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There are bad characters. There are annoying characters. There are characters so poorly conceived that you begin to wonder whether the writers were deliberately striving to create the most annoying, obnoxious, irritating, asshole of a character ever conceived.

Then there is Yann from Crimson Desert.

Yann is not simply a bad character. He is an endurance test. He is the narrative equivalent of stepping in a pile of dog poo, then being asked to embark on forty missions with it stuck to your shoe. He is what happens when a game looks at the rich tapestry of fantasy fiction, noble warriors, tragic comrades, conflicted heroes, broken factions, grand betrayals, and ancient grudges, then says, “Yes, but what if we added a man who makes literally every scene worse?”

I do not say this lightly. Fiction has given us some truly dreadful people. We have endured smug sidekicks, whiny chosen ones, villains with no motivation beyond “being a bit cross”, comic relief characters who make you want to put the controller down and go outside. But Yann is special. Yann is not merely irritating. Yann appears to have been scientifically engineered to make the player hate him.

The funny thing is that Crimson Desert is full of ingredients that should make its characters work. The Greymanes have the bones of a great fantasy brotherhood. They are warriors, comrades, survivors, people bonded by battle and loss. That kind of setup should make you care. It should make every reunion feel meaningful. It should make you want to rebuild what was broken.

Then Yann arrives, usually to complain, drink, start trouble, make trouble worse, or force you into some task that feels less like a quest and more like community service assigned by a medieval probation officer. He’s like that one irritating person all your friends like for some reason but you hate with a burning firey passion.

Don’t get me wrong, of course a character can be unlikeable. That is fine. Some of the greatest characters in fiction are awful people. Villains should be vile. Antiheroes should be abrasive. Cowards, fools, liars, cheats, drunks, egotists and backstabbers all have a place in storytelling. Fiction would be dull if every character was noble, polite and emotionally well-regulated.

The issue is not that Yann is flawed. The issue is that he is not enjoyable to endure.

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A good unlikeable character gives you something in return. They might be funny. They might be fascinating. They might reveal something about the hero. They might create meaningful conflict. They might expose hypocrisy, sharpen the stakes, or force other characters into difficult choices. Even when you hate them, you understand why they belong in the story.

Yann, by contrast, feels like the game has mistaken the worst aspects of being human for personality.

He is loud, swears constantly, is reckless, needy, lazy and apparently allergic to making the player’s life easier. He’s a disgrace to the Graymanes who are supposed to be a tribe of noble heroic warriors who follow a code to do the right thing.

Yann meanwhile is the sort of man who would borrow your horse, crash it into a tavern, blame the horse, then ask you to collect six rare herbs so he can feel better about the emotional trauma of being held accountable.

What makes this worse is the volume. A small amount of Yann might have worked. In fact, used sparingly, he could have been tolerable. A drunken disaster of a warrior who causes chaos now and then? Fine. A comic irritant? Fine. A flawed comrade who eventually gets a proper redemption arc? Also fine.

But too much Yann turns irritation into resentment.

There comes a point where the player stops thinking, “This character is a scoundrel,” and starts thinking, “Why is the game/book/movie doing this to me?”

That is fatal. Once the audience feels punished by a character’s presence, the story has lost control of the relationship. The character is no longer an obstacle inside the fiction. He becomes an obstacle between the audience and the fiction.

That is why likeable characters matter.

And before anyone says, “Not every character has to be likeable,” yes, thank you, we all understand Year 9 Media Studies. The point is not that every character should be lovely. The point is that characters need to be engaging. There must be a reason to spend time with them.

Likeable does not always mean morally good. Likeable can mean charismatic. It can mean interesting. It can mean funny, tragic, competent, dangerous, mysterious, charming, or simply well-written enough that you want to see what they do next.

Darth Vader is not likeable because he is a nice man. He is likeable because he has presence. Hannibal Lecter is not likeable because he is safe company at dinner. He is likeable because he is magnetic. Joffrey Baratheon is not likeable in the traditional sense, but he is effective because every appearance sharpens the story’s tension. You hate him in the way the story wants you to hate him.

