This week: halfway through Six of Swords, revisiting The Hammer and the Crown, publishing Blind Sight, returning to Black Death and reading Ghostwater by Will Wight.
This week I’ve been making good progress on Six of Swords.
I’m 12 chapters into the draft, which probably puts me somewhere around the halfway point.
I’ve also been going back over what I’ve written so far for The Hammer and the Crown, continuing work on the next Ravenglass Legends novel.
One of the more satisfying things this week has been returning to older projects. I revisited Blind Sight, a prequel novella to Blind Gambit that I originally abandoned back in 2018. I’ve finally finished it and published it on Patreon.
I’ve also been working through another story from my open projects folder, this time set in the Black Death world, which should hopefully be ready next week.
On the reading front, I’m continuing with Will Wight’s Cradle series and have now reached Book Five, Ghostwater. I’m really enjoying the series, and I’ve also finally worked out why I struggled to follow parts of the second book, Soulsmith. It turned out to be a useful lesson in storytelling craft.
Most conspiracies don’t hide the truth. They create a new one. A look at records, institutions, agent provocateurs, and the ideas behind the fantasy spy thriller Silent Watcher.
When most people think of a conspiracy, they imagine a secret.
A hidden document. A buried truth. A meeting that took place behind closed doors.
The assumption is that the truth exists somewhere, intact and waiting to be discovered. If you can find it, you’ve solved the puzzle.
But I’ve become increasingly interested in a different kind of conspiracy.
One that doesn’t hide the truth.
One that writes a new version of it.
Instead of burying the record, it creates the record.
And that’s much harder to fight.
A hidden secret is vulnerable. Someone talks. A document leaks. A witness comes forward.
But what happens when the official version is already public?
What happens when the lie is stamped, filed, cross-referenced, and accepted as fact?
Between the official account and the person insisting it happened differently.
Most institutions are built to trust records. That’s not a flaw. It’s how they function. Courts, governments, businesses, historians, and archivists all depend on documentation.
The person who understands that doesn’t need to destroy the system.
They just need to feed it.
This isn’t really about shadowy cabals. The methods themselves are old.
We tend to think of infiltrators as people who gather intelligence. Sometimes they do. But sometimes they’re there to create the thing they later report on.
A group grumbles. An infiltrator pushes. The group becomes more extreme. Violence follows.
The violence is real.
The arrests are real.
The official report is technically accurate.
The lie sits elsewhere.
The lie is that the people writing the report helped create the event they are now documenting.
Every clue might be a clue because someone wanted it found.
At a certain point, certainty disappears altogether.
The investigator can no longer trust the records.
But they can’t function without them either.
That’s what makes authored truth so dangerous.
A hidden truth can be recovered.
An authored truth attacks the idea of truth itself.
The real version becomes just another competing story.
One person’s memory against an entire archive.
I started thinking about these ideas because I wanted to write about them.
Eventually that became Silent Watcher.
The protagonist, Anselma, belongs to an organisation responsible for observing events and producing the official record. She’s sent to a quiet town to investigate the death of another Watcher.
The official report says everything is resolved.
The town disagrees.
The evidence disagrees.
Then she discovers documents in her own handwriting, carrying her own signature, authorising actions she has no memory of taking.
It’s a fantasy novel.
But the machinery underneath it isn’t really fantasy at all.
It’s about institutions that no longer need to hide the truth because they’ve learned something more effective.
They can write it.
And once they do, the hardest thing isn’t proving the conspiracy.
It’s proving that your version of events deserves to be believed at all.
Silent Watcher is a standalone fantasy spy novel for readers of Seth Dickinson, John le Carré, and K. J. Parker.
This week: seven chapters drafted for RAF Dragon Corps Book 3, work begins on Five of Swords, The Prince and the Fool launches, and Orphan Farm Boy of Destiny is now free on Patreon.
This week, I’ve been making strong progress on RAF Dragon Corps Book 3, completing the first draft of the opening seven chapters.
The Battle of Britain is beginning to take shape, and I’m enjoying getting back into the world of dragon riders, aerial combat, and wartime Britain.
I’ve also started work on Five of Swords, continuing my return to The Ravenglass Chronicles.
