TheTaintedOne
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I need help with Chapter One of my story. Previously, there was an issue with the reader getting into the story from the transition from third person to first person. Before, they were different chapters, but now I tried to sharpen the transition while putting them in one chapter. Even add a mystery to the first part of the scene where I hid the name of the 'warrior' to stop readers from getting into that character and understanding that it was just a dream.
Any suggestions would be appreciated for me to smoothen the transition, as the first scene is a dream of death, and the second is one that the main protagonist is having. Note: Prologue is written in the third person.
The ending would be rewritten, which was not the focus of the edit. It's a slow burn, and I wanted the reader to immerse themselves in the character's feeling and situation... it was intentional from my side to have those 'words'. My writing style is similar to authors like Patrick Rothfuss and George R. R. Martin... immersive, as they were the first authors whose novels I read. And the dark theme is just my way of writing it.
Thank you for reading it so far.
www.scribblehub.com
Battlefield groaned beneath the weight of the dead and dying. Blood, thick as molten copper, seeped into the earth until the very soil turned black with it, stretching beyond sight like a sea of spilled ink. The air hung heavy with the stench of torn flesh and voided bowels, while smoke from distant pyres coiled skyward, choking what little light remained of the dying day. Ravens circled overhead, their harsh cries cutting through the silence between steel's song, patient as death itself.
In the heart of this carnage, a warrior stood motionless. Eyes like burning coals swept the field with grim purpose, taking measure of what remained, the last dregs of a battle that had devoured armies. Blackmail hung loose upon his frame, each rent and dent speaking of blows that should have felled him. His breath came ragged, burning his throat with each pull of putrid air. Blood traced a path down his cheek; he wiped it with the back of his gauntlet, pretending not to see how his fingers trembled.
Beside him, a woman swayed on unsteady legs. Dirt and gore streaked her pale face, while golden hair hung matted against shoulders clad in battered silver plate. Yet her eyes burned fierce as winter stars, that piercing blue that had never bent to any man's will. She gripped her slim blade with white knuckles, the point wavering as her strength ebbed like water through cracked stone.
"Your hands are shaking," she whispered, voice barely carrying over the field's deathly quiet.
The warrior's grip tightened on his sword's leather wrapping. "So are yours."
A ghost of a smile touched her bloodied lips. "At least we’re consistent to the very end."
Across the corpse-strewn ground, something moved that should not have been. It rose tall as a bear on hind legs, encased in an obsidian plate that drank what light remained. Only its eyes showed through the helm's narrow slits—twin points of violet fire that seemed to bore into their very souls. The thing moved with terrible patience, dragging its great sword through the muck, carving furrows in the blood-soaked earth.
He knew. They all knew. The dance was nearly done.
Shadows writhed at its feet like living serpents, and even the ravens fell silent, as if the very air recoiled from its presence.
"He grows stronger." The woman's voice cracked with exhaustion. Her fingers found his arm, seeking warmth in this place of death. "He’s... too strong for us."
The warrior's jaw clenched, eyes never leaving their foe. His mind worked furiously, seeking some advantage, some forgotten strategy that might turn the tide. But the truth gnawed at the edges of his thoughts: there was no strategy. No last-minute plan. They had been outmatched from the beginning, and now they were standing at the edge of the abyss.
"Nothing lives forever," he said, though the words tasted of ash. Behind his steady voice lay weariness that cut deeper than any blade. Still, he would not yield. Not while she breathed.
The figure halted, tilting its helmed head in mockery. When it spoke, its voice ground like millstones, each word dripping with malice. "You think you can still fight me, boy? Your kind did mistake stubbornness for strength. Look upon their courage now." A gauntleted hand swept toward the fallen. "See how their hope serves them."
The warrior said nothing. Instead, he drew breath deep into burning lungs, forcing himself past the fire in his ribs, past the wound that bled freely beneath his mail. He could feel his life seeping away with each heartbeat, pooling in his boots. Time. That was all he had left to spend.
The woman stumbled, nearly falling. He caught her eye, concern flickering in those burning depths. She steadied herself, raising her blade again, pale light dancing weakly around her fingertips.
