One Months to Release- an exclusive preview
Hi all! Hope you’re doing well.
It’s been chaos around here recently! But it is with both great excitement and crippling fear that I announce that we are ONE MONTH AWAY from the release of the Whispering Depths!!!!! (Releasing 20 June 2025)
That is a crazy thing to say, especially after spending so long working on this project. I’ve had these stories as a part of my life for years now, and to have them finally out in the world is an amazing thing. The story is finished, and it’s only minor tweaks and grammatical errors/typos that will be changed now. It’s painful not to be able to make any more changes, but I have worked so hard on this, and I think it’s as good a debut as any author could hope for.
The story is currently on draft 12 (twelve!). This book has been written, re-written, and re-re-written so many times, it’s honestly hard to believe it’s finally finished.
That being said, we have a few opportunities for you to get involved and win FREE prizes!
We are still accepting ARC team applications! If you want to read the book for FREE, BEFORE RELEASE, and leave us an amazon review, you can do so here.
If you want to go into the draw to win a SIGNED COPY, of the book, we’re running a raffle over on Instagram. Just share and comment on one of our most recent posts and you’ll go in the pool. The prizes will be drawn on release day, so head on over and get excited!
Now, to whet your appetite, we have the exclusive chance to show you Chapter 1 of the Whispering Depths. You may have read an older version of this chapter, but this is the final edition that will appear in the book on launch day.
I hope you enjoy, be sure to sign up for our ARC team and enter our instagram raffle!
Chapter 1
Water soaked Arno’s boots as he stepped onto the glistening deck of the fisher’s boat. The sea seeped in, so cold it seemed to freeze him in place. He tried not to show his discomfort, though he saw the corners of his Uncle’s beard curl in a faint laugh.
“Are you ready for your first day, boy? This is a lot of responsibility.” his Uncle, Talus, turned to him.
“Of course, Uncle. You can rely on me.”
“Good.” The old man huffed as he stomped away over the deck. “You’re almost a man grown now, and I won’t be able to work forever. You’ll take over from me when I am too old to man the ship. And to do that, you will need to learn. No more scrubbing pots and bearing cups for you.”
Arno’s heart fluttered in his chest. He’d been awaiting the day he could finally go out beyond the port, finally taste freedom.
“Uncle?” He asked.
“Hmm?”
“How far out are we going? Will we see Archos, or the southern isles?”
“Arno.” Talus sighed. “I know how you feel, boy, but this is dangerous speak. We will go out to the reef and back, no further. We have far more freedom than most other slaves, at least as much as our Masters allow. Be content and speak no more of this.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Good. Now come, we’ve duties to attend to.”
Arno admired the intricate craftsmanship of the vessel as he walked the long deck. When he was a young boy, he and his friends had always gathered to watch the ships pulling into port, inventing stories about the dashing adventurers and terrifying pirates that crewed them, but only ever from the stoney heights of the Andian wall, towering over the bay.
Now that he stood aboard, it took his breath away. The ship was well above one hundred and fifty feet from bow to aft, Arno guessed.
A small detail caught his eye, as he strode the deck. Something so small that it could so easily have been overlooked. A line of rope, fixed to a beam in a passage-man’s hitch. Only, it was wrong. The fitting was too loose, the rope would come free, or be frayed when it pulled taut.
Arno unwound the hitch, retracing the knot and securing the rope in place, pulling tight to remove the slack.
He turned back to follow his Uncle, and saw the man standing, a faint smile playing beneath his greying beard.
“That’s good work, boy. I see you’ve been listening.”
He felt the pride growing in his chest, a warmth spreading over his heart.
“Only when you say something interesting, Uncle.” He smiled back, stepping over crabbing nets and fishing lines as he followed his Uncle to the back of the ship, and down the narrow steps leading below deck.
He staggered for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust in the dark.
The pair passed sailors and fishers alike, all coming to attention and greeting his Uncle as they passed.
“Cap’n, sir!” One pair sprung to their feet, abandoning their hand of cards.
“Relax, sailors.” Talus waved his hand, signalling them to return to their game.
Further in, two burly men sat on crude wooden stools, sharpening a pair of bearded axes, not trying to hide their dirty looks as the boy passed. He knew they were not guards, and held their spiteful gaze. He would not allow them to push him down.
