Hello, Fellow Otherworlders!

First, I would like to apologize for the 2-month-and-a-half-long hiatus. I should have given an announcement before changing my posting schedule. Actually, I've been rewriting the novel's first volume, changing and editing a great deal of it, and preparing it for reposting here on Royal Road.

The targeted release date of the rewrite will be mid-October 2024. I'll post it as a new story, so please check it out when The Loom of Ill Fates returns.

For now, let me share some of the key changes you can expect from the new version;

1. Bram's personality changed a bit. He's lost his Sasuke syndrome and is no longer mad at the world. He's more hopeful, though he's also cynical about his cursed life, and self-deprecating at times. His dialogue's more witty and doesn't sound angry by default.

Bram's biggest change is that he's a bard and loves to sing and entertain people or play the fool when needed. He also has new non-magical skills like his 'Art of Disguise' and 'Bardic Ways' that are different from his martial arts. He's still really strong though.

2. Rowan doesn't have many changes. She's mostly still the same.

3. Pacing changes — we're slowing down the pace, removing the flashback scenes and turning them into full chapters before the flashbacks happened. It'll remove the disjointed pacing that makes some chapters faster while others slow down due to long dialogues.

4. We're keeping the grimdark setting of the first volume and adding scenes to maintain it in chapters that need it.

5. We're also making sure game-building chapters and adventure chapters don't overlap to ensure the style and pacing doesn't change abruptly.

As part of this announcement, I've added the new version of Chapter One below. I hope you all enjoy it and look forward to the new releases!

- G.D. Cruz

CHAPTER ONE

The Ill-Fated Prince

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“O’ hazy eye of the blue moon above,” sang the young bard who sat on a rickety wooden stool by the tavern’s lone hearth fire, “bestow me the fortune of lovers and gold~~d…”

Usually, a bard’s song was accompanied by conjured fog, colorful lights, and all manner of magical illusions to liven up their performance. Indeed, the most talented of singers could even coax dancing spirits to join them as they sang—but not him. Not this bard who dared to entertain a gathering of the most dour-looking patrons he had ever seen with only his voice to woo them.

“And should your red twin fill the night with death and cold,” he strummed his lute with a skill that belied his young years, “keep these troubles far from this weary soul…”

When the bard finished his ballad—one that told a tale of the sisters who straddled Aarde’s night sky—he heard no sound of applause. This didn’t dishearten him though, for the silence permeating the old tavern was proof enough that he’d captivated his audience.

Mere moments before he began his tune, many of the tavern’s patrons—these hardened men and women who’ve fallen on tough times—had been up in arms against the appointment of their new governor, who, in the two weeks since he’d taken up office, had already managed to cause friction between the northern and central regions of the kingdom. Not for anything he’d done, but just because of who he was.

“Incompetent!” they’d complained.

“Coward!” they’d railed.

“Magicless!” they’d condemned.

They huffed and they puffed—spewing treasonous ideas into the air—until the bard who’d been quietly observing the crowd from a shadowy corner, chose to step up and change the mood in the tavern. And, though he fancied himself a loyalist, he decided not to scold the rabble rousers. Instead, he sang to them, trusting in the words of a wise man who once claimed; Tis music that soothes even the lowliest of beasts.

Finished with his song, the bard was about to get up and leave, but then a copper coin flew toward him as if carried by an invisible hand and then floated down into the mug he’d placed on the dirty floor.

To wield sorcery for a silly thing…how I envy you.

The bard’s gaze snapped toward a wiry-haired woman seated at a nearby table. Her eyes were glowing softly, a telltale sign that she’d just wielded the arcane arts for his benefit.

“Much obliged, Love,” he said in his best commoner’s drawl.

Two more coins followed, and then a fourth, and a fifth—enough griffins to buy him a pint of ale.

He smiled.

It was such a warm smile he possessed that the women in his audience couldn’t help but swoon, their cheeks flaring crimson as his gaze drifted toward them. Some of the menfolk too couldn’t help blushing at witnessing this bard’s handsome face light up in such a pleasant way.

He encouraged their fawning, of course, for it meant more coins fell into his mug.

Yet here’s proof that one doesn’t need sorcery to enchant others.

He stifled the laughter climbing up his throat. Now was not the time to feel smug.

“Sing us another song,” one patron yelled.

“A lively one this time!” a second patron chimed in.