On the reading front, I finished Kaiju: Battlefield Surgeon by Matt Dinniman. It’s an incredibly dark book, veering into horror at times, but I found it compelling from start to finish. I’ve now moved on to Dominion of Blades by the same author and am enjoying seeing a different side of his storytelling.
In publishing news, The Prince and the Fool is out today, marking the next chapter in the Ravenglass Legends saga. Also, my satirical fantasy novella Orphan Farm Boy of Destiny is now available free to followers on Patreon.
A busy week of writing, reading, and new releases!
Feeling better after a month of illness. Progress on Four of Swords and Guild of Assassins Book 4. Also saw Project Hail Mary at the cinema—thoroughly enjoyed it.
This week I’m finally feeling better after a month of illness, which means a welcome return to proper momentum.
I’ve been working on Four of Swords and also going back over my progress on Guild of Assassins Book 4, getting a clearer sense of where that story is heading.
I also went to see the film adaptation of Project Hail Mary, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It’s well worth a watch if you liked the book.
A much more positive and productive week all round.
Read the opening chapter of Silent Watcher for free on Patreon. A dark political fantasy of espionage, conspiracy, and betrayal set in the Ravenglass Universe.
I’ve started posting my new novel Silent Watcher on Patreon—and you can read the opening chapter right now for free.
This one’s a bit different. Darker. More claustrophobic. The kind of story where the truth keeps shifting just out of reach the closer you get to it.
Here’s the setup:
A dead Watcher. A town that won’t speak. A truth someone is desperate to bury.
Anselma Versen arrives in Halborg to investigate a colleague’s death. Officially, it was an accident.
It doesn’t feel like one.
The streets are scrubbed too clean.
The townsfolk speak like they’ve rehearsed it.
And the dead Watcher left behind a journal he was never meant to write.
Then things start to get… stranger.
Records don’t match.
Witnesses remember different versions of the same events.
And Anselma finds her own name—her own signature—on reports she never wrote.
At that point, it’s no longer just an investigation.
It’s a system.
And it’s already accounting for her.
If she follows orders, she survives.
If she keeps digging… she probably doesn’t.
If you like your fantasy with a strong espionage edge—something closer to a spy thriller in tone—this might be your kind of thing. Think conspiracies, institutional power, and a protagonist who refuses to accept the official version of events.
I’ll be posting chapters on Patreon, starting now, and the first one’s free if you want to take a look.
With Churchill’s Dragons complete, readers can vote on what I write next, from Guild of Assassins Book 4 to new Ravenglass Guardians novels, by visiting my Patreon poll.
I’ve just wrapped up Churchill’s Dragons and I’m letting readers decide what I start sharing next.
I’ve put a poll up on my Patreon so you can have a direct say in what comes next.
The first option is Guild of Assassins Book 4, shared as a work in progress for those who like seeing a novel take shape.
The second option is Silent Watcher, a dark, brooding psychological thriller set in the Ravenglass Universe.
The third option is Sentinel’s Mercy, a nobledark military fantasy following the Guardians in the Ravenglass Universe.
The fourth option is a mystery side project in the Ravenglass Universe that may get a little wacky.
If you’d like to influence what I focus on next, head over to my Patreon and cast your vote.
Private correspondence authored by Investigator Eland Moreau, formerly of the Office of Special Inquiries, Nordturm. Discovered among the personal effects of Magistrate Lorran Bellwyn following his death in 926. Published posthumously in Wiete Unveiled: Suppressed Testimonies and Censured Documents, Vol. IV.
To be delivered to the Chief Magistrate of Nordturm, the Heptarchal Council, and any soul of integrity who still draws breath beneath our decaying banners.
Esteemed Lords and Learned Magistrates,
If this letter has reached your desk intact, then I dare hope, for a fleeting moment, that all is not yet lost. Forgive the manner of address—I can no longer rely on protocol, nor dare I trust the channels through which such words are customarily passed. I write not from my office in Nordturm, but from an undisclosed cellar beyond the reach of polite society. I write as a fugitive. I write, I fear, as a man already marked.
I offer this not as conjecture, but as conclusion: the judiciary of Wiete, particularly within the territories of Nordturm and the coastal satrapies, has been infiltrated—systematically, deliberately—by the Assassins’ Guild.