“Southerners?” Arno whispered once they were out of earshot.
“Yes.”
“What are they doing here?”
“The Masters have employed them for our journey.”
“Employed them for what?”
“Security, in case of pirates. Or to oversee us, to ensure we don’t flee.”
Arno had grown accustomed to the foreigners wandering the slums of Oenares, looking for trouble.
Finally they reached their sleeping quarters, if they could be called that. Two thin scraps of fabric stretched out on the floor, sullied and withered.
Arno couldn’t conceal a loud sigh of disappointment, though he wasn’t surprised. They were only slaves, after all.
His Uncle turned. “Careful boy. The Masters will not be as lenient as I am if they hear such disrespect.”
“What disrespect Uncle? I was only breathing.” Arno looked to the ground, trying to hide his displeasure. His Uncle put his hand on Arno’s shoulder. Arno could remember when he was a boy, how tall his Uncle had seemed, reaching down to tousle his hair. They were almost equal in height now, and Talus no longer had to stoop to grasp him by the shoulder.
“I know. But the Masters will not see it that way. Please, Arno. Just remain quiet until we are at sea.” He removed his hand.
“Alright Uncle, I’ll try.” The memories of vicious beatings and hungry nights lingered in his mind.
He lay down his small bag of belongings next to his bed of shabby fabric. All he owned were a pair of worn boots, a spare tunic, and an old belt of fraying leather.
“Arno.”
“Hmm?”
“I want you to have this.” His Uncle held a thin sword in his hands, secured in a worn leather sheath. He gripped the wooden handle and pulled.
The blade had spots of rust forming on its surface, and the metal had grown dull with time. A thin patina of green corrosion was forming over the handguard, small flecks of bright bronze still holding their shine in the candlelight of the cabin interior.
It was lighter than he had expected, in his grip, and he moved it from hand to hand to feel its weight and balance. It fit perfectly in his hand, as if it were designed for him, and him alone.
“You’re a man now, and the sea can be a dangerous place. You remember the forms I taught you?”
He still gazed into the dull grey of the metal. This old sword would be worth more than everything he owned combined.
He held it out, brandishing it as though an opponent stood before him.
He moved through a series of basic swings, attacking and defending, feeling it flow through the air, feeling its weight shift as he swung.
He remembered countless nights spent learning with his Uncle, huddled together in their small hut beneath the Ward Wall, where the guards would not see. Nights spent reading, teaching, practicing, and, on occasion, fighting. His knuckles still stung where his Uncle had battered them with his crude wooden swords, when Arno had left his guard open.
“Good.” Talus said, pulling Arno from his memories. “I expect you to take care of that, boy. It was once mine, when I was your age.”
“When you were my age? It should have rusted to dust by now.”
“Why did the Gods curse me with you?” Talus shook his head, shoving his nephew as the two laughed. Arno sheathed the dull blade, fixing it to his belt, and the two of them made their way back through the underbelly of the ship. Past the southern mercenaries, they pushed themselves through the hatch leading into the light of the early morning sun.
Sailors bustled around them, tying ropes and hauling cargo. The uncountable barrels were slowly filling the great belly of the wooden behemoth, readying for their departure. As he walked he saw a fellow sailor stumble as he carried a crate of cargo, his foot caught on a stray line.
Arno rushed forward, catching the man by the back, steadying him. He took the other end of the crate in his grasp, helping the man to place it down amidst the others.
The man gave a stern nod as they placed it down, which Arno returned, before hurrying off to fetch more cargo.
As Arno moved to follow, he saw a bronze gleam cut through the rushed crowd of the Oenareen port, as a trio of broad figures pushed past, their shining armour glinting in the golden sunlight. The leader of the men was a guard Arno was all too familiar with.
Every slave in the Grey Ward would know Za’aron. Za’aron the Lasher. Za’aron the Bloodhound. Za’aron the Cruel.
His thin, malicious lips seemed perpetually pursed above the tight leather strap that affixed his helmet. Arno felt the urge to duck behind a barrel, an instinct to flee or hide, though he hadn’t done anything to warrant the guards’ wrath.
Not yet, at least.
