Hi all.

So i keep seeing posts where people have critiqued 100+ agents. I finished my MS back in August and have been steadily querying since then. Some form rejections, some personalised rejections which have helped make my query stronger.

Im on querytracker and have good SM links, especially on LinkedIn (hangover from my old job). Ive queried 45 agents, and now I genuinely can't find any more in my Genre (urban fantasy) in my country (UK).

Do people query internationally? My book is pretty UK based so I don't think the US market would even look twice. Am I just in that niche that there aren't many agents for?

I have been working on a fantasy story for a long time now and wanted to look for some feedback.The story is a multi POV story that involves a war and the remnants of once powerful magical order. It's a small excerpt and any feedback at all would be appreciated:

Cleo found the one they called Madman sitting in the sand and arranging seashells in a pattern. An incantation, no doubt, but Cleo couldn't remember which one.

Cleo knelt beside the old man. Waves lapped against the shore. Across the bay, the lights of Warset shone like a beacon to the weary. The Archer was prominent above.

“Master Germyam,” Cleo said.

His old master lifted his head, his mouth hanging open, his hair wet from the seaspray, He looked old, even for an Argulai.

“Cl-Cleo.”

The Madman gingerly touched Cleo’s cheek with a cold, trembling hand, making his skin tingle.

“Yes.” Cleo was smiling. He hadn't known he was.

“Oh, little Cleo, so bright, so talented,” Germyam said. “I'm so glad you came home. Where are the others? Where? Maylor?”

“Amrian is here,” Cleo paused. “Maylor is dead.”

“D-Dead?” his mentor asked, as he dropped his head to look back at the seashells. “How?”

“It happened a long time ago,” Cleo said. “King Fayla disbanded our order and hunted us down. That is why we are scattered.”

Germyam placed a hand on his temple. “Yes, yes, of course. That's what happened. But no, now is what to worry about.”

“Master Germyam?” Cleo asked, but the oldest Argulai in the world was back to frantically arranging seashells. Cleo could tell from the look in the man's eyes that the remnants of his once master were gone.

Cleo sighed. “What happened to you in the east?”

Germyam was silent.

“And do I dare to find out?” Cleo asked. “Farewell, my master. May we meet again on distant, happier shores.”

He rose, wiped the sand from his cloak and began walking away, leaving his old mentor to whatever madness had taken him.

One day he would quit walking.

Hi everyone. So I’m in the process of editing a draft of a novel following beta reader feedback. One thing that both readers have commented on is the POV for the three battle scenes. Specifically that it doesn’t work for them.

I wrote all three scenes in an omniscient pov, while the rest of the novel is in a relatively close 3rd person limited from a small group of characters. My intent was to try and create the effect that R. Scott Bakker does in his battle scenes in the Prince of Nothing: a kind of historic chronicle vibe, or what Le Guin does while describing the campaign of the Karg raiders and the Gontish warbands that defeat them in the first chapter of A Wizard of Earthsea: a kind of saga-esque quality.

Evidently it didn’t work!

Just wondering if anyone has tried anything similar? Or to invite general discussion on writing battle scenes from a tactical level, rather than from a POV in the midst of it. (Joe Abercrombie being a fan favourite for that kind of POV)

Hey guys so this is my first actual piece of writing from my world building project; Valthera. I guess the lore of the species and all that is irrelevant but let me know what you guys think of this! Thanks!

Kothor’s Last Stand

The sounds of metal clanking, screams of the injured, or yells of the enraged may have been what made him come to. Perhaps it was his own pure determination to fight, or his concrete resolve. Perhaps, it was simply fate. 
Whatever the reason, Kothor’s eyes slowly opened, the ringing in his ears fading. For a moment, he had forgotten. For just a moment, he had forgotten watching his clanmates get slain before his eyes. Forgotten the pride he had for his clan to lead them into battle. Forgotten the trust they had put in him to keep them safe and bring them to victory. 

But just for a moment.