For the past eighteen months, I have conducted what began as an internal corruption probe. An unremarkable case. A Magistrate’s aide found to possess an income disproportionate to his station. Suspicion of favours, bribes, routine misuse of authority. A bureaucratic audit, nothing more. But the more I pulled, the more threads unravelled. And what I uncovered is not an anomaly. It is a design.
I document here, as plainly as the ink allows, the shape of that design.
Magistrate Ellin Vehrin ruled her district with a reputation for precision and piety. I was called to Braelthorn after two witnesses under her protection—critical to a treason case—were found dead within a secure compound.
I was shown what passed for an internal report: a weather anomaly, a collapsed beam, and the unfortunate coincidence of both parties sleeping in adjacent rooms. I requested autopsy records. I was told they had been lost in transit. I requested testimony from the guards. None had been seen since.
My access to Vehrin’s files was revoked. My reassignment order arrived the following day. I ignored it.
That evening, a page from Vehrin’s calendar was slipped under the door of my inn. On the back, drawn in red ink, a glyph I now know to be one of the Guild’s marks: the eye within the flame.
Three days later, Vehrin resigned and vanished. Her chambers were emptied overnight. No record of her resignation exists in the High Court archives.
In the span of ten months, eight magistrates across Wiete resigned, retired, or disappeared. In each case:
Successors were appointed within twenty-four hours.
Witnesses linked to open investigations either retracted statements or suffered fatal accidents.
Financial records of the accused magistrates were sealed or redacted.
My requests to review their personnel files were denied—five times in succession. On the sixth attempt, I received a forged file. The watermark was inverted. The signatures had been copied from an unrelated case I’d handled two years prior.
The forgery was deliberate. Sloppy. Almost taunting.
In Hafendorf, I encountered a man calling himself Berrand, a former clerk who’d worked under Magistrate Hallivar.
He had the look of a man forever watching shadows.
He claimed Hallivar received sealed missives delivered by the same hooded courier every seventh day. The courier never spoke. When Hallivar died of what was ruled a cardiac seizure, Berrand stole one of the messages before it could be burned.
I have seen it. Or rather, what remains of it. It was encoded using a cipher I later confirmed as matching that used by the Guardians’ Shadows during the late Ravenglass era.
One phrase repeated beneath the ciphered lines: Name Confirmed. Terms Agreed.
The last line, uncoded, bore a name: Maelen Vor—a trade unionist found dead four days later in an alley behind the Glassmarket.
The cause? Heart failure.
At thirty-two years of age.
I made the mistake of confiding in Rence Valdir, a junior magistrate in Nordturm. Earnest. Devout. I thought him incorruptible.
I showed him the Ledger fragment. His hands trembled. He said nothing.
Two days later, my office was ransacked. My personal notes burned. My access to the city archives revoked. Valdir’s father, Magistrate Orren Valdir, publicly denounced me for treasonous speculation and abuse of state resources.
I was to be arrested.
I escaped through a sewer grate beneath the archives. My assistant, Marella, was not so fortunate. Her body was found with her tongue removed and her eyes open to the sky. A coin had been placed on her chest.
The coin bore the flame.
What I have learned in the weeks since has only confirmed my fears. The Guild does not merely bribe. It supplants. It eliminates. It occupies.
There exists—according to a source I will not name—a protocol followed by corrupted magistrates known as “The Silence.”
It entails:
Identification of non-compliant elements.
Extraction or termination of threats.
Rewriting of records to cover all traces.
Coordination with higher Guild operatives through intermediaries placed in the Ministry of Review.
I have tracked six uses of this protocol in the last calendar year.
The affected cases have vanished. As though they never existed.
I send this letter not in hope of action, but in the dimming possibility that it might survive me.
I have no allies left within the Office of Inquiry. No court will hear me. No guard will protect me.
I do not know how far the Guild’s reach extends, but I believe it now encompasses:
Three Heptarchal Councillors
At least eleven sitting magistrates
Two senior officials in the Treasury
And a dozen members of the city guard, sworn to uphold the very law they now defile
This letter will be delivered by a trusted contact. If he does not return within three days, assume he has been intercepted.
