iscover The Fall of Wolfsbane, a gritty epic fantasy novel of war, empire, and survival. Follow Ragnar and Maja Wolfsbane as they fight for identity, resist conquest, and uncover the dark magic of ravenglass weapons.
The Fall of Wolfsbane is the first book in my epic fantasy series, Ravenglass Legends.
It is a story about war, empire, and survival. It is a story about identity and resistance in a world shaped by conquest.
I wanted to write a fantasy novel that didn’t shy away from the complexity of empire.
This isn’t a simple tale of good versus evil. It’s a story about people caught in impossible situations.It’s about the cost of survival and the price of power.
The novel follows two main characters.
Ragnar Wolfsbane is a warrior and heir to the northern territory of Meerand.
His world is destroyed when the expansionist Ostreich Empire conquers his homeland.
He watches his father executed. He is taken hostage. He is forced to live among the people who murdered his family and renamed his home.
Ragnar is a character shaped by loss and rage. But he is also a character who learns to adapt.
He forms alliances. He learns the language of the Empire. He survives by understanding his enemies.
Maja Wolfsbane, Ragnar’s younger sister, is taken to the imperial capital and is forced into the role of a court project, paraded as proof that the Empire civilises its captives.But Maja has her own quiet resistance.
She learns their ways while never forgetting her own. She uses their lessons against them. She plots her escape in secret.
I wanted the dual narrative to show two sides of the same war.
One sibling survives within the Empire. The other fights to break free from it.
The world of The Fall of Wolfsbane is shaped by politics, power, and cultural conflict. It’s a world where ancient magic exists but comes at a cost.
Magic in my story is tied to blood, memory, and sacrifice.
Ravenglass is a rare black mineral that can be forged into weapons.
These weapons aren’t just tools—they are bound to the person who creates them.
To forge a ravenglass weapon, blood must be spilled, tears must be shed.
I wanted magic to feel dangerous. I wanted it to feel personal.
At its heart, The Fall of Wolfsbane is about identity.
It’s about what we cling to when everything else is taken. It’s about how we change when we are forced to survive in hostile worlds.
The story is gritty and violent at times, but I never wanted it to feel nihilistic.
There is honour in resistance.
There is courage in survival.
Ragnar and Maja both carry the spirit of their lost home, even as they are shaped by the Empire.
They are both forced to make impossible choices.
Sometimes they win. Sometimes they lose. But they endure.
I wrote The Fall of Wolfsbane for readers who enjoy complex worlds and morally grey characters, for readers who want their fantasy to feel real, grounded, and emotionally honest.
If you enjoy stories about empire, rebellion, and the quiet strength of those who resist, I think you’ll find something here for you.
This is a story about conquest. This is a story about resistance. This is a story about magic that hurts and heals in equal measure.
This is The Fall of Wolfsbane. And this is only the beginning…
Explore the grimdark fantasy genre, where moral ambiguity, dark themes, and gritty settings redefine fantasy literature. Discover key books and authors like Mark Lawrence and Joe Abercrombie that make grimdark a compelling choice for modern readers.
Welcome, fantasy aficionados, to the delightful world of grimdark, where rainbows are a myth, unicorns are carnivorous, and happy endings are as rare as a dragon’s polite dinner conversation.
If you’ve ever wondered what grimdark is and whether it’s for you, then prepare yourself for a journey through the murkiest swamps of fantasy literature.
Grab your rusty swords, don your tattered cloaks, and let’s dive in!
Grimdark: The Basics
Grimdark is a subgenre of fantasy that revels in the gritty, the grim, and the disturbingly realistic.
Think of it as fantasy’s rebellious teenager, smashing the rose-tinted glasses of high fantasy and replacing them with cracked monocles.
In the world of grimdark, heroes are deeply flawed, morality is a luxury few can afford, and the line between good and evil is blurrier than an ogre’s vision after a night in the tavern.
Where Hope Goes to Die
In grimdark, hope is that quaint little concept you can reminisce about while dodging arrows in a war-torn wasteland.
This genre thrives on the brutal realities of life, where even the most valiant knight has skeletons in their closet—sometimes literally.
Expect betrayal, bloodshed, and a level of moral ambiguity that would make even the most seasoned politician blush.
Characters with More Issues Than a Tabloid
Grimdark characters aren’t your typical noble heroes on a quest to save the world.
They’re more likely to be anti-heroes, mercenaries, or downright villains.
Picture a protagonist who’s as charming as a rattlesnake and as trustworthy as a used car salesman.
These characters are scarred, both physically and emotionally, and their backstories are darker than the bottom of a wizard’s cauldron.
Worlds That Make Mordor Look Cosy
The settings in grimdark are about as welcoming as a dragon’s lair.
Expect desolate landscapes, corrupt cities, and societies that make you grateful for your boring nine-to-five job.
Whether it’s a plague-ridden medieval town or a dystopian future, the world-building in grimdark is meticulously detailed and relentlessly bleak.
It’s the perfect backdrop for the endless parade of suffering and strife that the characters endure.
Plot Twists with a Side of Trauma
If you like your plots predictable and your endings happy, grimdark might not be for you.
In this genre, plot twists are as common as goblins in a cave, and they usually come with a side of existential dread.
Characters you love will die, alliances will shatter, and the closest thing to a victory is surviving another day.
It’s like a rollercoaster ride where the tracks are falling apart and the operator has a sinister grin.
Dark Humour: The Silver Lining
Despite—or perhaps because of—the darkness, grimdark often comes with a healthy dose of black humour.
When life is constantly trying to kill you, sometimes all you can do is laugh.
Expect witty one-liners, gallows humour, and a general sense that the characters are well aware of their miserable lot in life.
It’s this humour that provides a twisted sort of relief amidst the carnage.
Notable Grimdark Works
If you’re ready to plunge into the abyss, here are some notable grimdark works to get you started:
“A Song of Ice and Fire” by George R.R. Martin: The poster child for grimdark, where weddings are deadly and power is a game of thrones.
“The First Law Trilogy” by Joe Abercrombie: Featuring morally ambiguous characters and a world where heroes are hard to find.