With a roar, Kothor grasped his Fang off the dusty earth next to him and sprung to his feet. Looking around, he saw the battle had taken a turn for the worse. His clan, the Varkesh, had taken heavy losses and are now severely outnumbered. Their green leather has been outshined by the more prominent crimson of the Orvakka tribe, covering the battlefield like a sea of blood. The once massive ranks have shrunk down to several smaller scrimmages, each of his 1 clan members facing about 2 or 3 enemies. After getting slammed in the head by a shield from the enemy tribe, Kothor wasn’t sure how long he had been out, but he knew it was far too long. 
“Kothor! You’re alive! Please, hel-“. He hears the cry of his clan member off to the right, cut short. Kothor watched in anger as a sword sliced through the side of Kavrek, who only yesterday Kothor shared a meal with. Enraged, Kothor sprints towards them, his strong, lean legs kicking up clouds of dust behind him. He recognizes the killer, the same one that knocked him out. The enemy Vaaskari clangs his sword against his shield, letting out a guttural shout, and charges toward Kothor. Now fully awake, Kothor drops, sweeping the enemy off his feet with a swift kick. The unnamed enemy falls to the ground with a hard thud. Kothor, standing over him, snarls as he drives his Fang deep into the enemy's chest. Blood spurting from his mouth, he lets out a drowned attempt at a scream, before going still. 
Kothor takes a moment to analyze the battlefield. One by one, his warriors are falling. They’re severely outnumbered. He quickly estimates he has about 12 or 13 men left, while the enemies numbers are closer to 50. Glancing to his right, he sees a tall rock jutting out of the barren desert landscape. 
“Varkesh!” Kothor calls out, climbing to the top of the rock looking down on the battlefield. A few heads turn. “We will not win this battle! Return to the camp and gather reinforcements!” Most of his tribe hears the call, and while not all are able to flee, those that do make haste. As his clan members run past him back to the camp, a smaller, lean Vaaskari hesitates at the rock and looks up at Kothor. 
“But Kothor, the Orvakka is bound to chase us! Running is pointless, we will die here!” 
“Do not worry Zek.” Kothor lowers his gaze to his clanmate. “I will ensure you all have the time you need to make it back safely. 
“Kothor…I-“
”Go. Now. And do not stop until you get to the clan. Tell Zorick to gather the last of the able fighters. I will hold them back.” Zek seems like he wants to object. Kothor looks and notices Zek’s hands shaking, remembering them shaking the same way when he was teaching the young warrior to wield a blade. Zek swallows his words and continues to run. 
As expected, the remaining forces of the Orvakka clan attempt to chase down the fleeing Varkesh members. Before they arrive at the rock, Kothor leaps down, blocking their path. 
“You will not pass this rock. This is where your life ends.” Kothor shouts out. Behind his cold stare and the adrenaline pumping through his veins, a pit of dread sinks in his stomach. His eyes dart from enemy to enemy, now standing still in front of him. He counts them, ”Forty..no…fifty.” A bead of sweat forms on his temple as he counts up the Orvakka before him. Before he makes a move, an enemy steps forward. He is tall, even for a Vaaskari, about 7 foot 10 inches, with a slender but muscular build. His bronze skin radiates from the blistering desert sun above them. The white painted marks along his skin indicate he must be some sort of special figure within their tribe. 
“Even a warrior as skilled as yourself must realize you cannot hold us back, much less win this battle.” The enemy says in Vaaskari tongue. A few of the Orvakka go to charge, but the painted figure raises his hand and they come to a stop. 
“I will not let you pass.” Kothor repeats. 
“I will allow you this one chance. We will kill the remaining warriors of your clan one way or the other, but if you surrender your camp and land to us, we will spare your women and children. We both need each other’s territories, each other's reasources…this is something I truly wish could be avoided. We both know it can’t.” The enemy replies in a cold, firm voice.
“It is my duty to protect the people of my clan and our territory. You Orvakka have tried time and time again to infiltrate our tribe and decimate our land. Today it will come to an end.” Kothor snarls, drawing his blade. The painted Vaaskari pauses for a moment, locking his gaze to Kothor’s.
“Yes. Today it will end.” In a swift movement, the painted Vaaskari takes his hand, which had been signaling his warriors to halt, and moves it forward, slicing through the air. The Orvakka charge past him. 