To those who would dismiss my words: I pray you wake soon.
To those who still believe in law: act now.
To those in the Guild who read this: I was never your servant. I will die as I lived—speaking truth.
My name is Eland Moreau. I was once a loyal servant of Wiete.
I write now as a hunted man.
This world is rotting from within. If justice lives, it must now crawl through ash to breathe.
You will know me by what I leave behind: questions that cannot be silenced, a trail of burnt files, and the echo of a voice that refuses to die.
May this letter reach the hands of someone who still listens.
And may Creation protect us all.
—Eland Moreau
Editor’s Note: Moreau’s body was never found. His disappearance remains an unresolved entry in the archives of Nordturm. The copy of this letter was smuggled from the archives by an unknown whistleblower and published under restricted circulation. It remains banned in several satrapies.
From The Encyclopaedia of Civil Order and Rational Thought, Ninth Edition (893).
By Archibald F. Chistlethwaite, Fellow of the Collegium Historica et Jurisprudence, Nordturm.
It is with reluctant quill that I address the increasingly widespread and patently ludicrous assertion that a clandestine organisation known colloquially (and melodramatically) as the “Guild of Assassins” operates with impunity across the civilised territories of Wiete and beyond. One is tempted to dismiss such nonsense outright, consigning it to the same intellectual rubbish-heap as the flat world theory or the practice of communing with ghosts via tapping tables. And yet, this absurdity has gathered such momentum among the lower classes and—lamentably—some among the fashionable intelligentsia, that a sober rebuttal becomes, alas, necessary.
Let us be clear: assassins do exist. No rational person denies that individuals of violent disposition and mercenary inclination will, from time to time, accept coin in exchange for the illicit termination of a fellow human being. Just as highwaymen exist without forming an International League of Robbers, and drunkards stumble without enrolling in a Society of Inebriates, so too do murderers ply their loathsome trade without recourse to formal membership cards or annual banquets.
To suggest that there exists a structured guild—with rules, training, administration, and one presumes, branded stationery—is not merely an error; it is a deliberate assault on reason, order, and good taste. That a body politic such as our own would tolerate, much less overlook, the presence of a professionalised murder syndicate operating under a recognisable name is an insult to both our institutions and our intelligence.
The Origins of the Myth
The roots of this fabrication lie, predictably, in the fevered imaginations of penny dreadful authors and the credulous minds of those who consume them. Tales of shadowy cabals, secret handshakes, and cryptic initiation rites have always proven titillating to the under-educated and over-stimulated. The myth of the Guild offers the delicious allure of conspiracy without the burden of evidence.
One cannot ignore the influence of historical romance. The romanticisation of the assassin—the blade in the night, the whispered name, the poetic justice delivered by unseen hands—has always appealed to the idle minds of salon philosophers and adolescent scribblers. Combine this with the tragic decline of classical education, and it is little wonder we are besieged with fancies of assassin training schools, blood-forged contracts, and honour codes among murderers. Such narratives bear as much relation to the truth as does a child’s drawing to the architecture of the Palace of Welttor.
Absurdities Inherent in the Guild Theory
Let us apply the scalpel of logic to this carbuncle of misinformation.
1. Organisational Infrastructure: We are to believe that this so-called Guild maintains a network of recruitment, instruction, assignment, and payment across the known territories without detection. Are we to imagine offices in each major city? Regular payroll disbursements? Minutes from quarterly meetings? One envisions a secretary scribbling, “Item 4: increase in poisoning demand; committee to investigate seasonal variance.”
2. Recruitment: Whence come these killers? Are they poached from sculptors’ studios? Fished from fishing boats? Who interviews them? Is there a probationary period? Do they begin with kittens before progressing to barons? The logistics are laughable.
3. Training: Much is made in the more salacious pamphlets of a rigorous training regimen undertaken by Guild recruits. How, pray, does one conduct swordsmanship and stealth lessons without arousing suspicion? Do the Guild’s headquarters reside in a well-lit gymnasium? And who trains the trainers? Is there a credentialing body?
4. Payment and Client Relations: How are clients to locate the Guild? Are there brochures? A discreet office with a placard reading Deaths Arranged, Discretion Ensured? It strains credulity to its snapping point. Are payments rendered in coin, promissory note, or perhaps ravenglass? Does the Guild offer receipts?