"Stay back, Valeria." Her name broke on his lips like a prayer. "I will hold him back a little longer."
She seized his arm, fingers digging through steel rings. "Not this time." Steel rang in her voice despite her exhaustion. "Together, or not at all."
"Valeria—"
"I'll not watch you die alone." The love in her eyes made his heart clench like a fist.
With a roar that shook the very ground, the figure lunged forward. Its massive blade swept down in a killing arc, sending dirt and gore flying. The warrior moved faster than his battered body should have allowed, his own steel rising to meet the blow. The impact traveled through bone and sinew, nearly driving him to his knees. Yet he held, teeth grinding against the strain.
Lightning crackled around him, ancient power answering his desperate call. Red bolts raced along his blade's edge as he channeled what little strength remained. He twisted away from the creature's path, his point scraping across an obsidian plate, leaving a shallow score that wept shadow instead of blood.
But the thing was swift, too swift for something so massive. It swung again, and he threw himself backward, the great sword's edge missing his throat by a hair's breadth.
The magic drained him like opened veins. Each spark cost him precious strength he could not spare. His breathing grew labored, each gasp coming slower than the last.
"Look out!" Valeria's cry split the air. Light erupted from her palm, golden spears materializing to slam into the creature's chest. It staggered as her magic pierced its dark armor, roaring in pain and fury. But still it stood.
"Keep at it!" she urged, though color fled her face with each spell cast. She was burning herself hollow, spending reserves that were already gone.
The warrior pressed his advantage, lightning crackling beneath his feet as he blinked across the field. His blade moved in killing patterns, seeking gaps in the creature's guard. But that massive sword was always there to meet him, each clash sending sparks flying, the sound echoing across the empty battlefield.
His swordwork was precise and deadly, every cut and thrust speaking of years spent perfecting his craft. He parried high, ducked low, struck again with calculated fury. Yet the creature was relentless, its great blade falling like hammer blows that made the ground tremble beneath their feet.
They danced their deadly dance, two figures locked in combat while death watched and waited for one. The warrior's body screamed for rest, for mercy, but he could not stop. Would not stop. He had to hold on a little longer for help. For her.
His exhausted flesh betrayed him at last.
The crushing blow took him in the ribs, lifting him from his feet and hurling him across the field. Pain exploded through him as bone cracked, and he tasted blood on his tongue. His vision grayed at the edges as he struggled to rise, fingers grasping for his fallen blade.
Too slow. Too late.
The creature loomed over him, great sword raised for the killing stroke. His weapon lay beyond reach, lost somewhere in the muck and gore.
"No!" Valeria's scream tore the air like breaking steel. She poured everything into one final spell, massive blades of pure light that hammered into their foe with terrible force. The creature reeled, violet eyes flaring with pain and rage.
But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
The warrior tried to stand, but his legs would not answer. The world faded around its edges as pain and exhaustion claimed their due. Through blurring sight, he saw her running toward him, her face twisted with desperate denial.
He reached for her, fingers stretching across the distance between them. In that moment, all the words never spoken crashed through his mind. All the mornings they would never see.
"Valeria..." Her name whispered from his lips like a prayer, like farewell.
"Einar!" Her voice carried all the love and rage in the world.
The sword fell like judgment.
His last thought was of her smile, bright as summer dawn.
Then darkness—
"AHHHH!"
The scream ripped from my throat as phantom steel tore through my chest, my body convulsing as I crashed back into waking terror. The mattress creaked as I thrashed against sheets turned to burial shrouds, sweat-soaked linen twisting around limbs that remembered battles they had never fought. My heart hammered against ribs with such violence I feared it might crack bone, each beat echoing retreat horns and clashing steel.
"Gods..." The word scraped past my lips, thick with the taste of blood that was not there.
For long moments, the battlefield would not release me. The stench of death filled my lungs, that mixture of gore and voided bowels no man forgets once known. Soldiers' screams pierced the air with sharp clarity, not as dream echoes but as if men died beside me still. Despair pressed down like a stone upon my chest, and that cursed wound in my side burned with such fire that bile rose in my throat.