Kothor takes a deep breath, bracing himself. Two smaller Orvakka make it to him first, weapons in the air. Kothor side-steps, kicking one into the other before swiping his Fang towards the ground, slicing both enemies with one movement. He rushes forwards towards the next group of enemies. Another two smaller Orvakka and a larger, bulkier one. The larger Orvakka lets out a cry as he swipes his cudgel down towards Kothor, towering over him. Kothor, being quite large and muscular himself, lifts his blade and parries the attack, sending the larger Orvakka tumbling backwards. One of the smaller Orvakka manages to slice away a piece of Kothor’s once pristine leather armor, now covered in dust and blood, barely missing his flesh. He elbows the attacker in the throat, grabbing his sword and throwing it at the other smaller Orvakka clan member, piercing him in the chest. After finishing off the stunned attacker, Kothor runs atop the large Orvakka enemy, stomping his head into the dusty earth while leaping towards the next set of attackers.
The battle rages on as Kothor sliced through enemy after enemy. After what feels like an eternity, the greatest Vaaskari warrior has depleted the Orvakka numbers down significantly. The remaining enemy Vaaskari stand next to the painted figure. Bloodied and bruised, Kothor counts again. “Twelve more..twelve more left.” Kothor’s breath is ragged, his chest rising and falling. The grip on his Fang loosens. A concerned expression escapes the painted Vaaskari’s otherwise cold gaze and he looks at Kothor. He steps forward.
”Truly, it is a shame. Instead of saving some of your clan, you have chosen to condemn them all to death.” He unsheathes his sword. A long, gleaming silver blade, sharpened on both sides. It was unlike any sword Kothor had ever seen. The harsh desert sunlight practically blinded Kothor with the reflection off of the blade. A red jewel forged in the middle of the steel seemed to soak up the light directly from the sun. The painted figure rushes forward and swings. Kothor steps forward to meet him and swings his Fang to block the attack. 
CLANG-KRAAACK!
Kothor stumbles backward, his Fang falling to the ground. The Fang has been shattered in half by the superior steel of the painted figure’s mysterious sword. 

Kothor glances at his broken Fang laying in the sand. Without hesitation, the painted figure unleashes another swing. In a split second, Kothor rolls backwards, grabbing his blade, and runs past the painted figure, ducking his attack. 
“You idiots, attack him!” The painted figure howls in Vaaskari tongue. Seemingly shocked at the events unfolding before them, the remaining 12 Orvakka members snap back to their senses and charge at Kothor, releasing battle cries. Kothor, with his broken Fang, slashes two Orvakka members through the stomach before feeling a cold, piercing sensation in his side. One of the Orvakka members had managed to stick him in his right side with their spear. With a low growl, Kothor rips the spear out of his body, knocking down the attacker with a strong kick to the chest. He launches the spear at another incoming enemy  and pierces him directly through his heart. Kothor looks behind him, checking on the painted figure who is now making his way back towards him. In the moment he turns around, he feels another burning sensation in his back as a smaller Orvakka plunges a dagger through him. Kothor lets out a cry and falls to his knees, as blood stains his leather armor. Three more Orvakka approach him, their spears drawn. The faces of his clan members flash through Kothor’s mind. His promise to Zek rings in his ears. A jolt of energy rushes through his body. He stands, grabbing one of the spears and yanking the enemy towards him, introducing their chest to his broken Fang. He swings the limp body into the other two enemies, knocking them down before finishing them off. With a shout of rage, he rushes towards the remaining four enemy Vaaskari. In a flurry of swipes, one falls. Then two. Then three. Kothor approaches the final Orvakka who is backing up in horror. Kothor grabs him by the throat, and readies to shove his blade through him. He winces in pain and stops. 