5. Moral Code: The notion that a collection of cut-throats, brigands, and poisoners might adhere to a strict code of conduct is as credible as suggesting foxes maintain a union for the humane treatment of hens. Honour among killers is a concept found in the plays of Edric Morden—and nowhere else.
Convenient Conspiracies
Proponents of the Guild theory, when pressed for evidence, will inevitably fall back upon the oldest rhetorical refuge of the liar: that the very absence of proof is, itself, proof. “You see,” they claim, “the Guild is so effective, so utterly secret, that it leaves no trace!” This is the logic of the madhouse.
By this metric, one might also prove the existence of invisible dragons in the Crown’s privy. The absence of their droppings, after all, merely confirms their tidy habits.
A popular variant of this fallacy is the assertion that Guild members operate within society itself: embedded in merchant houses, constabularies, even the Magistracy. Such a claim not only libels the brave men and women who serve our public institutions but also renders the Guild unfalsifiable—a sure hallmark of bunkum.
The Economic Impossibility
Consider the cost. To fund the infrastructure of a continent-spanning assassin collective would require a treasury rivalled only by that of Ostreich. The training, housing, outfitting, and payment of hundreds of silent killers is not a modest undertaking. We are to believe this expenditure is met by sporadic commissions from brothel-owners and jealous siblings? Nonsense.
Moreover, an oversupply of assassins would undercut their own market. One cannot both be rare and ubiquitous. If killing-for-hire were so commonplace, the value of a life would plummet, and every petty squabble would end in bloodshed. We would be swimming in corpses, not idling in cafes.
Eyewitness Accounts: Or, the Infallibility of Rumour
Time and again, one is confronted with the testimony of some trembling ostler or besotted sailor who claims to have seen a Guild assassin in the act. These accounts tend to share certain features: darkness, distance, alcohol, and embellishment. As any trained observer knows, the human memory is a carnival mirror: entertaining, but not to be trusted.
Even more damning is the fact that such sightings invariably occur after the event. Never does one hear of a Guild assassin being interrupted, captured, or identified in advance. They are always glimpsed slipping away, vanishing into crowds, or retreating into the fog. Their passage is marked only by the sudden death of some minor noble or an inconvenient whistle-blower.
Might I suggest that these assassins are as much constructs of hindsight as of fiction? It is far easier to blame a mythical killer than to accept the all-too-real presence of vendettas, political silencing, or lovers’ spats gone awry.
The Cultural Role of the Guild Myth
So why, if the Guild does not exist, does the myth persist? The answer, like most answers worth anything, is psychological. The Guild serves a narrative function. It allows the populace to project its fear of chaos, of death, of unreasoning malice, onto a single, comprehensible symbol.
Better to believe in a dark, elegant guild than to confront the chaos of random violence. Better to imagine trained hands behind the blade than to accept the banality of murder. The Guild gives meaning to atrocity. That is its sole function.
A Final Word on Sanity and Sovereignty
As a scholar, a gentleman, and a loyal subject of the Heptarchy, I must affirm in the strongest possible terms that the very idea of an organised Guild of Assassins is both fantastical and corrosive. It undermines trust in our institutions, encourages paranoia, and distracts from the real work of maintaining law and order.
We must be vigilant not against mythical guilds, but against the human tendency to seek monsters in shadows rather than face the truths before us.
In conclusion, the Guild of Assassins is a fiction. A lie. A childish story told to frighten dull minds and entertain dilettantes.
That is the official position.
Let no further ink be wasted on the matter.
Editor’s Note: Archibald Chistlethwaite was found dead three months after publishing this entry, his throat expertly slit in his study. The local constable attributed the incident to a burglary gone wrong. No suspects were ever apprehended. The Encyclopaedia has elected to retain his article in full, for historical interest only.
Enter the Assassins’ Guild in Forged in Blood, a dark fantasy of loyalty, betrayal, and brutal training. Available now on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, and paperback.
The wait is over!
Forged in Blood is now available on Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, and paperback.
Welcome to Welttor, where assassins are trained, loyalty is a liability, and the only way forward is through blood.