These were no mere dreams. Dreams fade with morning light, becoming distant as fog over water. But these memories only sharpened with each passing night, cutting deeper, becoming more real than the life I was meant to live. Each death was clearer than the last.
And always, always, there was her face. Valeria. Those crystal blue eyes were wide with terror as she screamed my name, golden hair matted with blood and mud, reaching for me as darkness dragged me down. I died with her name on my lips, tasting regret instead of iron.
I lurched upright, trembling hand flying to my side. Part of me expected torn flesh and hot blood, but found only smooth skin beneath my soaked nightshirt. Still, I pulled the cloth up, fingers probing desperately where moments before I had felt steel part flesh.
A broken laugh escaped my lips. "Still whole... Still here."
But where was here? The room felt wrong, foreign, like wearing another man's clothes. The rough walls of my home wavered, threatening to become army tents. I blinked hard, forcing my sight to clear. Slowly, reality crept back. Distant rustle of leaves. Familiar creak of old wood. Morning air through the window, carrying scents of pine and damp earth.
I breathed deep, letting forest smells wash over me. Different from battlefield stench. Real. This was real.
"Just a dream," I muttered, pressing palms against my eyes until colors burst behind the lids. "Just another bloody dream."
Yet my body betrayed the lie. My muscles remembered armor I had never worn. My hands ached for the grip of swords I had never held. And my heart bore wounds from a woman I had never met.
The visions began months ago, when I tried to force my magic awake. Such foolishness. I thought it simple, just reach in and grasp that rare power like fruit from a tree. Instead, I nearly killed myself. Scorch marks still stained the ground where I collapsed, blood trickling from nose and ears.
Now these memories invaded my sleep like a plague. Each night they grew sharper, clearer. No longer fragments glimpsed through fog, but scenes that cut deeper than any blade. And they always ended with her.
"Valeria." Her name slipped unbidden from my lips. I clamped my mouth shut, but too late. The name hung in air like smoke, heavy with longing and something dangerous.
My fist slammed the mattress. I did not know her. Could not know her. Yet...
She lived in my very bones, as if her name had been carved into my heart's core. A stranger, yet I knew her intimately. The exact shade her eyes became when she smiled, like clear sky after storm. How she bit her lip when frustrated or deep in thought. The melody of her laugh on quiet mornings. The fierce light that blazed in her gaze before battle.
I lurched to my feet, pacing like a caged wolf. "Stop it," I snarled at myself. "She is not real. None of it is real."
My reflection caught my eye as I stalked past the small mirror. Wild-eyed, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, looking more madman than youth. Those crimson eyes stared back—eyes that had seen too much, lost too much.
A soft knock shattered my thoughts like a hammer through glass. I spun toward the door, body dropping into a fighting stance I had never learned. My heart lurched against my ribs.
"Einar?" Mother’s voice drifted through the wood, warm and familiar, yet something in its gentle firmness made my chest tighten. "Are you well?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but my tongue felt like lead. Silence stretched, broken only by ragged breathing and soft creak of floorboards as she shifted beyond the door.
"Einar?" Concern now, sharp as a blade. "Are you awake?"
What a question. I wanted to laugh, but it would have come too bitterly. Instead, I swallowed hard, tasting iron and wondering if it was real or just another ghost from that distant field.
"Yes, Mother," I finally croaked, voice rough as gravel. "I am coming. Just... give me a moment."
"Take your time, dear." Her footsteps retreated down the hall, each soft thud growing fainter until silence returned.
I pushed from the wall, every movement feeling like dragging chains. My muscles screamed, remembering wounds that had never existed, battles I had never fought. The tunic across my chair might have been plate mail for how heavy it felt as I pulled it on.
In the mirror, a young man of eighteen winters looked back, but those eyes belonged to someone older. Someone who had loved and lost, who had died with regret in his heart.
I turned away, but not before seeing how my hands still shook. Not with fear, that would have been simpler. They shook with memory of a blade never gripped, reaching for love never known.
"Just dreams," I whispered, straightening my tunic with unsteady fingers.
I reached for the door latch, ready to face another day of pretending normalcy, when a voice drifted through the wood. Soft. Familiar.
"Einar..."