Yann inspires a different kind of hatred. Not dramatic hatred. Not plot relevant hatred. Not “I cannot wait to see this villain get what is coming to him” hatred.

He inspires real genuine hatred.

The kind of hatred you feel when your printer says it has no paper while you are looking directly at the paper in the tray. The kind of hatred you feel when a website asks you to accept cookies, reject cookies, manage cookie preferences, confirm cookie preferences, then emails you about your cookie journey. The kind of hatred that makes you stare at a screen and whisper, “Why are you like this?”

The tragedy is that Yann could have worked. The archetype is not broken. A drunken, reckless companion can be brilliant when handled properly. Give him wit. Give him hidden pain. Give him one glorious moment where the mask drops and you realise why the others still keep him around. Give him loyalty beneath the mess. Give him a scene where he pays the price for his flaws. Give the player a reason to think, “You absolute idiot, but fine, I understand you.”

Instead, Yann is less a brother-in-arms and more a walking HR incident in leather armour. He drags the player through boring side quests and in every single instance he then buggers off to leave you to finish the mess he started. I’m sure we’ve all encountered people like that in real life. The last thing I want is to have to deal with them in my entertainment.

Memorable is not the same as good.

This matters beyond Crimson Desert, because Yann is a perfect example of a wider problem in fiction: confusing “memorable” with “good.”

Yes, audiences remember annoying characters. But remembering someone because they made you miserable is not the same as loving to hate them. Scrappy-Doo is memorable. Jar Jar Binks is memorable. Many people would still cheerfully lock them into a fantasy cupboard and throw the key into Mount Doom.

Writers often talk about flaws as though flaws themselves create depth. They do not. A flaw is only interesting when it generates meaningful consequences. Cowardice matters when it costs someone. Arrogance matters when it blinds a hero. Greed matters when it ruins trust. Selfishness matters when it damages relationships.

But if a character’s flaws simply create repetitive inconvenience, the audience does not see depth. They see a walking pain in the ass. That is Yann.

He does not feel like a man whose flaws reveal the broken soul of a fallen warrior brotherhood. Instead he’s just an annoying prick who gives it large and yet in reality is a little wuss. Even in the battles Yann stabs his foes in the back and then runs away. Some noble warrior he is…

Characters are the emotional doorway into fiction. We can forgive messy plots if we love the cast. We can forgive clunky worldbuilding if the relationships work. We can forgive slow pacing if the people on the page, screen, or controller are worth following. But when a character actively makes us dread continuing, the entire structure starts to creak.

This is especially true in long-form storytelling. Games, epic fantasy, streaming series, sprawling novels, all of them ask for time. A lot of time. If you are asking an audience for fifty, eighty, or one hundred hours, you had better give them characters they want to spend time with.

Yann makes you lean away. Possibly into traffic.

The lesson here is simple: make your characters flawed, but make them worth enduring. Give us villains we can fear, fools we can laugh at, cowards we can understand, disasters we can pity, rogues we can secretly enjoy, and heroes we can root for even when they get things wrong.

Do not give us Yann.

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Woods, South of York

The remnants of Morcar’s army had fled before the might of Hardrada’s forces. Many had followed their Lord back to York, but Osfrid had taken his men south, deep into the dales, and away from the city. It would only be a matter of time before the Norse army was at its walls, and sieges were not the Saxons forte. Osfrid walked through the trees, taking in the sight of his countrymen cowering amongst the trees.

His head ached; his hair was matted with blood from the axe blow that had knocked him senseless during the battle. The moans and screams of the wounded sent a shiver up his spine. No more than a hundred men had followed his lead into the countryside, which meant the bulk of the shattered army would be trapped in York.

He walked until he reached the little stream that flowed through a small glade; gratefully he cupped his hands and drank the sweet water. He cleaned his wounds and washed his face, the cold water reviving his battered body. He turned when he heard approaching footsteps. It was Acca. The young man had saved his life and had proven he was a formidable warrior in his own right.

“Milord are you alright?” the young man asked as he too splashed his face with the sweet water.