“Sing about our ill-fated prince!” a third patron added.

Many heads nodded at this last suggestion, making the bard sigh heavily. His annoyance was swift to vanish though, replaced quickly by his charming smile.

“One last tune for the road then, yeah.”

So, he sang another song, one he’d learned only recently from a fellow bard he’d met in the city’s midtown district who’d claimed she made it in honor of the Forest Kingdom of Lotharin’s new governor.

“I hear we’ve earned an ill-fated prince…that’s too bad,” the bard began, and his audience laughed in exchange. “Though I think Lotharin’ll endure, it’ll be no thanks to him…”

Their merriment grew as he continued to mock Lotharin’s new governor in verse, and though he encouraged them to sing along, in his heart, he felt weary…maybe even enraged by their blatant disrespect of a man he knew quite intimately. The bard was no different though. For wasn’t his voice the loudest of all?

“My friends,” he stood up, “you’ve been a delightful audience!”

He began tapping his foot against the floor.

“I hope you continue to be generous with your tips!”

His strumming resumed, wilder, more manic than before.

“Now, come, sing this chorus along with me!”

“Quit!” they cried together. “Quit, Ill-Fated Prince, Quit~~t!”

Yes, it was a new tune, and yet, strangely, everyone knew the words to it.

“Quit, quit, quit, quit~~t…” they chanted.

“Or we’ll throw you out,” the bard strummed the last key, his voice lowering to nearly a whisper, “and leave you lying in the filth, you magicless fool~~l…”

This time, his audience cheered.

They stomped their foot on the ground, smashed their fists against wooden tables, and clinked their mugs together while seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were celebrating with treasonous words.

They have every right to feel the way they do… The bard thought, shrugging. It’s not like Atlan’s seventh prince has done anything to change their perception these past two weeks… Not yet.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The bard picked up his mug which was now full to brimming with copper griffins—a few silvers too. Then, with a grin so wide it seemed almost forced, he bowed to his audience, and they cheered for him while not knowing how rude they’d been to him.

Things will change soon enough once the great endeavor begins.

The sound of coins clinking together inside his raggedy purse helped to shoo away some of his ill feelings.

“There’s enough here to get me drunk,” he murmured. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And one last day of playing the fool…”

The bard left his post by the hearth, making his way quickly toward a corner of the tavern where the shadows grew thickest. Although, before reaching his destination, he felt a hand grope the back of his trousers.

“Bloody hell…”

Maintaining his smile, he turned around but found no randy, middle-aged seamstress ogling him. He was a man; an unsavory-looking fellow with an unshaven face. He wore a stained, padded jacket the bard recognized instantly for this teal-colored gambeson was the new uniform of the city guard who manned Bastille’s parapets and gates.

“Where you heading off to, pretty lad?” he asked in as gruff a voice as his appearance. “Want some company?”

His cheeks were red from drink, his eyes dazed and wandering—seeing this evidence of intoxication, the bard’s smile faltered.

“Sorry, Bruv,” despite the other man’s leering, the bard kept his faltering smile, “I’m not interested.”

The guard came forward, flashing him a grin of yellowing teeth. “Nights in Bastille can get cold without someone to snuggle with.”

Finally, the bard’s smile vanished, replaced by an exasperated sigh.

It wasn’t the man’s lewdness that annoyed him for he was used to such propositions. Over the years, many high nobles in the Sovereign’s court had been enchanted by his appearance, believing his looks to be his only redeeming quality. In exchange for lewd favors, they offered him many things—some quite enticing for a boy without real power or influence—but he’d declined them all, the men and women both. No, the bard’s hackles were rising due to a more pragmatic reason; this guard had done nothing while the patrons of the tavern slighted his lord. No doubt, he’d sung that rebellious tune along with them.

He wears the prince’s colors, takes his wages from the prince’s coffers, but shows no loyalty to his liege…

“Come on now,” the guard’s hand reached for the bard, “why don’t we get better—”

The guard stopped suddenly, his eyes widening in confusion.

As if he’d been an illusion all along, the bard vanished from view and was replaced by someone who lacked the delicateness he’d shown earlier. Sorcery played no role in his transformation, however, for it was one of simple misdirection.

The purple-haired man who shrugged off his bard’s disguise stopped slouching like he’d been doing since stepping foot into the old tavern. He stood to his full height, his shoulders widening, causing muscles hidden underneath loose-fitting clothes to expand, and revealed himself as a tall muscular youth who towered over the drunk guard.