My blood turned to ice. That voice. Sweet as summer rain, yet edged with the same desperate terror I knew so well.
"Einar!"
The scream that followed was torn from a throat raw with anguish, just as it had been on that distant field when he died.
Just as it had been when she watched him die.
In the heart of this carnage, a warrior stood motionless. Eyes like burning coals swept the field with grim purpose, taking measure of what remained, the last dregs of a battle that had devoured armies. Blackmail hung loose upon his frame, each rent and dent speaking of blows that should have felled him. His breath came ragged, burning his throat with each pull of putrid air. Blood traced a path down his cheek; he wiped it with the back of his gauntlet, pretending not to see how his fingers trembled.
Beside him, a woman swayed on unsteady legs. Dirt and gore streaked her pale face, while golden hair hung matted against shoulders clad in battered silver plate. Yet her eyes burned fierce as winter stars, that piercing blue that had never bent to any man's will. She gripped her slim blade with white knuckles, the point wavering as her strength ebbed like water through cracked stone.
"Your hands are shaking," she whispered, voice barely carrying over the field's deathly quiet.
The warrior's grip tightened on his sword's leather wrapping. "So are yours."
A ghost of a smile touched her bloodied lips. "At least we’re consistent to the very end."
Across the corpse-strewn ground, something moved that should not have been. It rose tall as a bear on hind legs, encased in an obsidian plate that drank what light remained. Only its eyes showed through the helm's narrow slits—twin points of violet fire that seemed to bore into their very souls. The thing moved with terrible patience, dragging its great sword through the muck, carving furrows in the blood-soaked earth.
He knew. They all knew. The dance was nearly done.
Shadows writhed at its feet like living serpents, and even the ravens fell silent, as if the very air recoiled from its presence.
"He grows stronger." The woman's voice cracked with exhaustion. Her fingers found his arm, seeking warmth in this place of death. "He’s... too strong for us."
The warrior's jaw clenched, eyes never leaving their foe. His mind worked furiously, seeking some advantage, some forgotten strategy that might turn the tide. But the truth gnawed at the edges of his thoughts: there was no strategy. No last-minute plan. They had been outmatched from the beginning, and now they were standing at the edge of the abyss.
"Nothing lives forever," he said, though the words tasted of ash. Behind his steady voice lay weariness that cut deeper than any blade. Still, he would not yield. Not while she breathed.
The figure halted, tilting its helmed head in mockery. When it spoke, its voice ground like millstones, each word dripping with malice. "You think you can still fight me, boy? Your kind did mistake stubbornness for strength. Look upon their courage now." A gauntleted hand swept toward the fallen. "See how their hope serves them."
The warrior said nothing. Instead, he drew breath deep into burning lungs, forcing himself past the fire in his ribs, past the wound that bled freely beneath his mail. He could feel his life seeping away with each heartbeat, pooling in his boots. Time. That was all he had left to spend.
The woman stumbled, nearly falling. He caught her eye, concern flickering in those burning depths. She steadied herself, raising her blade again, pale light dancing weakly around her fingertips.
"Stay back, Valeria." Her name broke on his lips like a prayer. "I will hold him back a little longer."
She seized his arm, fingers digging through steel rings. "Not this time." Steel rang in her voice despite her exhaustion. "Together, or not at all."
"Valeria—"
"I'll not watch you die alone." The love in her eyes made his heart clench like a fist.
With a roar that shook the very ground, the figure lunged forward. Its massive blade swept down in a killing arc, sending dirt and gore flying. The warrior moved faster than his battered body should have allowed, his own steel rising to meet the blow. The impact traveled through bone and sinew, nearly driving him to his knees. Yet he held, teeth grinding against the strain.
Lightning crackled around him, ancient power answering his desperate call. Red bolts raced along his blade's edge as he channeled what little strength remained. He twisted away from the creature's path, his point scraping across an obsidian plate, leaving a shallow score that wept shadow instead of blood.
But the thing was swift, too swift for something so massive. It swung again, and he threw himself backward, the great sword's edge missing his throat by a hair's breadth.
The magic drained him like opened veins. Each spark cost him precious strength he could not spare. His breathing grew labored, each gasp coming slower than the last.