“The Broken Empire Trilogy” by Mark Lawrence: Following the charmingly ruthless Jorg Ancrath as he carves a bloody path to power.
“The Black Company” by Glen Cook: Chronicling the mercenary company as they navigate a world full of magic and betrayal.
Grimdark is not for the faint of heart.
It’s a genre that strips away the fantasy veneer to reveal a world as brutal and unforgiving as our own, only with more swords and sorcery.
If you’re tired of the same old tales of chivalry and virtue, give grimdark a try.
Embrace the darkness, relish the moral complexity, and above all, enjoy the ride—no matter how bumpy it gets.
Welcome to the grimdark side; we’ve got misery and mayhem in spades.
Dive into a world of shadows and secrets with this gripping excerpt from “Guild of Assassins,” the new epic fantasy novel by [Author Name]. When a young sculptor’s apprentice loses his father to a mysterious assassin, he sets out on a quest for justice that will change his life forever.
Soren buckled the leather apron straps around his waist, steeling himself as he marched into Master Kurgan’s studio. The familiar scent of clay and dust lingered in the air, the rhythmic tap of chisel on stone filling the workshop.
Kurgan’s stern eyes narrowed as he looked up from his work, his thin fingers poised above an emerging stone portrait. His bushy eyebrows furrowed. “You’re late.”
Soren swallowed hard. “I apologise, master. I lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”
Kurgan sniffed. “Perhaps you should lose track of those daydreams instead.”
“I really am sorry. I was—”
“I don’t need excuses.” Kurgan pointed at Soren’s cluttered workbench, gesturing towards the coating of dust. “I need you to focus on your work, boy.”
Soren dipped his head. “I know.”
“You’ll never master your craft if you’re always chasing shadows.”
Soren picked up his chisel and mallet, the tools at home in his grip, and continued working on his latest piece—an alabaster wyvern with its wings outstretched.
“Remember, Soren, the world beyond Nebel Hafen’s walls may seem alluring, but it’s as cold and unforgiving as the Braun Sea.”
Soren gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the thought nagging at him. There had to be more to life than this.
The day wore on and Soren soon regained focus on his work, the wyvern’s form slowly revealing itself with each strike of his chisel. It was the closest thing to magic in this world—the ability to create something beautiful and lasting from something as mundane as a block of lifeless stone.
The light from outside caught his attention. He blinked up at the window, his eyes dry and tired from dust and concentration. White-capped waves crashed against the harbour wall as the afternoon sun shone down on the Braun Sea.
Soren took this as his cue and broke away from his work. He cleaned his tools and swept the floor. He gazed at the half-finished wyvern on his workbench, its pink alabaster seeming almost translucent in the dim light. He couldn’t wait to get back to work on it, but errands for his master loomed.
Alaric appeared near the workshop door. He leant against the frame with one foot on the wall, a smirk on his face, and his hair still damp, no doubt from a morning spent at sea.
“Hey, Sor.”
Soren waved a hand in greeting.
“Need any help?”
“Thank you. That would be great.” Soren wiped Kurgan’s tools and gestured to his own workbench. “Help me finish up here. I need to run some errands for Master Kurgan.”
“Sure thing.” Alaric pushed off his leaning post.
Soren placed the last of Kurgan’s tools down and let out a sigh.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Let me guess.” Alaric grinned. “Old Kurgan wants you to clean his smallclothes.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
“It’s not that funny.”
“I know.” Soren cocked an eyebrow.
Alaric wandered over to the wyvern statue and pushed out his bottom lip. “This yours?”
“Yeah, he has me doing pointless little ornaments. Apprentice pieces, he calls them.”
“I guess we’ve all got to start somewhere. Your father had me mending nets again today. I want to be on the bow with a harpoon, bringing in a sperm whale. But, no, I get to sit in the hold, fiddling with old nets while my fingers turn red.”
“And I want to carve mountains.”
“Ah, the life of an artist.” Alaric ran his hands over the statue. “So mysterious and full of torment.”
“Torment? Hardly. It’s just…sometimes. I don’t know.”
“Oh, here we go.”
Soren glanced towards the window. “I feel like I’m stuck in this place, doing the same thing, day after day after day.”
“Welcome to being an apprentice.” Alaric clapped him on the back. “We all feel that way sometimes. At least when you’re finished, you don’t stink of fish guts, or have frostbite to contend with. You know, it was so cold out there today, I felt like my nose was going to freeze off. Imagine that. Your nose getting so cold it would drop off your face.”
“I guess.”
“I know you feel trapped in this place—we all do. But you have an incredible talent. And, one day, you’ll show everyone just how great you can be.”
“It can’t come soon enough.”
“Well, don’t let me get in the way of your fun.”
Alaric headed for the door.
“Yeah, right. Fun.”
Soren glanced around his still unfinished tasks and sighed as the door clicked shut behind Alaric. “Some help you were.”
A narrow stone path led to the cottage Soren shared with his father. He marched homewards, his head pounding, his arms aching, his legs spent. The thatched roof and whitewashed walls had weathered many storms, standing steadfast against the elements.
Warmth hit him as he opened the door and stepped across the threshold.
“Ah, there you are.” Soren’s father smiled across the kitchen as he bustled around, chopping vegetables with deft hands and stirring pots with practised ease. “I was ready to send out a search party.”
“Sorry about that.” Soren offered him a tired smile. “I had errands to run for the master.”
“Ah, well, needs must. I brought back some fine trout today. Not keen on these winds we’ve had coming from the north. Burn the skin off your knuckles if you’re not careful.”
“Alaric said it was cold.”
His father chuckled. “Aye. Very cold below deck out of the winds, I’m sure. He had it easy and he still found time to complain. Needs to buck his ideas up, that one.”
“I think he’s just itching to do more.”
“Oh? Has he been complaining?”
“No.” Soren shook his head. “I just remember him talking about how much he wanted to catch a whale, that’s all.”
“We’re a fisher, not a whaler.”
“I know.” Soren rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands at the basin. “Let me help.”
As they worked side by side, Soren couldn’t help but admire the precision and skill with which his father worked on the fish. With each cut, he removed the bones and excess skin, leaving behind perfect fillets. The sharp blade glinted against the warm light.