“No offense, Bruv, but I don’t swing that way, yeah.”

Though he still spoke kindly, his voice had lost its gentleness.

“So, if you’re insistent on a little snuggling,” he placed a hand on the guard’s shoulder and began to squeeze, “I know one or two moves that’ll literally take your breath away.”

Despite the thickness of the guard’s gambeson, he felt the pressure of the young man’s fingers tightening around his shoulder. Such monstrous strength sobered him up pretty quickly. Then, reminded of his job, he was about to yell for the young man to let him go or suffer the consequences, but then the guard locked eyes with his opponent’s, and his courage faltered.

Eyes the color of molten gold gazed imperiously at him, and for a moment, it seemed like he was in the presence of one of Bastille’s nobles. No, so intimidating was the young man’s gaze that he might even be one of the royals of the imperium.

“I’m someone who values the service you provide our fair city,” with his other hand, the young man slipped several of his hard-earned griffins into the guard’s pocket, “so how’s about I pay for your meal, and we leave it at that, yeah?”

He’d just given the guard a good reason to back off, but just in case the fool thought to press his luck, the young man pressed down on his shoulder, causing the guard’s legs to buckle so that he fell back into his seat with a thud.

Gazes all around the table snapped toward the tall figure, and he, noticing that they all wore the same teal gambesons, slapped several more griffins onto their table.

“Next round’s on me, brothers,” he inclined his head, “in honor of the brave men of the city guard.”

He placed enough coin on their table for them to send him off with cheers, and, while the lewd guard looked on in confusion—clearly unsure why he’d felt so intimidated—the young man slipped away before anything else occurred. He moved quickly, dodging more unwelcome advances, and claimed his seat beside a table in the corner of the tavern that was half-veiled in shadow.

The hooded man who’d been waiting for him expelled the smoke he’d inhaled from his long pipe, sending a musky aroma into the air that caused the young man’s nose to wrinkle.

“Why do you love weed so much, Ser Anthony?” he asked, his voice changing, losing his practiced commoner’s drawl to the speech of a noble.

“I’m old now, Your Highness,” the hooded man answered, chuckling afterward. “This herb keeps the aches and pains of old age at bay.”

“Well, you reek of wet grass and mud,” the prince teased. Then, suddenly curious, he asked, “I heard weed makes one calmer?”

“It does indeed,” Ser Anthony replied.

A wry grin flashed on the prince’s face. “Then why are you still holding your sword?”

Ser Anthony’s other hand had indeed been holding tightly onto the pommel of the sword resting against the tavern’s back wall.

“Stay your hand. The matter’s settled. No need to shed one fool’s blood and draw attention to us,” the prince insisted.

“The matter’s far from settled.” Reluctantly, Ser Anthony let go of his sword. “And you drew attention to yourself first.”

“My ears wrung so badly from all their biting commentary that I thought a song might help stop them from calling me names.”

“And has your song changed hearts?”

The prince glanced over his shoulder and listened in on the conversations around him.

“They’re still spitting on my name, though they’re doing it with a merrier mood. So, let’s call this a draw.”

Ser Anthony chuckled lightly.

“Hearts and minds aren’t won so easily, though your mad plan just might, Your Highness.”

“Call me Bram. Just Bram.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Ser Anthony took another long puff of his pipe, breathed in the smoke, and expelled it all before adding, “You’ve been insulted enough today.”

Bram shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

The contempt of the commoners was nothing new for him. He’d lived with contempt for as long as he could remember, and Bram remembered much. Even the first time he’d opened his eyes on the day his mother had given birth to him. The seventh prince of the Atlan Imperium was special, though not in the way those around him hoped for. Over time, their hopes dwindled, twisting into scorn, until finally, only Ser Anthony remained by his side.

Bram gazed fondly at the old knight who kept on smoking his pipe.

Underneath his hood was a weathered face with salt-and-pepper hair and a villain’s mustache to match. Even seated, the old knight seemed a tall man, with shoulders nearly as broad as Atlan’s seventh prince.

“They insult you because they don’t know you nor how hard you toil for them.” Again, Ser Anthony reached for his sword, and again, he reluctantly withdrew his hand. “It’s taking all my resolve not to arrest these fools…not out of compassion — I’ve no mercy for those who defame your good name — but because I know your courtiers will find some way to blame you for any incident…”

“The nobles here don’t like me any more than the commoners do.” Bram shrugged again. “It’s almost like I’m back in the Sovereign’s court, but now I have a bigger target on my back, and no ally to call on.”