"Look out!" Valeria's cry split the air. Light erupted from her palm, golden spears materializing to slam into the creature's chest. It staggered as her magic pierced its dark armor, roaring in pain and fury. But still it stood.
"Keep at it!" she urged, though color fled her face with each spell cast. She was burning herself hollow, spending reserves that were already gone.
The warrior pressed his advantage, lightning crackling beneath his feet as he blinked across the field. His blade moved in killing patterns, seeking gaps in the creature's guard. But that massive sword was always there to meet him, each clash sending sparks flying, the sound echoing across the empty battlefield.
His swordwork was precise and deadly, every cut and thrust speaking of years spent perfecting his craft. He parried high, ducked low, struck again with calculated fury. Yet the creature was relentless, its great blade falling like hammer blows that made the ground tremble beneath their feet.
They danced their deadly dance, two figures locked in combat while death watched and waited for one. The warrior's body screamed for rest, for mercy, but he could not stop. Would not stop. He had to hold on a little longer for help. For her.
His exhausted flesh betrayed him at last.
The crushing blow took him in the ribs, lifting him from his feet and hurling him across the field. Pain exploded through him as bone cracked, and he tasted blood on his tongue. His vision grayed at the edges as he struggled to rise, fingers grasping for his fallen blade.
Too slow. Too late.
The creature loomed over him, great sword raised for the killing stroke. His weapon lay beyond reach, lost somewhere in the muck and gore.
"No!" Valeria's scream tore the air like breaking steel. She poured everything into one final spell, massive blades of pure light that hammered into their foe with terrible force. The creature reeled, violet eyes flaring with pain and rage.
But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
The warrior tried to stand, but his legs would not answer. The world faded around its edges as pain and exhaustion claimed their due. Through blurring sight, he saw her running toward him, her face twisted with desperate denial.
He reached for her, fingers stretching across the distance between them. In that moment, all the words never spoken crashed through his mind. All the mornings they would never see.
"Valeria..." Her name whispered from his lips like a prayer, like farewell.
"Einar!" Her voice carried all the love and rage in the world.
The sword fell like judgment.
His last thought was of her smile, bright as summer dawn.
Then darkness—
"AHHHH!"
The scream ripped from my throat as phantom steel tore through my chest, my body convulsing as I crashed back into waking terror. The mattress creaked as I thrashed against sheets turned to burial shrouds, sweat-soaked linen twisting around limbs that remembered battles they had never fought. My heart hammered against ribs with such violence I feared it might crack bone, each beat echoing retreat horns and clashing steel.
"Gods..." The word scraped past my lips, thick with the taste of blood that was not there.
For long moments, the battlefield would not release me. The stench of death filled my lungs, that mixture of gore and voided bowels no man forgets once known. Soldiers' screams pierced the air with sharp clarity, not as dream echoes but as if men died beside me still. Despair pressed down like a stone upon my chest, and that cursed wound in my side burned with such fire that bile rose in my throat.
These were no mere dreams. Dreams fade with morning light, becoming distant as fog over water. But these memories only sharpened with each passing night, cutting deeper, becoming more real than the life I was meant to live. Each death was clearer than the last.
And always, always, there was her face. Valeria. Those crystal blue eyes were wide with terror as she screamed my name, golden hair matted with blood and mud, reaching for me as darkness dragged me down. I died with her name on my lips, tasting regret instead of iron.
I lurched upright, trembling hand flying to my side. Part of me expected torn flesh and hot blood, but found only smooth skin beneath my soaked nightshirt. Still, I pulled the cloth up, fingers probing desperately where moments before I had felt steel part flesh.
A broken laugh escaped my lips. "Still whole... Still here."
But where was here? The room felt wrong, foreign, like wearing another man's clothes. The rough walls of my home wavered, threatening to become army tents. I blinked hard, forcing my sight to clear. Slowly, reality crept back. Distant rustle of leaves. Familiar creak of old wood. Morning air through the window, carrying scents of pine and damp earth.
I breathed deep, letting forest smells wash over me. Different from battlefield stench. Real. This was real.
