want to know,” Breck said.

“What she gave you. In the house.” The boy’s voice was careful and direct. “Sela. What she gave you.”

“Something that belonged to her husband.”

“The records.”

Breck looked at him sidelong. The boy met his gaze without flinching, the way he’d done in the square — that old patience, that stillness that didn’t belong on a young face. Up close, it was even more apparent. Whatever had made Pell serious had made him serious all the way through, not just on the surface.

“You knew about them,” Breck said.

“Aldric told me.” A beat. “Before. He said if anything happened to him, the records were behind the fireback. He said I should tell someone useful eventually.” The boy’s jaw tightened slightly. “I’ve been waiting fourteen months for someone useful.”

The river moved between them and the far bank. A heron stood motionless in the shallows downstream, one leg raised, a creature built entirely around the discipline of waiting.

“How did you know your father’s cooperage figures into this,” Breck said.

Pell was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice had lost some of its careful construction — not broken, just worn thinner, the way a path wore thin where feet passed most often.

“Papa used to make barrels for the merchants coming off the river. Good barrels, tight seams, the kind that lasted. He had more work than he could handle.” He paused. “Then Voss changed the tariffs on river goods. Merchants started moving their routes inland, away from Crestfall’s landing. Less river traffic meant less cargo meant less need for barrels.” He said it with the flat precision of a child who had listened to adults explain something terrible to each other enough times that he’d memorized the shape of it. “Half days since spring. By summer it’ll be no days.”

“And your father.”

“He doesn’t say much anymore.” Pell picked up a flat stone from the bank and turned it in his fingers without throwing it. “He sits mostly.”

The heron struck — a motion so fast and certain it seemed to happen between moments, there and then not there, the surface of the water barely disturbed. It stood again with something silver in its beak, tilted its head back, and was still once more.

Breck watched it. Thought about a grain farm on the Lumenvale outskirts. About a boy of perhaps ten who had developed a consuming obsession with the way rivers moved — specifically with the way water found paths around obstacles, the patient, indifferent geometry of it, how it never forced and never stopped and always arrived eventually at the same place. He’d spent entire summer afternoons at the creek behind his family’s property, building small dams from stone and mud and watching the water work around them. His mother had called it a waste of time. His father had called it useful thinking and left him to it.

He hadn’t thought about that creek in years.

“What were you obsessed with,” Pell said, unexpectedly. “When you were my age.”

Breck glanced at him. The boy was watching the heron with the same focused attention he brought to everything, but the question had been genuine — curious in the way children were curious when they’d decided to trust someone, testing the texture of a person through small revelations.

“Rivers,” Breck said. “How they moved around things.”

Pell considered this. “That’s an odd thing to be obsessed with.”

“What were you?”

The boy almost smiled — a flicker, quickly suppressed, the way smiles went when you’d been serious for a long time and weren’t sure they were still allowed. “Maps. I used to draw maps of everywhere I’d been. Roads, buildings, which houses had dogs, where you could move without being seen.” He paused. “Crestfall mostly, since I haven’t been anywhere else. But I know every way in and out of this town. Every alley. Every back gate.” He set the stone down without throwing it. “Every time the magistrate’s men change their route.”

Breck was quiet for a moment.

He looked at the boy — at the serious face and the mud-caked boots and the hands that had been drawing maps of this town for years, cataloguing it the way Breck had catalogued the river, the way the heart catalogued the things it needed to survive. Twelve years old, his father’s cooperage dying, his town hollowed out from the inside, and he’d spent fourteen months waiting for someone useful to arrive.

Breck reached into the satchel. Not for the oilskin packet — he kept that against his ribs, close and warm. For the secondary pouch near the bottom, where he kept the tools of his trade: a compass, a folding straight-edge, a stub of mapping chalk he used for marking routes on stone when ink was unavailable.

He held out the chalk.

Pell looked at it for a long moment, then at Breck’s face.

“The magistrate’s men,” Breck said. “Their evening route. Every detail you know. I want it drawn.”

The boy took the chalk.

He drew without hesitation — the square, the side streets, the rear alley behind the magistrate’s office, the stable yard where the horses were kept, the two positions he’d identified where guards stood after the third bell, the gap in the pattern on the west side of the building where the coverage went thin between the second and third watches. He drew with the focused pleasure of someone deploying a skill they’d been waiting to use, the map emerging from the flat stone’s surface in clean, sure lines.

When he was done he looked up. The almost-smile came back, and this time it stayed a moment longer before retreating.

“You’re going to fix it,” Pell said. It was not quite a question.

Breck looked at the map. Then at the river, still moving with its patient, indifferent certainty around everything in its path.

“I’m going to try,” he said.

He adjusted the satchel strap across his chest. The bracelet caught a pale slip of winter light, small and faded, saying nothing.

He stood.

☕ Enjoyed this story? Writing Lumenvale is how I pay my bills. If these stories are worth something to you, a $1 Ko-fi keeps the forge burning — and tells me this world is worth continuing. 👉 Buy Chadwick a coffee

#books #Breck #Crestfall #dailyprompt #dailyprompt2758 #DarkFantasy #DeadDelivery #EpicFantasy #fantasy #FantasyFiction #fiction #Free #FreeFantasyFiction #freeFantasyFictionOnline #FreeStory #Lumenvale #shortStory #writing

IndieAuthors.Social News 1d ago

T.V. Holiday’s Vendetta: Legend of the Iron Warrior (3)

Cosmic stakes, pulp energy—a surprisingly human center
The post T.V. Holiday’s Vendetta: Legend of the Iron Warrior (3) appeared first on Independent Book Review.
https://independentbookreview.com/2026/05/11/t-v-holidays-vendetta-legend-of-the-iron-warrior-3/

#bookreview #darkfantasy #Fantasy #indiebookreview #LegendoftheIronWarrior