“You have at least one ally in this city, Your Highness.”

Bram couldn’t help smiling.

He didn’t say it aloud, but Ser Anthony’s steadfast loyalty was one of the main reasons why he could endure all the malice sent his way for being House Attilan’s ill-fated prince.

Bram frowned.

He hated hearing it spoken aloud, and he hated it more whenever he thought it himself.

The ‘Ill-Fated Prince’…this was the title his older siblings bestowed on Bram after it became clear that he was a child whom the gods had cursed with a body which couldn’t become a vessel for the magical energies permeating the western continent of Gaullia. He was magicless in an empire where sorcery was the dominant power, and though not a crime exactly, to be magicless was seen as the harshest of failings among commoners and nobility alike.

“…And yet I sang it easily enough,” Bram murmured, chuckling to himself.

He picked up the flagon of ale on his side of the table and breathed in its heady scent.

“You’re not wrong, Ser Anthony…they don’t know me, and they can’t trust that I want the best for them.” He raised the flagon to his lips. “But if I can help make Lotharian lives better, make Lotharin great again, then I might start changing hearts and minds…”

Even as he said the words, hope blossomed inside him—the hope that one day people would stop calling him by his hated moniker…that they would find him worthy.

“You’ve grown up, Your Highness.”

That, Bram believed, was an understatement.

At seventeen, the imperium’s seventh prince was a tall muscular youth with wavy pale blonde hair and irises the color of molten gold—the physical traits that proved his bloodline—though he’d recently dyed his hair a dark purple to keep people from immediately recognizing him. Bram’s sun-kissed face was oval, almost delicate, with long lashes complimenting almond-shaped eyes, a long pointy nose, and full lips the color of fresh blood.

More than any other royal, Bram was said to be the perfect likeness to his mother. It was a fact Ser Anthony reiterated when he said, “How like the Sovereign you’ve become.”

“I’m nothing like her,” Bram chuckled half-heartedly. “I have none of her wit, her strength, or her charisma…”

Embarrassed, he took a long swig of his flagon—and immediately spat out the strong ale that burned his throat.

“Fuck!” This word felt peculiar on his tongue as if it didn’t belong somehow. At least not to any language known to the Imperium. Still, it was strangely comforting for Bram to bellow this alien curse aloud in times such as this one. “What sort of gods-awful piss do they serve here?!”

“It’s called grog,” Ser Anthony answered distractedly.

He was busy wiping drops of spit and grog from his face.

When he was done cleaning himself, he added, “It’s cheap and packs a punch. Commoners love it.”

“Grog…” Bram gazed at the flagon in his hand with a wary eye. “What a strangely apt name for this poor man’s ale…”

He took a breath, and then another swig of grog. Indeed, he went as far as to down the whole flagon in one long gulp.

“Oh, Gods that tasted terrible.” While trying hard not to gag, Bram slammed his now empty flagon onto the table. “I’ll have another!”

He downed a second flagon of frothy grog quickly too, though his cheeks grew crimson from the effort. He bought a third cup, and when he finished it—a little slower this time—his head ached so terribly it was as if someone was banging a sword against a shield inside his skull.

‘Ping!’

Something shimmered in the air, though only Bram could see it. He chose to ignore this strange thing for he knew exactly what it was, and he didn’t need it to tell him what he already knew; three flagons of grog were murder to one’s liver.

Ser Anthony eyed him with concern. “Why did you drink it if you don’t enjoy its taste?”

“How could I ever hope to lead the people”—Bram wiped the froth from his mouth with a napkin—“if I can’t even understand them or their tastes.”

He was too busy trying not to puke to notice Ser Anthony smiling warmly at him.

“Honestly, though, that’s about as much understanding as I can manage today.” Bram rose groggily to his feet, took in several deep breaths, and then dropped the last of his bard earnings onto the table. “Come, Ser Anthony. The hour grows late…and the Loom of Fate is calling.”

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I hope you all enjoyed that...

I would love some feedback so feel free to message me in the comments.

See you this October with the NEW Loom of Ill Fates!

Also, here's a new discord channel invite: https://discord.gg/TktKCu6s