“It’s just a scratch Acca,” Osfrid replied, assuring his friend. He paused before walking over and gripping Acca’s hand. “Thank you for saving me.”

Acca smiled.

“If you keep this up lad, then I might just replace Ceadda with you, the man is getting old after all,” he joked.

“Who are you calling old? You cheeky shit.”

Ceadda laughed as he joined them in the glade. The big man was covered in cuts, and his thigh was wrapped tightly with a bandage of linen from where an axe had dug itself into his armour.

“You look awful,” Acca mocked. Despite the horror, at Fulford Gate Osfrid could not help but smile at his comrades.

Even when their Kingdom was on the brink of annihilation the men still laughed and joked.

Ceadda cuffed Acca round the head causing the young man to fall into the stream, soaking him from head to toe.

The big man roared with laughter. His laughter ended when Hunweld and Velmud entered the glade. Osfrid’s father appeared not to have suffered a scratch. His armour was clean, and no dents could be seen, his sword, on the other hand, would have to be sharpened. Several of the other survivors told of how Hunweld and his foreign friends had cut a swath through the Norse ranks before Hardrada himself had overwhelmed them.

Hunweld nodded to them as he sombrely drank from the stream. Velmud stood at his captain’s side staring into the gently flowing water.

“There are only four of my men left alive,” Hunweld growled.

The news shocked them all.

“Father, I am sorry.” Osfrid offered his condolences. The Varangians that had travelled to England had been his father’s pride and joy. Each man had been a deadly warrior, skilled in warfare like no other men he had met.

“They died holding back the Norsemen. They are the reason any of us are still alive.”

Hunweld spat onto the grass.

“It won’t be long before the Norsemen take York and then the North will be lost.”

Osfrid placed a hand reassuringly on his father’s shoulder.

“Harold will come. He has to.”

Hunweld nodded, not convinced.

“Aye, he will come, and we will drive those bastard Vikings back into the sea.”

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The next day, Osfrid led his small band of warriors west towards the old Roman road. He hoped that if Harold was coming, they would meet him there. They kept to the woodland as they went. Smoke from dozens of burning villages and towns could be seen on the horizon. The few Saxon villagers they encountered told them that the Norsemen had besieged York and that Morcar was negotiating its surrender. It came as no surprise that the opportunistic Earl would surrender so quickly, but the news from the south was a surprise. Rumours were spreading that the King was on his way North with a huge army at his back. They didn’t know whether the Normans had landed or not, the army being spoken about could have been Williams.

Osfrid and his father both believed that Harold would come eventually regardless. They decided to head to the town of Tadcaster to wait. It took another day to reach the small town, moving through enemy territory had forced them to move carefully and slowly. They had seen several Norse patrols as they went. More news reached them as they settled into the town. Tostig Godwinson was rallying support for the Norsemen from the Northumbrian lords. Many still hated the West Saxons, wanting independence from their southern brothers.

Osfrid was sharpening his sword with a whetstone when news of Driffield reached the town. Several refugees had managed to reach Tadcaster and were relieved to find their Thegn was still alive.

“What of my wife and children?” he asked the middle-aged woman standing before him. A little girl stood beside her and buried her face into her mother’s skirts.

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The woman wiped tears from her eyes.

“Lady Aerlene... I saw her fall.” She sobbed.

“A man attacked your daughter as they were running. Lady Aerlene tried to stop him, she was stabbed and she...she fell.”

Osfrid stared hard at the woman, desperately trying to find some deceit behind her words, he found nothing but sorrow.

“My children?” he whispered.

The woman shook her head, wiping away tears.

“I do not know my lord. They saved us, showed us the way to escape. I think they got away.” She said, trying to ease her Lord’s pain.

Hunweld placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and hugged him fiercely. Osfrid sobbed into his father’s embrace. His comrades stood staring in silent despair. Each of them had loved Aerlene, had risked their lives to save her, and now she was gone, snuffed out from the world like a candle at the coming of the dawn.

The pain Osfrid felt was like none he had ever felt before, it was his mother’s death magnified by a thousand. Hunweld whispered reassuringly into his son’s ear.

