A banished prince tries to avert a war he helped to cause, and in the process ends up as bodyguard to the enemy king.
Rebel Heir. In one sentence.
Yes, I’m proud of the hook. I feel like I have a right to be.
In other news, I’m well into the second draft of this project! Okay, so I say ‘well into’. What I mean is that it is moving fairly quickly. Although quick is a relative term when one is correcting a 160k word novel.
Now, I’m hoping to clip a good amount of that during this rewrite and bring it down to 110 or 120k. We’ll see how that goes. In the middle of June, I plan to take a few weeks break from writing, which means (of course) that I have to finish the second draft of Rebel Heir before the middle of June. Otherwise, I won’t relax. You can keep track of my progress on the cool sidebar thing–assuming I remember to update it.
But guyssss. *hugs self* working on the second draft of a novel is so rewarding. The story starts falling into place. Characters are slipping into their own voices. In this book especially, I had so much trouble with giving the main character’s voice the first time around. Between drafts, I figured out the problem (with help from friends) and now it is beautiful.
Would you like to meet him? My INFP banished prince, who wants to save the world and realizes he might not be able to even save himself (oooh, that could be another cool tagline).
Jethren sagged against the moldy stone and caught his breath.
“Just let me get my hands on him.” A new, growling voice bounced down the alley.
They knew so little, these dwellers in their sturdy houses, far away from the madness of kings and nightdancers who walked in shadows.
Jethren shook the ache off. At least Istyn tried an arrest instead of an assassination like the innkeeper the night before. Such fine examples of a double-faced country; jovial laughs as you handed them coin one minute, mortal enemies the next. All for what—the promise of gold for a Sadevarian head and their name in a news-hawker’s mouth?
It was sad really.
And flaming inconvenient.
Well, except when one actually wanted to catch their attention.
Jethren craned his neck for a better glimpse of the milling Thalans and stifled a faint grin.
Decent people don’t grin when they’re being assassinated, princeling.
The outer torches wavered. One narrow figure ventured a few steps into the alley—a tradesmen who’d watched the exchanges between Jethren and the tavern master from a corner and only risen when light flickered on Jethren’s fingers.
Jethren hooked his thumb around a leather trigger fastened to a cuff at his wrist. His other hand fell to the thin chain weapon wrapped loosely around his waist. No need to come down here. You’ve lost your Sadevarian murderer or spy or assassin or whatever you’ve named me. No need to lose your life too.
They were persistent, he’d give them that much. They weren’t versed in the basics of evasion and pursuit, otherwise he’d never have slipped from the crowded room without leaving several wounded behind. Still, persistent.
I’ll keep you updated on the goings on in my newsletter. I might even have more snippets over the coming weeks. But for now, I’m writing. And, in a few weeks, I might even be on the hunt for beta readers.