“You’ve got that look on your face again.” His father watched him with a sidelong glance. “Everything alright?”
Soren hesitated before answering. “I’m fine. I’m just looking forward to finishing my apprenticeship. I feel like…I don’t know. I can do so much more than ornaments. I’ve improved so much and I’m ready to do more…I know I am.”
“You’ve got a keen eye and a steady hand, son. But Master Kurgan has done you well.”
“I know. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“I feel like there’s something more out there for me.”
“Like what?”
Soren shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s like Alaric—he’s stuck in the bowels of a ship all day, fixing nets when he’d rather be out hunting whales.”
“I see.”
“What I mean is, I don’t know if I can stay doing what I’m doing for another five years.”
His father paused, his eyes meeting Soren’s. “You’re free to follow your own path, son. But don’t forget where you come from. It might not be glamorous, but it’s honest work. In time, it’ll put food on your table.”
“I know.”
“I’ve paid a decent chunk of coin for that apprenticeship. I could have insisted you follow in my footsteps, but I wanted more for you.”
Soren forced a smile. “I know. And you’re right. I just…I just need to keep focused on getting better, focused on learning my craft.”
“That’s my boy.”
The next day, Soren’s arms were aching from hours of chiselling. He took a step back to admire the completed wyvern sculpture. A mixture of pride and satisfaction bloomed within him that he had transformed a lifeless slab of alabaster into a work of art.
He walked around the piece, studying it from all angles. Master Kurgan would have no choice but to let him move on to more challenging pieces.
A sudden draught drew his attention away from his work.
The door closed behind Alaric. “Nice job.” He sidled up to Soren and gazed down at the sculpture, rubbing his chin. “Is it supposed to look like a chicken?”
“It’s supposed to be a wyvern.” Soren wiped his brow with a dirty sleeve and registered Alaric’s smirk. “Oh, we’re doing this again, are we?”
“Seriously, though, it’s impressive.” Alaric leant in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I bet Kurgan did the finishing touches, though. No way you’d be able to do those scales like this without him holding your hand.”
Soren narrowed his eyes. “You can joke all you want, but it was all me.” He studied his work from several angles. “And I have outdone myself, if I’m being honest.”
“Because you’ve not been honest all this time?”
“You know what I mean.”
Alaric shook his head and grinned. “Nah. It’s good. You’ve done alright.” He gave Soren’s arm a playful punch.
“Careful!” Soren grabbed his chisel, catching it before it fell off the edge. “Tools of the trade.” He glanced towards the door. “But thanks, though. Kurgan’s been pushing me harder than ever. Sometimes I wonder if he will ever think I’m truly ready.”
“Maybe he wants you to reach your full potential, or something.” Alaric leant against a nearby table and picked up a hammer, turning it in his hand. “There’s always room for improvement, right?”
“Easy for you to say.”
“You’re right about that. Turns out I’m pretty good at this speaking lark.” He placed the hammer down and gestured to the door. “Come on. Let’s take a break. There’s more to life than chipping away at rocks.”
“What you got in mind?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have some fun. Cause some trouble, like we used to.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Alaric waved his hands. “Alright. No trouble. But all work and no play makes Soren a dull boy.”
“Fine. You win.”
“Excellent. Get some coin together. We could eat, have a few drinks, play some cards, whatever.”
Soren smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
“Let’s go then, before old Kurgan comes back and gets you to scrub his privy.”
The door opened, bringing with it the chill from outside.
“Oh, well.” Alaric took a step back. “Too late. Looks like you’ve missed the boat.”
Kurgan marched in with his arms folded and scowled at Alaric. “You again?” He gestured to the door. “Go on, do one. Be off with you.”
Soren gave his friend a helpless shrug. “I need to stay here.”
Alaric nodded and ducked past Kurgan. “Later, then?”
“Yeah. Later,” Soren said as Alaric departed.
Kurgan strode over to Soren’s workbench and gazed down at the wyvern. He stood silent for several seconds, his head turning this way and that as he tapped his chin. “You’ve done an adequate job there, boy.” He pointed to the tail. “Watch your tapering on the base. And the barb doesn’t look like that.” He lifted the wyvern and turned it in his hands. “You haven’t touched the underside of its feet. And wyverns have four claws, not three.”
Soren looked at his wyvern through Kurgan’s eyes and noted the flaws for the first time. “Thank you, master.”
“Also, you should add more depth to the scales. Remember, to capture reality, you have to exaggerate it slightly.”
“Thank you, master.”
“Remember, Soren”—Kurgan lay a hand on his shoulder—“true mastery comes not from talent but from humility and perseverance.” He raised a finger. “Talent gets you in the door. But it’s a commitment to learning one’s craft that marks a true artist.”
“Of course, master.” Soren hesitated for a moment, then spoke. “I was wondering…”
“What is it?”
“How many pieces like this did you have to do before you completed your apprenticeship?”
Kurgan shrugged and pursed his lips. “A few hundred at least, maybe a thousand or so.”
Soren gaped. “Are you…are you joking?”
“No joke.” Kurgan stroked his moustache. “And let’s just say, my old master wasn’t as lenient as I am.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing faint scars across the backs of his hands and arms.
“What happened?”
“They’re reminders. They’re reminders of the importance of hard work, of commitment to your craft.” He jerked his sleeve back down. “But they also remind me that violence is ugly and terrible.”
Soren looked down at the back of his hands and chewed on the inside of his lip. “Thank you.”
“I received those beatings for much less than your mistakes.”
“I will try my best. I swear it in the eyes of Creation.”
“Good.” Kurgan cleared his throat. “Maybe if that fish boy wasn’t in here every day, you might produce some better work.” He placed the statue down and gestured to a block of white marble resting on a nearby bench. “I’d like you to try another piece. Work from the same brief, but this time in Sieshin marble. The stone is much harder to work, so keep your chisel sharp and your rhythm steady.”
“Another wyvern?”
Kurgan nodded. “Another wyvern. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, master.”