“Be strong lad. Be strong for your people, for your children.”

The mention of his children brought him out of his despair. His father was right. He needed to ensure his children were safe before he could mourn his beloved wife.

He looked around the room and waved at Ceadda to come over to him. The big man walked over; he still bore a slight limp from where the arrow had struck in Norway.

“My lord?” he asked cautiously.

Osfrid placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and looked him hard in the eye.

“I need you to find my children Ceadda. I would give anything to go myself, but I must fulfil my duty as Thegn and lead these people. There are sure to be many battles ahead my old friend, so promise me that you will find them and keep them safe.” Osfrid’s voice was hoarse from emotion as he spoke.

Ceadda gently placed a hand on his young master’s arm and nodded.

“I will find them lord or die in the trying. I promise.”

The more I look at what is happening in film, books and wider culture, the more obvious it becomes that the old model is failing and a glimmer of light is on the horizon.

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I went to the cinema at the weekend and it was absolutely packed. I wondered into my local bookstore and it was busy. The truth is that audiences are not bored of stories. They are not bored of films. They are not bored of books. They are desperate for something new and original.

Just look at the success of indie movies like Obsession and Backrooms. These are not films that came out of the usual Hollywood sausage factory. They were not created by a boardroom full of people trying to work out which old brand still has enough nostalgia juice left to squeeze. They came from independent creators. People who started on YouTube, made their own films, built their own audiences and proved, through sheer creativity, that people wanted what they were making.

Curry Barker and Kane Parsons are exactly the sort of creators Hollywood should be paying attention to. They built a following and that creativity and dedication has paid off. Both movies are doing gangbusters at the box office. Both had tiny budgets and are making profits on a scale that any big studio would be envious of. Audiences will turn up when something feels fresh.

Audiences are tired of nostalgia bait

For years now, Hollywood has behaved as if the safest route to success is to drag another familiar name out of storage and slap it back on the big screen. Another reboot. Another legacy sequel. Another prequel. Another “remember this?” dressed up as a bold new era.

The problem is, people are bored with that. We don’t need yet another adaptation of a Stephen King novel, we don’t want another remake of a once beloved movie.

You can throw hundreds of millions at a film. You can hire famous actors. You can flood the internet with trailers, interviews, posters and paid hype. You can build the biggest marketing campaign in the world. But none of that matters if the audience looks at the finished product and thinks, “Haven’t I seen this before?”

That is the problem facing so many big-budget movies now. They are huge, loud and expensive, but they often feel creatively tiny.

Meanwhile, smaller films like Obsession and Backrooms arrive with actual ideas behind them. They feel like someone had a vision and fought to put it on screen. They do not feel like content. They feel like stories.

An audience knows when something has been made because someone had a story to tell. They also know when something exists just because a company had an IP spreadsheet and a release slot to fill.

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Backrooms proves internet-born ideas have power

What I find fascinating about Backrooms is that it does not feel like a traditional Hollywood property at all. It feels like modern folklore.

The idea spread online as a creepy pasta because it was simple, strange and deeply unsettling. Empty rooms. Buzzing lights. Endless spaces that feel familiar and wrong at the same time. It taps into something primal. That strange fear of being lost somewhere you should not be. The Youtube videos of Backrooms built a huge following and that audience went out in droves to support the big screen version.

That is the bit the old system still struggles to understand. Independent creators are not sitting around waiting to be discovered anymore. They are out there proving themselves every day and creating an audience all on their own.

Big budgets are not the same as big ideas

When smaller indie films can generate massive returns and far more cultural excitement than enormous studio projects, the industry should probably ask itself some uncomfortable questions.

Why are audiences responding so strongly to films made for a fraction of the cost?

Why do some indie films feel more alive than productions with armies of executives, producers and brand managers behind them?

Why are creators coming from YouTube making work that feels more relevant than projects based on supposedly guaranteed IP?

The answer seems obvious to me.

Because indie creators have to rely on the one thing money cannot buy.