Soren never sought out the life of an assassin. He was a sculptor’s apprentice—until the night his father was murdered.
Now, he and his closest friend, Alaric, have joined the secretive Assassins’ Guild, training under Raz, the very man responsible for his father’s death.
Their brutal education will push them to their limits, demanding mastery of combat, stealth, and deception.
But survival in the Guild is not guaranteed.
As their training intensifies, the line between ally and rival begins to blur.
Their final test will determine who deserves a place among the Guild’s ranks—and who will be left behind.
If you enjoy dark fantasy, morally complex characters, and the brutal path from apprentice to assassin, Forged in Blood belongs on your shelf.
🔹 No romance. No mercy. Just a blade between you and the next step forward. 🔹 Perfect for fans of Scott Lynch, Joe Abercrombie, and Brent Weeks. 🔹 Read now on Kindle or Kindle Unlimited.
Discover how dark fantasy turns heroes into villains. From Forged in Blood by Jon Cronshaw, explore Soren’s transformation and why the most compelling villains are created through rational choices and moral compromise.
The most compelling villains are often failed heroes.
In Forged in Blood, the second book in the Guild of Assassinstrilogy, we witness Soren’s transformation from a justice-seeking youth into someone who can kill his closest friend without hesitation.
His journey exemplifies how dark fantasy creates villains not through sudden falls, but through a series of rational choices that lead to monstrous ends.
The Path to Darkness
What makes these transformations fascinating isn’t the destination, but the journey.
Soren begins with a noble goal: finding justice for his father’s murder.
Yet each step toward that goal requires compromise.
Learning to kill becomes necessary for survival.
Betrayal becomes a tactical advantage.
Friendship becomes a liability.
Morality becomes an obstacle.
The Rational Monster
The true horror in these stories lies not in dramatic moments of evil, but in how reasonable each choice seems.
When Soren finally betrays Alaric, it’s not a moment of malicious triumph—it’s the logical conclusion to a path he’s been walking all along.
Like Arthas in Warcraft or Anakin Skywalker’s transformation into Darth Vader, the fall comes through choices that seem necessary at the time.
Breaking Bonds
Dark fantasy understands that the most powerful corruptions require breaking fundamental human connections.
Soren sacrifices his friendship with Alaric.
Raistlin Majere abandons his twin brother.
Daemon Sadi in Anne Bishop’s Black Jewels series severs his ties to those he loves.
The Bloody Nine in Joe Abercrombie’s works forsakes companionship for survival.
These characters don’t just lose their connections—they actively sever them, believing isolation equals strength.
The Seduction of Power
What makes these transformations believable is how they tap into universal desires.
The need for justice.
The drive for excellence.
The pursuit of knowledge.
The thirst for power.
Soren doesn’t just become skilled at assassination—he finds he has a natural talent for it.
Like Baru Cormorant or Kvothe, his abilities make each compromise easier to justify.
The Point of No Return
Every villain’s journey has moments where turning back becomes impossible.
For Soren, this comes not with his first kill, but when he realises he’s begun to see the artistry in death.
Like Walter White’s transformation in Breaking Bad (though not fantasy, it follows the same arc), the change isn’t about necessity anymore—it’s about excellence.
Why These Stories Resonate
These transformations fascinate us because they challenge our assumptions about the nature of evil.
They force us to reconsider the power of choice.
They reveal the cost of ambition.
They highlight the strength and fragility of human bonds.
Perhaps most disturbingly, these stories force us to question our own capacity for darkness.
When we understand and even sympathise with each choice that leads to corruption, what does that say about us?
Beyond Simple Villainy
The best dark fantasy villains aren’t evil for evil’s sake.
They’re heroes who lost their way through choices we can understand, even as we recoil from the results.
In Forged in Blood, Soren’s transformation is horrifying precisely because we can follow his logic every step of the way.
These characters remind us that villains rarely see themselves as villains.
Like Marvel’s Magneto or Sanderson’s Lord Ruler, they often believe they’re still serving a greater purpose, even as their methods become increasingly monstrous.
What fallen hero arcs have resonated most with you?
At what point do you think these characters cross the line from hero to villain?
Share your thoughts in the comments below.
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