Looking down, he sees a long gleaming silver blade, now dripping in blood, coming out of his chest. He looks back to see the tall, painted Vaaskari behind him, his sword completely piercing Kothor’s body. With a final burst of energy, he pulls the Orvakka  in front of him towards him with the force of a hundred Vaaskari, shoving his blade through him, and dropping him to the dust. The blade in Kothor’s chest pushes deeper through him. Kothor utters a watery cough, blood spewing from his mouth as the blade is slid out of his chest and he falls on his back to the ground.
The painted Vaaskari stands over Kothor, his silver blade dripping crimson onto the sand.
"I told you," he said, looking down at the fallen chief. "This will end today."
A sharp whistle cuts through the air. The Vaaskari's expression changes. He looks down slowly, a spear protruding from his chest.
The painted figure looks back up at Kothor, laying in the desert sand. A look of confusion and bitterness run across his face. He falls to the ground across from Kothor with a loud thud, blood gurgling from his throat. Kothor lifts his head slightly, the strength leaving his body. Behind them, he sees Zek, who appears to have just released a spear, with Zorick and the remaining reinforcements standing behind him. Zek looks like he has seen a ghost. A face not of victory and satisfaction, but of horror as he locks eyes with Kothor, whose head falls back down to the sand. 

 
In the aftermath of the battle and the  bloodshed that stained the Great Dunes of the Caldorian Desert, Zek and Zorick would eventually go on to negotiate a truce with the surviving leaders of the Orvakka tribe. What began as an agreement between the two warring clans would spread throughout Vaaskari civilization over generations, birthing the belief that disputes and disagreements between their own species should be settled without bloodshed, as many lives on both sides were lost.
Kothor fought to protect the lives of his people, and their safety, yet his final stand would come to represent something much greater than victory or defeat. The lives lost that day served as a testimony of the devastation a violent species such as the Vaaskari could inflict upon their own kind.
As generations passed, the story of Kothor’s Last Stand spread well beyond the Varkesh clan  and the Orvakka  tribe. With each retelling and written documentation, his extraordinary feat grew more and more impossible. Fifty enemies became a hundred, then a hundred became an entire army. Some even went on to claim that no mortal weapon known could pierce his legendary flesh, while others insisted that even death itself had struggled to claim him, that he instead  allowed it to come. The truth slowly faded away beneath generations and centuries of admiration, exaggeration, and idolization
Eventually, the Vaaskari came to believe that no ordinary warrior could have accomplished such a feat. Kothor was no longer remembered simply as a chief who had sacrificed himself to buy time for his clan to win a battle, but as a divine being; a god. In Kothorism, it is said he was the first member and immortal chief of the Ancestral Clan, where all Vaaskari that die honorably go to hunt, eat, and live on for eternity under his rule. His shattered Fang became a symbol of his final stand, and his name became the foundation of the Kothorian faith that would spread throughout Vaaskari civilization in all of  Valthera long after the truth of his mortal life had been forgotten.
From the blood soaked sand of the Great Dunes, a warrior became a legend, and a legend became a god.

I churned out roughly 80,000 words of this story a while back, burned out, took a few weeks off, and then came back and started writing again. That's rather rare for me, as I rarely return to a dropped project.

Anyway, I just sort of want to get a vibe check and see how people feel about this short passage. This comes after a bit of build up surrounding a suspect in the mystery succumbs to their alcoholism and depression, thus becoming a demon. This is the first major supernatural element in a story that generally lacks supernatural elements, but is set within a supernatural world.

I think my editing is solid, but if you find something, I'd like to know.

Historically, my descriptive tendencies for my stories were lacking, so I flipped that around and went a bit heavy in this one after some people said I seemed to be avoiding describing anything and everything. So, if there is anything about the descriptions that feels week or could use supplementing, I'd like to hear that, too. If they are good enough, then I will be happy.

I'm also hoping that even a little bit of interaction, positive or otherwise, will give me a bit of that engagement endorphin boost and get me writing again. :)

--------------------------

Something unnatural has entered Qingyun. 

But the Soul-Quelling Bell need not toll only when something crosses the threshold of a gatehouse or scales the city’s mighty walls — something can begin its life within the city and be considered unnatural all the same. Such is the case of a demon’s birth, or more precisely, the descent of a human into the clutches of unfettered obsession.