“Have you considered experimenting with different materials?” He gestured to a collection of various stones and metals along the workshop wall. “It might help you grow as an artist.”
“I like working with alabaster. I really want to get good with it.”
“And leave everything else behind?” Kurgan shrugged as he began to pace. “Heed my words, boy. If you only master one thing, you will be an apprentice forever.”
Soren shook his head. “How am I supposed to become a great artist if I don’t have a specialism?”
“The specialism comes when you have mastered all parts of your craft. A solution in modelling may provide a fresh perspective on carving. Techniques and processes can be adapted from one medium to another. Don’t allow complacency to stifle your growth. If you’re not growing, you’re dying.”
“I understand.”
Kurgan patted Soren’s back. “You don’t.” He chuckled to himself. “But you will.”
The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time Soren locked up the workshop for the night. The dying light cast long shadows across the cobblestones, while a chilling breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the scent of brine and the faint hints of fish and seaweed.
He double-checked the lock and started when Alaric slipped from the shadows.
“By Creation.” Soren’s hand shot to his chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
Alaric rubbed his hands together, his face obscured by his hood. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Plan for what?”
“For tonight, fool.”
Soren shrugged a shoulder. “I’m tired, my arms ache, and I’m covered in dust. I just want to head home…It’s been a long day.”
Alaric grinned and placed both of his hands on Soren’s shoulders. “Great. We’ll head to yours. Get yourself changed and grab some coin, and then the night is ours.”
Soren let out a sigh and nodded. “Fine.” He headed back along the path through Meerand, Alaric at his side.
“I bet this place used to be so different back in the day.” Alaric gestured up to Meerand Castle. “Imagine living in that place when it was whole.”
“You’re not going to start with stories of the Guardians again, are you?”
Alaric shook his head. “I wonder what it was like, though, all those people. I bet there must have been hundreds of people living there.”
Soren gazed up at the ruins. “I guess everything comes to an end. I wonder what happened to them?”
“Maybe they’re still around, working in secret.”
“Yeah. And maybe the Wolfsbane clan are still hiding in the forests.”
Alaric sniffed. “I think we can definitely say that’s not happening.”
“Would you have joined?”
“What? The Guardians?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Might be more fun than mending nets. Be a hero. Go on adventures. Bit of swashbuckling. Yeah, I could do that.”
“I bet it would be boring. I’d join up, do a seven-year apprenticeship, and then I’d probably end up in the offices, doing paperwork, knowing my luck.”
“You make your own luck in this world.”
“You sound like Master Kurgan.”
“Don’t say that. Never say that.”
“Are you going to start lecturing me on proper chisel care?”
Alaric laughed. “Yeah. And make sure you dust off those…tooly things.”
As they reached his cottage, Soren pushed open the door and entered the kitchen, still grinning, Alaric following on behind.
“Father?”
No answer.
Soren glanced around the dimly lit room. His gaze fell upon his father’s pipe smouldering on the table.
A muffled thump echoed from elsewhere in the cottage.
Soren turned to Alaric, his grin fading. “Stay here.” He bolted across the kitchen and headed for his father’s chamber. He threw open the door.
Soren froze. There, sprawled across the floor, was his father—his limbs contorted at unnatural angles, his throat cut.
Crimson blood pooled by his father’s side, and his eyes stared vacantly.
“This is…this is…”
Alaric joined Soren’s side and stared. “By Creation—”
“What kind of monster—?”
“Shh.” Alaric gestured behind him and ducked. “Someone’s here.”
Soren’s heart thundered in his chest. He willed his body to respond, and he crouched, hearing light footsteps move through the house.
But he couldn’t stay down long. He rose to stand. “We need to know who did this.”
Alaric jerked him back. “Are you completely mad?”
Soren shrugged off Alaric’s hold. “Better mad than a coward.”
“Fine.” Alaric’s jaw clenched. “But if we die, I’m blaming you.”
Soren crept through the cottage, every creak of the floorboards seeming to echo off the walls.
“Damn, he didn’t even let him finish his pipe.” Alaric shook his head. “That’s just rude.”
Soren glowered at Alaric.
By the faint light of the moon, he caught a glimpse of someone retreating outside. A man in grey, his face twisted by a gnarled scar across his right eye.
The man vanished into the night.
Soren wanted to give chase. But all he could do was stand in place, paralysed by it all. He stood at the cottage door and looked out into the darkness. “I swear in the eyes of Creation…”
Alaric stood beside him, his expression grim. “What do you want to do?”
“Find him.” Soren took his time scanning for any signs of the killer. “And catch him.”
“And then what?”
“And then we bring him to justice.”
Alaric nodded. “What about…” He gestured behind him.
“I can’t think about that right now.”
As they stepped outside, Soren took a deep breath. “We need information. Someone must have seen this bastard skulking around.”
I’ve been dying to share this with you for months, and the day has finally arrived. It’s my great pleasure to unveil the official book trailer for my upcoming epic fantasy novel, “Guild of Assassins”!
With this series. I wanted to create a tale that would transport you to a world of intrigue, where shadows hide secrets and danger lurks around every corner.
At the heart of “Guild of Assassins” is Soren, a young sculptor’s apprentice whose life is shattered when his father is murdered by a mysterious assassin.
Driven by grief and a thirst for justice, Soren sets out to uncover the truth. But his quest takes a dark turn when he’s forced to join the very guild responsible for his father’s death.
As Soren navigates the cutthroat politics of the assassins’ guild and endures a training regimen that pushes him to his limits, he discovers a web of secrets that could bring an empire to its knees.
But to survive, Soren must embrace the way of the assassin and become the very thing he hates most.
This story is packed with pulse-pounding action, searing betrayals, and a deeply human story of loss, redemption, and the price of vengeance.
“Guild of Assassins” is perfect for fans of Robin Hobb, Mark Lawrence, and Michael J. Sullivan. If you love gritty, immersive fantasy tales that keep you turning pages late into the night, this book is for you.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the trailer…and of the story.
Drop a comment below and let me know what you think!
Discover Guild of Assassins by Jon Cronshaw—a dark fantasy novel about justice, revenge, and transformation. Perfect for fans of Robin Hobb and Brent Weeks. Gritty, emotional, and character-driven. Available now on Kindle and paperback.