Unrestricted creativity. Indies can bypass and ignore the gatekeepers that so restrict the trad publishers or movie studios.

Us indies do not have endless resources. We do not have giant visual effects budgets. We do not have legacy brands doing half the work for them. They have to hook people with mood, concept, characters, tension and originality.

A lot of modern blockbusters do the opposite. They throw noise at the audience and hope nobody notices the story is crap.

Hollywood and publishers needs to take indies seriously

Hollywood studios and traditional big book publishers face the same problem and it is not a lack of money. It is a lack of courage.

There are countless talented creators out there making films, writing books, web series and strange little experiments that could become the next big thing if someone had the sense to back them properly.

Instead, the industry keeps going back to the same dry well.

That does not mean franchises should disappear. I love a good franchise as much as anyone. But they cannot be the entire diet. You cannot build a healthy entertainment industry on nostalgia alone. Eventually, the audience gets tired. Eventually, the magic wears off. Eventually, people realise they are being sold the memory of something they once loved rather than something new to love now.

The answer is not complicated.

Give new voices a shot. Back more indies. Take more risks. Stop acting as if audiences only want what they already know.

Publishing needs to learn the same lesson

Publishing faces the same gatekeeping. The same obsession with trends. The same narrow view of what is “marketable”. The same belief that a small group of people in the industry know better than the actual readers buying the books.

Meanwhile, indie authors are out there building audiences directly. They are writing the stories they want to write, finding readers, experimenting with genres and proving that the old route is not the only route.

Some indie books are rough. Of course they are. Some traditionally published books are rough too, only with a nicer cover and a bigger marketing machine behind them.

But the best indie authors understand something the industry often forgets.

Readers want a good story.

They do not care whether it came through the approved channels. They do not care whether someone in publishing decided it was fashionable. They do not care whether it ticks the current set of industry boxes.

They care whether it grabs them.

They care whether the characters live in their head.

They care whether the book gives them something they have not had before.

That is why indie matters.

It is not just a backup route. It is not a consolation prize. It is where some of the most interesting work is happening because creators are not being forced to sand off every edge before the audience gets to see it.

The future must not be an endless recycling of the past.

It needs to be the backing of people brave enough to create something new.

Leaving Typos in Your Work Is Terrible Advice

I know. I know. Another post about AI.

Believe me, I am as tired of the subject as everyone else. At this point, the conversation around AI in writing has become exhausting, circular, and increasingly ridiculous. But every so often, someone says something so baffling that it feels impossible not to comment.

I recently read a Note suggesting that writers should leave typos in their work to prove it was not written by AI. Honestly, that might be one of the worst pieces of writing advice I have ever seen.

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For years, one of the most common criticisms aimed at indie books has been that too many of them contain spelling mistakes, grammar issues, formatting errors, or signs that they needed another edit before publication. Anyone who has been around indie publishing for long enough has heard it. Sometimes fairly, sometimes unfairly. Indie books have often been judged against traditionally published books backed by editors, proofreaders, copy editors, typesetters, production departments, and marketing teams.

Most indie authors do not have that kind of support.

(I’ve had that feedback myself over the years despite paying for editors)

They have themselves, maybe an editor if they can afford one, maybe a proofreader, maybe a few beta readers, and whatever budget they can scrape together while also paying for covers, formatting, advertising, mailing lists, websites, ISBNs, software, and everything else that comes with running what is effectively a small publishing business.

And even then, mistakes get through.

Human Editors Miss Things Too

I have worked with many editors over the years. Some were excellent. Some were terrible. But not one of them ever produced a manuscript that was 100% free of errors (in fact, in one case they created a whole host more!). That is not an attack on editors. It is just reality. Human beings miss things, especially in a long novel. A typo can survive multiple rounds of edits. A repeated word can sit there unnoticed. A character’s name can be spelt one way in chapter three and another way in chapter twenty-seven. A sentence can be rewritten so many times that everyone involved becomes blind to the mistake hiding in plain sight.

That is why the current panic around AI in publishing becomes so strange when we talk specifically about proofreading and basic editorial support.