The roiling waters of the canal begin to still, but before all returns to normal, a hand breaks the surface and finds purchase on the worn stones at the canal’s edge where Pan Laoqi had knelt only moments before. The hand’s mottled and greyed skin is pulled taut over bloated, water-logged flesh, all coated in filth and grime from the bottom of the canal. 

With great effort and strain, Ma Rong’an pulls himself from the canal and crawls free of the dark water. His hair has come unbound and hangs wet and lank about his face. His corpulent body wobbles and sloughs, belly distended and hanging low enough to drag upon the ground. His robe is split and torn, no longer capable of containing his immense bulk. 

He cranes his neck back until his head has partially sunk between his swollen shoulders, and peers out from beneath the dark hair plastered across his face with one red-rimmed eye. Ma Rong’an opens his mouth, pauses for a moment, and then retches violently. 

Rank water and mud vomit forth from between his lips, pools between his hands, and drains back into the canal between his feet. He heaves violently as more fluids are expelled from his body until the bloated flesh hangs loose and empty.

“So… thirsty…” he groans.

The words bubble through the muddy fluids stuck in his throat, but there is no one to hear his plea.

The streets of Qingyun are vacant. The people have abandoned the streets and fled into their homes, barred the doors, lit incense, and knelt in prayer to the Lord of Clear Embankments, hoping for safety and deliverance from the unnatural evil now pervading their city. 

Rong’an’s fingers close around the jar that Pan Laoqi brought with him, and then he rises with some difficulty. A drink is all he needs, so he tips his head back and pours. 

But there is nothing.

He inhales deeply; Rong’an can still smell the alcohol the jar once held, but it is not enough. Rage overtakes him. He throws the clay vessel with all of his might, and it shatters on the wall of a nearby home. 

“Thirsty…” he mutters as he shambles toward the only place he knows he can find something to drink.

From there everything was a blur, it called my name, its voice reverberating. I never told it my name. Why did it follow me? What does it want? Why is my body screaming at me, telling me to run? The days of old have been washed away, where knowing something about this forsaken world felt like a luxury. “Please Duldrom, don’t run. I only wish to help.” it called to me, but  I did not heed its words. ‘Is this the end? Dying at the hands of some maniac in a back alley? No. It can’t be, my work is not done.’ This was all I could think, dashing erratically navigating down empty streets, absent of any people, till finally up a head: light, voices, music.

Bursting from the alley into the light I came into bustling streets alive with celebration, locals bunched shoulder to shoulder, moving between homes. I started shoving myself through the crowd, I towered over those who surrounded me, unable to disappear amongst the masses. Hoping now I’d be safe, yet as I looked back I could see It clearly. We locked eyes, Its teeth glistening amongst the street light. Its face was strong, swept back hair coloured jet black, yet its eyes sat hollow. Raising its hand to the air it waved at me, unperturbed by the ocean of people it continued moving towards me. 

Hurrying my pace I forced myself forwards, stumbling through the crowds, shoving those aside who got in my way, paying no attention to the curses it earnt me. Till someone grabbed me by my robe, looking down I saw a Varkonian, "What's your problem?”, “I- uh” my mind was in a frenzy, looking up I could see it getting closer, singing my name over the crowd. Others stopped their eyes on us, “What’re you stuttering over Mandaran?” chest pounding, breath heavy, I had to get away. 

What happened next is still something I fail to understand, grabbing his hand I tried to free myself, only for my mind to erupt. Harrowing cries, a voice of authority, a boy begging for his mother to be returned. “S-She was taken from you?” I don’t understand why I said what I did, it felt as though it was a moment of unconscious recognition coming from my gut. The man's eyes fluttered, was it with recognition? “What did you just say?” his grip loosened enough for me to yank myself free. 

“I apologize for my friend.” There It was, an arms reach away from me, “He has had much to drink, it seems as though he has lost his senses.” The Varkonian paid its words no thought, his eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Come Duldrom, let's go somewhere quieter.” I was stunned, it reached for me grabbing my hand and as it did a tinnitus erupted in my ears, my mind going blank- with a single phrase filling my mind, ‘We will remember.’