If you’re a fan of dark, emotionally driven fantasy—Guild of Assassins should be your next read.
Written by British author Jon Cronshaw, this novel kicks off a new series set in the gritty Ravenglass Universe. Think Assassin’s Apprentice meets The Night Angel Trilogy with a touch of Joe Abercrombie’s realism and emotional grit.
What’s it About?
Soren is a sculptor’s apprentice in the port town of Nebel Hafen. He’s on track for a quiet life—until his father is murdered and the killer disappears into the night.
With no help from the Magistrates, Soren abandons everything: his tools, his home, his future. Joined by his best friend Alaric, he follows a trail of whispers that leads to a name spoken only in hushed tones—the Guild of Assassins.
To get justice, Soren will have to become what he hates. And once you learn to kill, it changes you forever.
Why You’ll Love It
Guild of Assassins combines:
Gritty, low-magic fantasy
A revenge-fuelled coming-of-age story
Secret societies and assassin guilds
Tight character development
Themes of grief, loyalty, and moral conflict
It’s emotionally intense, tightly paced, and completely immersive.
You’ll walk with Soren through rain-soaked alleys, crumbling ports, and dangerous backstreets as he wrestles with the question: Can you get justice without becoming a monster?
Perfect For Fans Of…
Robin Hobb
Brent Weeks
Joe Abercrombie
The Poppy War
The Lies of Locke Lamora
Assassin stories with emotional stakes
Dark fantasy that puts character first
Who is Jon Cronshaw?
Jon Cronshaw is an indie fantasy author from the UK, known for The Ravenglass Chronicles, The Fall of Wolfsbane, and now Guild of Assassins. His stories are deeply human, emotionally rich, and written with a sharp eye for character.
Fun fact: Jon is blind and writes using screen reader technology. His unique perspective brings texture and depth to his storytelling.
Dive into Joe Abercrombie’s First Law Trilogy, a groundbreaking fantasy series that reshaped the genre with its grimdark narrative, complex characters, and subversion of traditional tropes. Discover how Abercrombie’s masterpiece has influenced modern fantasy literature.
In the grand, often predictable banquet of modern fantasy, Joe Abercrombie‘s “The First Law Trilogy” strides in like a barbarian at a tea party, upsetting the table and redefining the taste of the genre.
Abercrombie, dubbed ‘Lord Grimdark‘ by fans, didn’t just write a fantasy series; he took a battle-axe to convention, carving out a niche that’s as deep and dark as his characters.
Let’s don our metaphorical mail and explore how this trilogy has left an indelible scar on the face of fantasy literature.
What’s the First Law Trilogy?
For those who’ve been gallivanting in less grim parts of the fantasy world, “The First Law Trilogy” consists of “The Blade Itself,” “Before They Are Hanged,” and “Last Argument of Kings.”
These books introduce us to a world where the line between hero and villain is as blurred as a drunkard’s vision, and moral ambiguity reigns supreme.
It’s a world filled with flawed, often unlikable characters, gritty realism, and a healthy dose of cynicism.
A New Kind of Hero
One of Abercrombie’s most significant impacts on fantasy is his redefinition of the ‘hero.’
Gone are the shining knights and wise wizards.
Instead, we meet the likes of Logen Ninefingers, a barbarian with a bloody past, and Sand dan Glokta, a torturer who’s as sharp with his words as he is with his instruments.
Abercrombie’s heroes are deeply flawed, often morally compromised, and incredibly human.
This shift has encouraged a wave of fantasy literature that embraces more complex and nuanced protagonists.
Gritty Realism
Abercrombie’s trilogy also stands out for its gritty realism.
Battles are brutal, victories are pyrrhic, and magic comes with a hefty price.
This unflinching look at the harsh realities of a fantasy world, where the ‘good guys’ don’t always win (or even know what ‘good’ is), has influenced modern fantasy to lean towards darker, more realistic narratives.
Expectations are set up only to be toppled like a game of Jenga under a sorcerer’s curse.
This approach not only makes for compelling storytelling but also encourages readers and writers alike to question and rethink the standard fantasy narrative structures.
The Ripple of Grimdark
The ripple effects of “The First Law Trilogy” can be seen across modern fantasy.
The term ‘grimdark‘ has become a genre in itself, characterised by moral ambiguity, complex characters, and often a bleak outlook.
Abercrombie’s work has opened the gates for other writers to explore themes and characters that might have once been considered too dark or complex for fantasy.
The Sharp Edge of Change
Abercrombie’s “The First Law Trilogy” has, without doubt, sharpened the edge of modern fantasy.
It’s a series that invites us to explore the shadows, to see the world not in black and white, but in varying shades of grey.
In doing so, Abercrombie hasn’t just told a gripping story; he’s redefined what a fantasy story can be.
In the realm of fantasy literature, that’s no small feat – it’s as rare and valuable as a wizard’s final words.
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Greasy sweat coated Fedor’s back and neck as he stared half-focused at the Rusty Sail’s back room wall. Peeling gloss revealed bare pine beneath, the wood’s knots and whorls shifting and expanding in time with his heartbeat.
His eyelids drooped again and the top of his head pressed against the wall behind him as a wave of pleasure washed up from the base of his spine, triggering sparks inside his skull, bliss mushrooming in his mind.
He breathed in another mouthful of smoke, its metallic tang setting his teeth on edge and unmooring his thoughts.
His muscles softened.
Burning flooded his lungs, the heat melting him to wax.
The pipe slipped from his fingers and his head flopped down onto the cushion, his eyes flickering shut, his breaths shuddering.
Something like liquid hands enclosed him, soft and warm and comforting and endless. The edges of memory caressed him—his mother holding him close to her chest, her cheek resting on the top of his head as she rocked him to sleep.
He floated in a pool of yellow light for a long time as colours danced around him, splashing him with love and beauty, every wish fulfilled, every problem, every worry, every anxiety no more than a distant contained dot, no more than an ant trapped under a jar.
The images subsided, melting into yellow warmth, dislocated from time…from everything.
