Tag: low magic fantasy

Welcome to the Ravenglass Universe

There is a stone in this world that costs more than gold, and it will not let you look at it properly.

It is called ravenglass. Hold a piece up to a lamp and the light bends away from the edges, so you never quite fix where the thing ends and the shadow begins. Reach for it and your hand arrives before your eye agrees it should. Once worked, it sits cold in the palm. It does not chip. It does not scratch. It does not dull, tarnish, bend or break, and no hammer in any forge on any coast will persuade it otherwise. Only volcanic heat will make it soft enough to shape.

There is not much of it left. Nobody has found a new seam in centuries. Every blade, cup, ring and orb in the world was something else first, melted down and recast and melted down again, so that a merchant’s pendant might once have been a crown, and a crown might once have been an altar. Nothing is destroyed. It only becomes something else.

That is where these books start.

Magic here is old, and it is nearly gone

There are no wizards. No academies of sorcery, no wands, no memorised words of power, no helpful old man in a hat. Magic was freely available once, long ago, and then it was taken away, or spent, or sealed, depending on which priest you ask and which empire pays him. What survives is residue.

Most people live and die without seeing it work. Plenty of them think it never did.

So when the uncanny does arrive, it arrives with a bill attached. Ravenglass answers to blood and to tears, and it wants both from the person it belongs to. Blood binds it. Tears open it. And the tears have to be real  – the grief genuine, the guilt earned, the shame paid in full. You cannot fake your way into this power. You have to feel something honestly first, and then you have to live with what you spent to feel it.

Magic here solves one problem and hands you a worse one. It always has.

The wyverns are sapient

Let us clear up the obvious question. They do not breathe fire. Not once, not ever, not in a single book. Any story you hear about a wyvern burning a village is propaganda, superstition, or a lie told by someone with an interest in you being frightened.

Most of them are about the size of a dog. Leathery wings, scaled hide, beady black eyes, a forked tongue and a barbed tail. They perch on rafters. They waddle. They snap at fingers they do not like.

They also talk. They remember, argue, sulk, judge, grieve, bargain and manipulate, and they will absolutely lie to you if it suits them, regardless of the superstitions that wyverns can’t lie. Many of them can press against a human mind, and most humans cannot keep them out.

A bond between a wyvern and a human is intimate, psychic and mutual, and it is not ownership. It can be earned, damaged, broken, mended or poisoned. Treat a wyvern as transport and you will find out how fast a partnership becomes a grudge. How a culture handles that question  – partner or property  – tells you almost everything you need to know about the culture.

An empire that builds roads and takes children

The great imperial power of the age brings law, medicine, aqueducts, schooling, engineering and grain in winter. It also brings slave gangs, hostage-taking, public executions and the quiet erasure of anything that came before it.

Both of those sentences are true. I am not going to resolve them for you.

Some conquered peoples grow to prefer the roads. Others count their dead. Priests of a faith that forbids killing bless armies on their way to kill, and mean it kindly. Believers are right about some things and catastrophically wrong about others, and no god in these pages will step out from behind the curtain to settle the argument. Faith comforts and faith excuses. Usually in the same chapter.

What I promise you

The world is harsh. Institutions are compromised. Good intentions fail, violence leaves scars that do not fade by the next book, and nobody gets to use magic without paying for it out of their own body.

But this is not misery for its own sake. People here still choose courage when cowardice is cheaper. They still show mercy inside systems built to punish it. Those choices matter precisely because the world makes them so difficult.

Hope bleeds. It never dies.

Where to begin

The series in this universe share the rules, the ravenglass and the wyverns, but they stand on their own feet. One follows assassins. One follows hostages. One follows the young and the bonded. You can start anywhere, and reading one will quietly sharpen the others.

Pick up whichever one sounds like trouble.

Get a sample of my work at joncronshaw.com/starterlibrary.

Happy reading!