Because if AI tools can help catch spelling mistakes, grammar slips, continuity issues, repeated words, incorrect punctuation, and awkward phrasing, why is that automatically a bad thing?

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Proofreading Is Not the Same as Writing

I understand the broader concerns around AI. I understand why authors are worried about plagiarism, scraping, fake books, content farms, and online marketplaces being flooded with machine-generated rubbish. Those are legitimate issues and they should not be dismissed.

There is a huge difference between an author using a tool to polish their own manuscript and someone pressing a button, generating a book, slapping a cover on it, and pretending they have created something meaningful.

That distinction matters.

Using AI to proofread a book is not the same as asking AI to write the book. It is not the same as handing over your plot, your characters, your world, your dialogue, your voice, or your creative judgement. It is not the same as outsourcing the heart of the story.

It is a tool being used for a specific purpose, and that purpose is to help remove the very issues readers have complained about for years.

The story still comes from the author. The characters still come from the author. The emotional beats, worldbuilding, twists, themes, pacing, and creative choices still come from the author. AI is not deciding what the book means. It is not deciding who lives, who dies, who betrays whom, or what the final line should be. It is helping tidy the manuscript.

And frankly, if that results in cleaner indie books, happier readers, and fewer reviews complaining about typos, I struggle to see why that should be treated as some great moral failing.

Indie Authors Are Told to Be More Professional, Then Get Punished for Using Tools To Help

There is also an uncomfortable double standard at play. Indie authors have spent years being told to be more professional. Get better covers. Improve your blurbs. Hire editors. Fix your formatting. Build a mailing list. Learn advertising. Understand metadata. Treat your writing like a business.

Then, when technology appears that can help authors raise the quality of their finished product, some of the same voices turn around and say using it is somehow cheating.

But is it?

Is spellcheck cheating? Is Grammarly cheating? Is ProWritingAid cheating? Is using a dictionary cheating? Is asking Microsoft Word to flag a sentence fragment cheating? Is using Vellum or Atticus for formatting cheating? Is using Canva for promotional graphics cheating?

At what point does a tool become unacceptable?

That is the question the industry has not properly answered, because too much of the AI debate is currently driven by emotion, fear, and tribalism. There are people who see any use of AI as contamination, regardless of context. There are others who think every objection to AI is just gatekeeping. As usual, the truth sits somewhere in the middle.

There are bad uses of AI. There are lazy uses of AI. There are exploitative uses of AI.

But there are also practical, responsible uses of AI.

Proofreading is one of them.

Do Not Make Your Book Worse to Prove a Point

The advice to deliberately leave typos in your work to prove you are not using AI is absurd because it asks writers to make their work worse in order to satisfy the suspicions of strangers. That is not artistic integrity. That is creative self-sabotage.

Do not let fear of AI, or fear of people who dislike AI, change how you write.

Use your favourite turns of phrase. Use rhythm. Use repetition when it works. Use the rule of three if it gives the sentence power. Use whatever punctuation suits your voice. Eliminate as many typos as you can. Polish the manuscript until you are proud of it.

Readers do not want a worse book just so the author can pass some imaginary purity test.

The Counterargument: AI Can Flatten Your Voice

Now, the counterargument is worth taking seriously. Some readers and writers are genuinely worried that AI will flatten creative work. They fear that if authors rely too heavily on these tools, books will begin to sound the same. Cleaner, perhaps, but also blander. Technically polished, but stripped of voice. They worry that authors may accept every suggestion without thinking, smoothing away the quirks, oddities, and rough edges that make their writing feel human.

That concern is valid.

AI can absolutely make prose worse if it is used badly. It can produce bland sentences. It can misunderstand tone. It can remove personality. It can suggest changes that are technically correct but creatively dull. It can turn a distinctive voice into something that reads like corporate wallpaper.

That is why the author still has to be in control.

AI should be an assistant, not the author. A second pair of mechanical eyes, not the creative mind behind the story. It can point out a typo, but you decide whether to change the sentence. It can flag repetition, but you decide whether that repetition is accidental or deliberate. It can suggest clarity, but you decide whether clarity improves the scene or weakens the mood.