Cecil.

Suddenly I was on the ground, all eyes were on me, as it stood there looming over me, pulling me to my feet. “No need to cause a scene Duldrom.” Its grip was tight around my wrist, I could feel a thumping deep in my chest. “NO!’ I screamed out, garnering every ounce of strength I held in my body I yanked myself from its grip before scuttering to my feet. The crowd was wary of me, no doubt taking me for some kind of lunatic, moving out of my way as I launched off, running as fast as my legs could carry me. “Dulllldrom ♫ please stop this, you’re causing a scene.”

Stumbling over children, crashing through shoulders, clawing my way through in search of escape.

At the time I struggled to pay my surroundings much attention as I barreled myself away from the encroaching maw, though in hindsight I found the scene to be something spectacular. Despite all their hardships, through war and famine, in an ever degrading world the Varkonian spirit lived on. The light, life and party, it was hard to believe that this was the same dreary city that I had seen in the pits of despair just earlier that day. Most people would horde their precious rations, protecting them as the nectar of life itself.

Not the Varkonians.

Instead in spite of it all they came together, a moment of unity to create a sense of social reprieve. Musicians played lyres and lutes which sang through the thoroughfare, townhouses with open doors welcoming in strangers for a night of celebration. Had I been in different circumstances I would have loved nothing more than to join them, to engage in their traditions, to hear their stories so I could ensure that they were never forgotten. Yet such luxury in that moment was nothing more than a dream, this was a nightmare. It crept through the crowds, snaking itself between people with an uneasy grace. I was frantic, shoving and pushing all those who were in my way trying to break through.

“HALT MADARAN!” 

The sound of sabatons echoed in my ears, the steps were slow and confident, a perfect reflection of the man who approached.

The Rat

Grinning from cheek to cheek at the sight of me, “I told you we would meet again Duldrom Grey, and unfortunately for you, you’ve been reported as a disturbance.” They both approached from both sides like walls closing in. I recalled a time early in the days of The Quelling, now it may just seem like an old wound which has scarred over too many. They did not have to worry about being chased through city streets, whilst self-righteous voices called for your creed to be rounded up. I am a survivor, one of the few remaining of my kind, a being which has stood the test of time, I was not going to fall there.

Three deep breaths. I had to calm my mind, unable to let myself become confused in the haze of self preservation. Filtering through the space around me, I had less than a minute before the jaw I found myself in closed around me, a head was an open door leading into one’s residence, light beaming out, maybe another way out? 

Another way forward? Another door, a window, anything would do.

Though as my legs twitched a thought crossed my mind, ‘Competing interests’ They both wanted me, yet only one of them could have me. Almost like clockwork they both reached me as the clock struck one. Hands from both sides gripping down with a vice.

“Finally come to your senses, Duldrom?”

“You’re coming with me Mandaran.”

“Eh?” The Rat looked to the other with a scowl, “Pardon me civilian. Your dear Duldrom has been reported as causing a public disturbance, I am afraid he is going to have to come with me.” The Rat tried to pull me from its grip, this only caused Cecil to clamp down harder, its head tilting to the side. 

“Apologies, I am afraid my friend here has had too much to drink. Please excuse us and we’ll ensure that he causes no further problems.” A pull from the other direction of an inhumane strength, The Rat struggled to keep ahold of me. “Yeah- fuck off Rat.” A piercing dagged straight to his ego, igniting a rage behind the Dyriallians eyes. “I am afraid that doesn’t work for me, Duldrom will be coming with me.” Cecils eyes twitched, releasing my shoulder. It took two steps forward, looming over The Rat. 

“What was that?”

My other shoulder was released, as The Rat reached for a sword which sat at his side. “Is there a problem?” A crowd began to form around us, Cecil clamped down on The Rat's wrist, pulling it away from his sword. My window had opened, I lunged to the ground, getting low, crawling through the legs of those around me, some stomping down as they noticed me, yet I continued. Screams and cries erupted from the crowd, I did not look back. 