His limbs disappeared, allowing him to drift—a formless self in the endless yellow nothing.
He became aware of another sensation, a sensation beyond his body, beyond the yellow.
A hand, a real hand, two hands. It gripped his shoulder, both shoulders, and shook him away from that place.
His eyes snapped open.
He focused on a familiar face for a second, tried to form a curse, and closed his eyes again.
Words struck his ears as if heard through deep water.
A slap to the face shifted his awareness.
Pain. Stinging. Heat.
He opened his eyes slowly, his hand drifting up to his throbbing cheek, and he met Lev’s glare with one of his own.
“Mate, what the fuck? How many times?” Lev’s features came in and out of focus. “Get up.”
Fedor’s head wobbled to the side and he mumbled something half-formed in his mouth. He just wanted to drift, to return to that place of bliss. If he closed his eyes for long enough, it would all go away—the memories, the pain—all of it would seep into nothing, become one with the endless yellow.
The shakes came again, this time harder.
He looked around the room at the other men and women staring at him and he met Lev’s gaze.
Lev reached down and hoisted him to his feet.
For a moment, he feared he might continue up through the ceiling, and float off through the lower city and into the clouds, joining the balloons and wyverns and seagulls as they glided on the breeze.
“Mate. Look at me. Mate.”
His attention latched onto Lev.
“No. Keep bloody focused on me.”
Fedor closed his eyes and sank back to the cushion.
Another slap came to his face.
He found himself standing again and tried to wriggle out of Lev’s tight grip. But his arms did not move in the way he wanted. “Leave me alone,” he slurred. “Leave me here.”
“No. You’re coming with me.” Lev cupped Fedor’s face in his hands and held his gaze steady, those dark pupils burrowing into him. “You can’t stay here.”
Fedor stared at nothing.
The slap came again and his focus shifted back to Lev and his breath, tinged with whisky.
“Look at me, you fucking dickhead.”
“Huh?”
“I said, look at me. You need to focus.” Lev gestured to the door, his words slow and clear. “I am taking you home. Do you understand?”
Fedor gazed longingly at the cushion, his focus catching the play of light down the length of the pipe.
Lev jerked him in a twist and marched him from the back room and into the main bar.
A thin man in a robe blocked Lev’s path and offered him a chequerboard smile. “Brother, your friend shouldn’t be taken like this.”
Lev drew his club and held it out with one hand, his hold on Fedor remaining firm. “You going to fucking stop me, mate? You want me to knock a few more of those teeth out for you?”
The man stepped forward, reaching for Fedor.
Lev shoved him back against the bar.
“Thirty-three, mate. This is a fucking thirty-three.”
“Wha—”
“I’m taking you home.”
Unable to protest, Fedor gave a weak nod, and allowed Lev to lead him away.
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Gaslamps illuminated the flagstones with dull light, bringing with them the constant hiss of the Nordturm night. Fedor raced across Kathryn Square when a pair of patrolling constables disappeared from view.
He knew their route well, their timings, their patterns, their habit of doling out violence before asking questions. He’d been at the receiving end more times than he could count, but nothing left deeper bruises than a beating from the watch.
His gaze shifted to his crewmates, Yorik and Onwyth, their forms barely visible against the night, their whistles signalling the all-clear.
He gestured for Lev to follow him around the Mercer’s Company building, its walls glowing white against the moonlight, and positioned himself below the drainpipe. He’d worked hundreds of jobs as Lev’s second—sneaks, snatches, scams—all with the hope that one day they would score big.
Lev squeezed his shoulder. “You ready, mate?”
Fedor glanced up at the roof, his stomach muscles clenching. “You sure this thing’s legit?”
“Lita said so.” Lev pulled his hat down. “Who am I to argue?”
“I just don’t get why no one else has bothered before.”
Lev let out a sigh. “Let’s just focus on the payoff.”
“Right.” Fedor began to climb, his teeth gritted as he heaved himself up three storeys.
Cold wind blew in from the Braun Sea, muffling the sounds of the city below. If Yorik or Onwyth whistled the signal to abandon the job, would he hear?
When he reached the roof, he flexed his fingers and took a moment to catch his breath as Lev slowly made his way up the pipe.
Upper Nordturm’s rooftops glistened with the day’s earlier rainfall, reflecting the light from hundreds of dotted gas lamps, and the full moon staring down from the blackness.
“It’s higher up here than you’d think.” Lev stretched and gazed across the city. “You can see for miles.”
Taking care not to slip, Fedor clambered up the slate tiles. When he reached the roof’s apex, his eyes latched onto the weathervane.
It stood just over half his height—a black wyvern cast in wrought iron, its wings thrust back, no doubt to create the illusion of flight and a flat surface to catch the wind.
“You sure this is—” He spotted the weathervane’s ravenglass eyes, deep endless black orbs swallowing the shadows. “Wow.”
Lev rubbed his hands together and elbowed Fedor aside. “Look at the size of those beauties.”
“I still don’t get why people pay so much for these things. It’s not like they do stuff.”
“You could say that about anything, mate.” Lev cracked his knuckles, crouched next to the weathervane, and groped around the eye sockets. “They’re in pretty tight.”
“You got the bag of tools?”
“You’re a bag of tools.”
Fedor sighed. “Have you got them?”
“Yeah.” Lev reached inside his coat and pulled out a crowbar. “Just be ready if this thing pops out.”
Fedor listened out for warning calls from the others and stood behind Lev in an awkward half-crouch, his hands spread, ready to catch.
“This thing isn’t shifting.” Lev pulled off his flat cap, revealing curls of black hair matted with sweat, and dragged a sleeve across his brow.
“Maybe you need to cut round it.” He stiffened at an owl call—a signal from Yorik. “Shit.”
“Ignore it.”
Fedor glanced back over his shoulder as a pair of constables joined the square below. “The watch are about. They shouldn’t be here.” A breath caught in his throat. “Shit.”
“Screw the watch, mate.” Lev waved a hand. “They won’t see us up here.”
“They could. The moon’s pretty bright.” He glanced up at the moon and licked his lips. “I don’t know…maybe we should call a thirty-three?”