Even idly strolling across the docks Arno could see the hatred swirling in his mind. The cruel sneer at all those beneath him, the disdain for the lowly fishers and shipwrights.
He stomped his way up their gangplank, completely disregarding the objections of their shipmasters and mates. Arno doubted the man even noticed him as he cut past, straight for Talus.
The guard stood before his Uncle, barking orders. Talus stood firm, daring not to move. He was furious, Arno could tell, though hid it well from the golden guard.
Za’aron turned, his beady, glaring eyes scanning over the crew, searching. For a moment, Arno was sure the man’s gaze would fall on him, that the guard would finally see him, and drag him away to some horrific fate. But Za’aron did not seem even to notice him as his eyes swept the deck.
There. The guard froze, his gaze fixed on a single figure, a long cloak draped about their shoulders, a hood pulled low to hide their face. Arno would never have noticed them. There were countless figures on a busy dock, and one stranger in a cloak was of no importance to him.
Za’aron stormed through the crowd, making for the figure. Arno watched as the hooded man turned to see the commotion, just a moment too late. Za’aron’s gloved hands caught the figure by the neck, seconds before the man could flee. The hooded man thrashed and fought, but the guards’ grip was iron, and the other two guards, clad in bronze, swords brandished, moved to hold the man down.
He was forced to his knees, his hood ripped back, revealing the sunken eyes and iron collar that lay beneath.
Mancos! Arno thought. He moved on instinct, placing his hand on the hilt of his new sword, before stopping himself.
There was nothing he could do.
By the Gods, you fool, what have you done? Mancos caught his eye, sweat pouring from his brow. Arno could see the panic, the terror, writ across his face.
“This man,” Za’aron proclaimed, loud enough for the entire dock to hear, “has betrayed his Masters. He has betrayed the natural order of the Empire, and he has defied the Gods by fleeing. Let it be known what happens to runaways, and let it be known that the darkest pits of Fo’Valad await him!”
Za’aron reached down, plucking the iron collar from around Mancos’ neck. The slave writhed and cried, pleading with the guards. He caught Arno’s eyes, begging for aid.
But Arno could do nothing. He could not fight the guards alone, and he knew better than defy them. He held the man’s gaze, whispering a silent apology, before Za’aron’s blade cleaved down, biting into the exposed flesh of the man’s neck.
Arno watched as the light behind Mancos’ eyes died, blood soaking into the coarse wood of the fishers’ deck.
Za’aron plucked the man’s head from the deck, brandishing it on high.
Arno heard a handful of cheers and cries, merchant sailors, guards, or noblemen cheering for the valiant Za’aron, the glittering guard that upheld their order. The slaves simply stood and stared.
They knew better than to cry out, but no slave living would ever cheer for a man such as Za’aron.
Mancos’ eyes remained open, staring vacantly as Za’aron brandished it. Arno could not tear away his gaze.
Talus placed his hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
“Look away, boy. There’s nothing we can do, and we’ve duties to attend to.”
“Y-yes Uncle.” Arno followed, turning back to glare at Za’aron, standing high above the cheering citizens, still parading the bloodied head as if it were some prize.
He quieted his burning heart, and turned away.
Talus led Arno up to the quarter deck. They moved to the tiller, and the older man took command of the ship.
Though he may have been a slave, many of the Masters trusted their most loyal servants to captain their ships, or at least trusted that they feared them enough to remain loyal.
Talus had been serving the family of Master Quotar his entire life, and now proudly captained his own fishing vessel.
The masts were folded up, since there was little wind this particular morning, and the oars were pushed out into position. All of a sudden, Arno felt the wooden deck lurch beneath him, and they were moving away from the dock.
He turned and looked at the city behind him. Even if only for a few days, he felt the shadow of the Empire ease. Something he’d never felt before.
His entire life, the Masters, the Empire, all of the dangers were shrinking in the distance with the red and brown stone walls of the city he was leaving behind, swept up by the growing sea between them.
That’s all for this week folks! I’ll be sure to update you all on news leading up to the launch, and I hope you enjoyed our preview of Chapter 1. If you want to check out the book, you can find it on Amazon, and you can subscribe to the blog for more short stories, announcements, and news.
As always, thanks so much for reading, I’ll see you next time!