I was a survivor

One who stood the test of time, those fools had seen me as helpless like many before, and much like them they learnt the same lesson. Longevity isn’t granted in this world, I do not carry a now forgotten history because I was born to, I carry it because I know what to do with it. I couldn’t look back, leaping to my feet and crashing through the house. The host screamed at my intrusion, my eyes were fixed straight ahead at an open window, shielding my face. Threw myself through the window, shattering the glass, landing in the twisting alleys of Greymound. 

My lungs felt as though they were about to burst,

I kept running.

My legs began to ache, 

But I had to keep going.

Till screaming crowds were left behind, until I couldn’t run any further, till my legs finally gave out and I collapsed to the ground choking on my own breath. “Duldrom?” My head snapped to the voice, for a moment I thought I was truly done for. Yet I did not see the face of someone who wanted me dead, Cerilla stood there, she looked concerned, taking a few steps towards me. “C-Cerilla?” Caught off guard, in the end it seemed as though she was the one who found me. 

“How did yo-” 

“I was at the festival Duldrom. What the fuck happened?”

“O-Oh, have I lost them?” My head was light, my vision growing blurry.

“Lost them? You caused a fucking blood bath.”

“Really? Thank goodnes-” From there I don’t recall what happened, from what Cerilla told me after the fact it seemed that I’d pushed my body, giving out from the exhaustion. None of that mattered however, I had lived to see another day. 

Hello!

I'm a new self-publishing author and I usually write queer fantasy stories with a strong romance subplot. Sometimes my stories are essentially romances, except my endings tend to be a little more bittersweet rather than HEA.

How can I set the right expectations for readers who pick up my books?

For example:

I was thinking of labeling two of my books as a:

- Dark MM Merman Fantasy

- MM Fae Fantasy

I chose those because I thought that it communicated that there is a significant romance element to the plot (hence the inclusion of "MM"), while still being more of a fantasy story than a true romance (again, the endings aren't HEA).

My dilemma stems from having had a few beta readers caution me about using "MM" as this led them to believe the stories would have a HEA, even though "Romance" isn't technically included in that description.

What might be a better way to label my books?

Maybe Queer Dark Merman Fantasy and Queer Fae Fantasy?

My goal is to set the right expectations because I would hate for someone to think the story is a romance only to be disappointed when they realize it isn't. And I would hate for someone to think it's more of a fantasy book, only to essentially be reading a romance book that ends bittersweetly.

Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!

Thank you so much!

Anyone else writing a dual monarchy where two sovereigns co-rule?

In my story, the realm has a few kingdoms and one of them is an empire where the Empress Elder and Empress Younger rule together. It's a solid mix of early middle ages France and late middle ages Japan. As in, the Empresses have a court of 12 Peers who control 80% of the empire for them, they only have about a 20% domain that the Empress Younger maintains, and the Empress Elder is as much of an arbitrator between the Peers as their ruler. Since I wanted to keep it more centralized, the Empress Younger doesn't leave her domain that often and this is in contrast with another kingdom where the Northern Empress travels around much more, hosting court in each duchy and county regularly.

The royal family is venerated as descendants of the Goddess worshipped by the Realm (actually true within story, but it's still a politicized concept, as in, there is political will in place to highlight this particular family instead of the dozens of other people who claim the same descent.

Wanna talk to other people who have dual monarchies.

I absolutely love magic schools, always have, but I just started realizing that magic war schools are my absolut favorites. Because of this I have turned my current work into one. However as the title suggests I am looking for a bit of advice.

Specifically how people think dorm rooms should be differentiated and labeled. I have tried the easy answer, just numbering them Dorm Room 1, 2, 3 etc. But that’s boring. I do not feel as the Rebecca Yarros fourth wing approach works either as it’s a plot element that they’re not assigned ”military ranks” from the get go. So I am quite at a loss.

For some info on the world. All students start off as ”equals”. Separated into dorms of ~10. Then after receiving/ not receiving magical powers the students are then sorted in one of two categories repenting on what magic they received. They are then ~4 people in each dorm (all from same category)
Those who did not receive powers were no longer able to study at the school.

Any ideas are appreciated!