“Sack that.” Lev shot him a glare. “Mate, we’re here. No way they can see us.”
Fedor swallowed.
“And even if they did, who knows these rooftops better than us? Those waddling bastards don’t stand a chance.”
Lev was right.
Fedor just had to hold his nerve. He’d chosen his hooded tunic and leggings to match the tone of the slates. They were as good as invisible. But, still, the prospect of a beating and a night in the cells didn’t appeal to him. “Can’t you work any faster?”
“You want to try?” He offered Fedor the crowbar and cocked an eyebrow.
“No. It’s just—”
“It’s just nothing, mate. The quicker I can get these things out, the quicker we can do one.” He jammed the crowbar around the left eye socket, straining as he levered it back and forth. “I can do this.”
“It’s no good. You got any cutters?”
“Not here.”
“How about a saw?”
“Saw would be good. But, no.”
“Damn it.” Fedor tracked the constables as they strode towards him. “They’re headed this way.”
“Settle down.” Lev gestured to the square. “They’re not even looking around. They’re just walking and talking, mate. Probably not even on duty.”
“Right.” Fedor’s heart raced. His chest burned. Every part of him had to run, his instincts crying out for them to abandon the job.
“Yes!”
“You got it?” Fedor leant forward, ready to catch.
“No. But I think I felt something shift.”
“This is taking too long.” He started at the sound of flapping leather and spun to face a grey wyvern, its black eyes staring back at him. “Erm…thirty-three.”
“Mate. We’re not—” Lev fumbled his crowbar and shot to his feet. “Shit.” He charged past Fedor, shimmied towards the bottom of the roof, and slid down the drainpipe.
Fedor went next, a bolt of pain streaking up his feet and legs as he landed.
Lev let out something like a bird call, letting the others know they had abandoned the job, and led the gang back towards the lower city.
The crew reconvened when they crossed the Kusten Road. The priests had told Fedor the ancient road was built during the early days of the Ostreich Empire and cut a straight line along to the eastern coastline, stretching from Gottsisle to the north, to Wiete’s capital Welttor to the south.
During the day, carts and taxis crowded the road, but at night it stood silent, no doubt all in fear of thieves and bandits lying in ambush between Nordturm and Hafendorf.
Fedor followed the slope down to Lower Nordturm’s entrance. Wide enough for two people, its stone maw was smoothed by wind and time. The oldest part of the city stood beneath the looming Great Tower, the city’s interior carved from the cliff overlooking the Braun Sea.
Some say the city was carved from stone by Wiete’s earliest settlers, or shaped by Creation herself. Others believe it was once a great nest for hundreds of wyverns in the days when the creatures were as broad as ships and enslaved humanity.
Fedor was never sure where the truth lay, and if he was being honest, it didn’t matter. He had a roof over his head and a bed he could call his own, which was more than could be said for the countless street kids and beggars that made their homes around the city.
The maze of caves, canals and tunnels had been Fedor’s home since he’d been brought there as a young child to live with the priests of Creation.
Constables eyed them when they stepped inside. The familiar smells of damp stone and sulphur mingled with the ever-changing aromas drifting from docked ships.
Fedor’s skin prickled at the rising temperature as they passed through the hive of tunnels.
The others didn’t speak as they passed through the docks, its cavernous roof enclosing scores of moored ships.
Wind howled in through the sea gate, the giant portcullis structure catching light from alchemical globes hanging from the rocky ceiling.
Fedor followed a path between empty crates and fishing nets and turned into the tunnels.
He traipsed along the canal, trying to ignore the haunted waters, dark and black and stinking.
Nothing lived beneath that surface, though many things died.
He glanced back over his shoulder, checking they hadn’t been followed, and stopped at the den’s entrance.
Lev stepped forward and rapped on the door in his usual rhythm.
Yorik and Onwyth huddled together, their breath like clouds. Yorik’s broad shoulders and thick arms reminded Fedor of an ice bear he had once seen fighting a man in the arena.
An eye appeared through a peephole and the door opened.
Fedor acknowledged the crew’s boss with a smile. Melita, tall and slender with long red hair and bright green eyes, returned the gesture. His gaze drifted to the gold coin hanging from her necklace as she held the door open.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Had to call a thirty-three,” Lev said.
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow and gestured them inside. Yorik and Onwyth went on ahead.
“We were spotted. Had to be done.”
Her hand briefly clenched. “The watch?”
“Wyvern,” Fedor said.
Melita bolted the door and turned to Fedor. “Same one as before?”
“Yeah.”
Lev sighed. “You don’t know that, mate. It was dark.”
“It was the same one. I know it was.”
He followed Lev and Melita through the vestibule and along a winding tunnel to the common room.
No more than ten paces across, its walls curved into the ceiling. The glow from an alchemical tube cast crooked shadows along the rock.
A pair of sofas pressed against the opposite wall.
A gaming table stood to the door’s right.
Fedor flopped down onto the nearest sofa and forced a smile at the others. He hated returning from a job empty-handed.
Yorik leant back on the other sofa, his skin pale, his thick red beard a stark contrast to his thinning brown hair. “What happened?” He spoke in a clipped Molotok accent. “Why thirty-three?”
“I saw that wyvern again.”
Yorik folded his arms and leant back, his top lip curling. “Is not good.”
Fedor shrugged. “What am I supposed to do?”
“You keep seeing wyvern. How do you know it is same?”
“I just do.”
Onwyth sniffed and turned from her seat at the gaming table. She bore the dark tones of the Southern Isles and wore her ash-dyed saltlocks loose down her back. She held Fedor’s gaze. “How many times has that been now?”
Fedor glanced down at his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What does it want? It’s like every time we do a job, you keep seeing that…that thing.”
“It’s not every job.” His voice came out higher than he would have liked. “It’s just been a few lately.”
“It’s too many.” Onwyth scrunched her nose. “Don’t you just hate wyverns?”
“I don’t know why it keeps following us.” Fedor blinked up at the ceiling and let out a sigh. “But what can we do? It just appears from nowhere.”