The tool should serve the writer. The writer should not serve the tool.

The Real Question Is How AI Is Used

For indie authors, this matters. We already face enough barriers. We already have to fight for visibility, credibility, reviews, sales, and reader trust. If a tool can help reduce avoidable errors and improve the reader experience, then dismissing it outright feels less like protecting art and more like clinging to an old argument that no longer makes sense.

The real issue is not whether AI touches a manuscript. The real issue is how it is used.

If someone uses AI to fake being an author, that deserves criticism. Just try and use one to create a story with no human input. It’s hilariously bad every single time.

If an author uses AI to proofread a novel they wrote, shaped, edited, revised, and poured themselves into, I do not see an issue. You have the final say. Disagree with it, change things to your voice. Stay in control. It’s your work.

I see an author using a tool to do what indie authors have always tried to do.

Produce the best books they can.

Write From the Heart, Then Polish Without Apology

In the end, writers should not be afraid of AI. Nor should they be naive about it. Use it carefully. Use it critically. Use it where it helps. Write from the heart. Because that is the part AI cannot do for you.

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Driffield

Aerlene looked at herself in the small ornate mirror her father in law had brought with him from the East. The frame was intricately decorated in swirls and spirals of gold leaf. To someone in England, it would be worth a small fortune.

She frowned slightly at the face she saw before her. Once she had been young and fresh-faced, her green eyes had shone with mischievousness. But now she feared that was lost forever, taken by a monster.

Handel.

His hideous face flashed into her mind causing her to cry out in fear. The things he had done to her...,

“Osfrid must never know,” she whispered into the empty room. It shamed her that she couldn’t have fought the wretch off. She slumped down on the bed and sobbed.

A voice in her mind chided her for being so weak; another praised her for doing what was necessary to protect her daughter from harm. She felt as though she was losing her wits altogether. She had gone to the village’s chapel every day to pray to God for his forgiveness, his understanding, but all her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. She was in despair. Her husband had done what he could to make her feel loved and safe, but he was an important man who had many other worries and problems to deal with.

She felt guilty at distracting him from those matters. She knew that she had been cold to him, had been difficult to be with. She wanted more than anything to go back to the way she was before the nightmare of her captivity. She drifted into a troubled sleep and dreamt of her husband and the good times they had shared before the world had turned into hell.

She awoke to the sound of her son’s laughter. She sat up groggily and made her way outside into the courtyard. There, her son was playing with his sister. Esma was tickling his face with a feather and holding the wriggling boy down. Aerlene could not help but smile at her children. They were worth living for. A sense of peace filled her as she watched them play. All she had endured was worth it to spare Esma the horrors she would have surely faced at Handel and Olaf’s hands. Wulf looked up and saw his mother. He called out to her for help from his sister. Esma stood back and let her sibling run away and into his mother’s arms.

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“How long will papa and, the others be gone for mama?” the little boy asked.

Aerlene hugged her son doing her best not to show the fear she felt for her husband and friends. Hunweld had always been kind to her and Ceadda was already considered a member of the family. She had even grown fond of Acca; despite the looks he often gave Esma. Aerlene had noticed the two’s blossoming friendship in the months since they had returned from Norway and knew her daughter wanted more from the young man than just friendship.

“They will be back soon,” Esma said as she noticed the tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

“They’re busy fighting Vikings?” Wulf asked.

“Yes, and they will beat them,” Esma replied confidently.

Esma was about to ask her mother if she was alright when a boy from the village ran into the courtyard, his small, pudgy face was red from his running.

“My lady! My father sent me to tell you that ships have been sighted off the coast.”

Esma noticed her mother’s gaze go distant as it did so often these days. She had to take charge.

“Mother,” she said sharply snapping Aerlene out of her daze.

Immediately she focused her attention on the little boy who was only a year or two older than Wulf.

“You’re the blacksmith’s boy, aren’t you?” she asked. The nobility inside her took charge.

“Yes milady. Aefre is my name. Father was worried that they might be Viking ships.”