"Just a dream," I muttered, pressing palms against my eyes until colors burst behind the lids. "Just another bloody dream."
Yet my body betrayed the lie. My muscles remembered armor I had never worn. My hands ached for the grip of swords I had never held. And my heart bore wounds from a woman I had never met.
The visions began months ago, when I tried to force my magic awake. Such foolishness. I thought it simple, just reach in and grasp that rare power like fruit from a tree. Instead, I nearly killed myself. Scorch marks still stained the ground where I collapsed, blood trickling from nose and ears.
Now these memories invaded my sleep like a plague. Each night they grew sharper, clearer. No longer fragments glimpsed through fog, but scenes that cut deeper than any blade. And they always ended with her.
"Valeria." Her name slipped unbidden from my lips. I clamped my mouth shut, but too late. The name hung in air like smoke, heavy with longing and something dangerous.
My fist slammed the mattress. I did not know her. Could not know her. Yet...
She lived in my very bones, as if her name had been carved into my heart's core. A stranger, yet I knew her intimately. The exact shade her eyes became when she smiled, like clear sky after storm. How she bit her lip when frustrated or deep in thought. The melody of her laugh on quiet mornings. The fierce light that blazed in her gaze before battle.
I lurched to my feet, pacing like a caged wolf. "Stop it," I snarled at myself. "She is not real. None of it is real."
My reflection caught my eye as I stalked past the small mirror. Wild-eyed, hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, looking more madman than youth. Those crimson eyes stared back—eyes that had seen too much, lost too much.
A soft knock shattered my thoughts like a hammer through glass. I spun toward the door, body dropping into a fighting stance I had never learned. My heart lurched against my ribs.
"Einar?" Mother’s voice drifted through the wood, warm and familiar, yet something in its gentle firmness made my chest tighten. "Are you well?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but my tongue felt like lead. Silence stretched, broken only by ragged breathing and soft creak of floorboards as she shifted beyond the door.
"Einar?" Concern now, sharp as a blade. "Are you awake?"
What a question. I wanted to laugh, but it would have come too bitterly. Instead, I swallowed hard, tasting iron and wondering if it was real or just another ghost from that distant field.
"Yes, Mother," I finally croaked, voice rough as gravel. "I am coming. Just... give me a moment."
"Take your time, dear." Her footsteps retreated down the hall, each soft thud growing fainter until silence returned.
I pushed from the wall, every movement feeling like dragging chains. My muscles screamed, remembering wounds that had never existed, battles I had never fought. The tunic across my chair might have been plate mail for how heavy it felt as I pulled it on.
In the mirror, a young man of eighteen winters looked back, but those eyes belonged to someone older. Someone who had loved and lost, who had died with regret in his heart.
I turned away, but not before seeing how my hands still shook. Not with fear, that would have been simpler. They shook with memory of a blade never gripped, reaching for love never known.
"Just dreams," I whispered, straightening my tunic with unsteady fingers.
I reached for the door latch, ready to face another day of pretending normalcy, when a voice drifted through the wood. Soft. Familiar.
"Einar..."
My blood turned to ice. That voice. Sweet as summer rain, yet edged with the same desperate terror I knew so well.
"Einar!"
The scream that followed was torn from a throat raw with anguish, just as it had been on that distant field when he died.
Just as it had been when she watched him die.
Any suggestions would be appreciated for me to smoothen the transition, as the first scene is a dream of death, and the second is one that the main protagonist is having. Note: Prologue is written in the third person.
The ending would be rewritten, which was not the focus of the edit. It's a slow burn, and I wanted the reader to immerse themselves in the character's feeling and situation... it was intentional from my side to have those 'words'. My writing style is similar to authors like Patrick Rothfuss and George R. R. Martin... immersive, as they were the first authors whose novels I read. And the dark theme is just my way of writing it.
Thank you for reading it so far.
The Dragons Blood
'How much are you willing to sacrifice to reclaim what was never truly yours?' For centuries, the realm of mortals has sheltered safely behind a secret pact, forged when darkness reigned supreme and enslaved all of mankind. Now the pact lies shattered, broken by the very souls who foolishly...