“You should turn the tables.” Onwyth leant forward, her right hand closing into a fist. “You should go after it. Let the hunter become the hunted. I bet you could get a pistol or a harpoon, and then next time you see it, you could shoot it, and then you won’t have any excuse to call thirty-threes all the time. You’d probably even get a few coin for a wyvern skin.”
Fedor glared at her. “I’m a thief, not a killer.”
“Wyverns aren’t people.” She waved a hand. “You’d kill a rat, wouldn’t you?”
“Not really.”
“I would.” She grinned. “I love killing rats. I see them all the time by the canal.” She gestured towards the den’s entrance. “If you grab one of the big ones by the tail, you can smash it against a wall. It makes a great noise. Bit like a squashy kind of thud.”
“I think rats are a bit different to wyverns.”
“They’re basically just flying rats.”
“With scales,” Fedor said.
“More like flying bats, then.”
“Bats can already fly.”
A deep crease set along Onwyth’s brow. “All I know is that they’re horrible slimy creatures that fly around costing us coin.”
“I don’t think they’re slimy.”
“They’re scaled. Scales are slimy.”
Fedor shook his head. “I don’t think they are.”
“Who cares? You’re missing my point. All I’m saying is that doing a wyvern in is no different to playing splat-the-rat.”
Fedor’s eyes widened. “You’ve got a name for it?”
Onwyth sniffed. “Tell me how it’s any different?”
“They’re sentient creatures.” Fedor shrugged and met Lev’s gaze, hoping he’d speak up. “They, erm…they think and feel.”
“How would you know?”
“They talk for one thing.”
She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Parrots talk.”
“Parrots parrot.”
She gave him a confused look. “Huh?”
“They don’t really talk, do they?”
“I heard a parrot the other day at the docks. It kept swearing and begging for crackers.” She jabbed a forefinger down on the table. “That’s talking.”
“It’s not though, is it?” Fedor tried not to sigh. “Parrots just copy whatever they’ve been taught. Wyverns are just like people.”
Onwyth snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, slimy reptile people, maybe. How many people have you seen with wings?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“They’re no better than rats. They’re getting in the way of our jobs. I say you get yourself a sack and a club and take that thing out once and for all.”
Fedor sighed. “I repeat, I’m not a killer.”
“Perhaps you trap it in net,” Yorik said. “Not kill it, but give it beating.”
“Or smash its wings.” Onwyth jumped to her feet. “Or snap its legs.”
Fedor shook his head. “I’m not going to do that.”
Lev grinned and drummed a rhythm on the sofa’s arm. “You know he’d only find something else to blame if he did.”
“Yeah.” Onwyth pointed at him. “Oh, no. There’s a rat. Thirty-three. Thirty-three. I don’t like how that parrot’s looking at me. Thirty-three.”
Fedor huffed and folded his arms. “That’s not fair.”
“Whatever.” Lev removed his cap and pursed his lips. “You’ve got to take risks in this line of work, mate. It’s almost like I didn’t teach you shit.”
“There’s risks and then there’s risks. I’m not taking unnecessary ones. They’re unnecessary for a reason.”
“Risk nothing and you risk everything, mate.”
Fedor glared at him. “You were down that drainpipe before I’d even had chance to move.”
“Yeah.” Lev raised a finger. “But only because you called a thirty-three.”
Yorik raked a hand down his beard. “And it was necessary call, huh?”
Melita cleared her throat from the doorway and raised her chin. “If he called a thirty-three, he called a thirty-three.” She narrowed her eyes at Yorik. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, boss. I just—”
“That’s the beginning and end of the discussion.” She stepped into the common room and sat on the sofa to Fedor’s left. “If we don’t keep that as a sacred part of our code, then we may as well walk away.”
“I agree.” Yorik’s head rocked from side to side. “But there are other things to consider—”
“No. There aren’t.” She held Yorik’s gaze. “We need to trust each other’s judgement.”
Yorik’s neck stiffened. “Fedor should toughen up. He calls most thirty-threes.”
Fedor’s mouth dropped open. “That’s only because I’m usually Lev’s second.”
“That’s enough.” Melita glared at Yorik and Fedor before relaxing into an easy smile and turning to Lev. “What did we learn from the job?”
“There’s two ravenglass orbs up there, each as big as a fist.”
“So, they’re real?”
“Yeah.”
“What went wrong?”
“Apart from the wyvern?”
She gave a slight nod.
“I don’t know.” Lev shrugged one shoulder. “That was it, really. Wyvern scuppered our game…again.”
“Tools,” Fedor said. “We need something better to cut the eyes out.”
“What did you use?”
“Crowbar,” Lev said
“To prise wrought iron?”
His gaze dropped. “Yeah.”
“And you thought that would work?”
“I don’t know. Yeah. Maybe.”
“On wrought iron?”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. We need something better.”
Melita rose to her feet. “Good idea. I suggest you get another plan together—a better one—and try again tomorrow.”
Lev frowned. “Tomorrow?”
“You got something better on?”
“No. But—”
“We need the coin.”
Lev dipped his head. “Right, boss.”
“Good.” She strode from the common room.
Onwyth and Yorik followed, closing the door behind them.
Lev let out a long sigh.
“What’s up?” Fedor asked.
“I’m just sick of these shitty jobs.”
“Two ravenglass orbs. I’d say that’s at least, what, five hundred krones?”
“What’s that halved and split between five? We need something bigger, mate. Much bigger.” He banged his head back against the sofa. “How long we been doing this?”
Fedor shrugged. “Dunno. Four years, maybe.”
“And where we at?” His fists curled tight.
“We’ve got a lot more than some out there.”
“All I’ve got to my name is what’s in my purse. How are we supposed to get out of this shit-hole if we keep doing small-time jobs?” He ran a hand back through his hair. “Every time one of us calls a thirty-three, it’s like everything gets shoved back another day. I’m just sick of it, mate.”
“So, what? We get caught by the watch? I don’t know about you, but I’m not really interested in the mines or the gibbet.”
“That’s not what I mean. I just think…I just think we deserve better.”
“It’s alright here. At least we’ve got a roof over our heads. We never go hungry.”
“That’s just surviving, mate. I don’t know about you, but I want more.”