Dread knotted itself inside her. With all the able-bodied men away in York the village would be defenceless against any attack. Osfrid had left a handful of spearmen to protect them, but against a determined Norse raid, they would be of little use. Her mind raced. If she ordered the villagers to flee to York, they might end up running into the Norse army. They couldn’t go North and to the South was a large tract of difficult terrain that women and children would find hard to traverse. She remembered what her husband had told her about the hall.

“Run back to the village and tell everyone to come here. We have the palisades to protect us.”

The little boy nodded earnestly before turning around and sprinting back down the hill towards the village.

Aerlene hurried to the palisade and shouted for the spearmen to assemble. Hastily the six men gathered their weapons and leather armour. One of them climbed the watchtower and scanned the coast.

“My Lady, the boy was right. I see a handful of longboats beached on the shingle.’ He raised an arm to shield his eyes from the suns glare. ‘My lady, armed men are approaching, I can see more than a dozen.” The Spearman’s voice trembled as he spoke.

Within the hour the inhabitants of the village had arrived behind the palisades and the strong oak gates were bolted. The few men among them were elderly or too young, but they armed themselves with whatever was to hand. Small axes, kitchen knives, farming implements and hammers were their weapons. The women and children huddled inside the hall.

Aerlene stood on the palisade and wept as she saw smoke begin to rise from the village below. Rapidly it thickened, and flames could be seen flicking upwards above the trees. She prayed to God for protection and wished that her husband was there to protect them all. She took solace in knowing that no one in the village was being killed, homes could be rebuilt, lives could not. She flinched as she heard the harsh tones of Norsemen approaching. Their voices carried on the smoke-filled air.

They emerged from the copse of trees on the opposite bank of the little stream that led to the hill that housed Osfrid’s hall. They wore armour and carried swords and axes. The uneducated spearmen had miscounted. There were at least forty of them. Feral grins were on many of their faces as they sensed the easy prey and plunder behind the palisade. She could have held the place with a few more spearmen, but their numbers were too many. She should have tried to flee; now they were trapped with nowhere to go.

“Lady Aerlene...” called a voice from amongst the Norsemen. She froze as she recognised it. She peeked over the palisade and saw the man who had raped her. Handel stood at the front of the warriors. He wore a coat of leather and an iron cap on his bald head. He smiled cruelly as he spotted her on the wall.

“Ah, there you are my pretty. I hope your daughter is with you; I’ve yet to rut her like the little whore she no doubt is.”

His men laughed, many calling out lewd remarks.

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“My lord Tostig hoped your husband would be here, but alas it seems he has trotted off to war like the good Thegn he is.”

Aerlene could barely stand, her breathing was ragged, she was having a panic attack. Esma saw her mother slump against the palisade and ran to her side. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at her daughter.

“Forgive me; I have doomed us all,” she wept. Esma hugged her mother tightly and whispered soothingly into her ear.

“You have nothing to be forgiven for mother. If that bastard lays a hand on you, I swear I will kill him. There is a way out, trust me.”

Esma called for one of the men to take her mother inside the hall before she turned and strode to the edge of the wall to see Handel. She was not afraid; she would not be afraid.

Handel smiled wickedly at seeing her on the wall.

“Ah, there she is lads, the wench that promises pleasure. Every one of you lads will have a chance to fuck her; after I’ve had my turn that is,” he laughed, and his men bellowed with vicious glee.

He raised his arms signalling for a group of his men to move forwards. They carried a heavy log capped with a head of iron.

“It won’t be long now, little whore. We will bash our way in and kill you all.”

Esma ran down the steps and into the courtyard. She yelled at the men to brace the gate. She ran into the hall and headed for the hall’s small armoury. The armoury was mostly empty thanks to the Fyrd taking the weapons and armour off to war.

She grabbed a short sword from the wall-mounted rack and hurried outside to find her brother staring at the gate. She watched the gate buckle; the men defending it threw their weight against the wood. Handel’s men sang an almost cheerful sounding song as they went about their dreadful business. They sang of the rape and pillage to come. The gate began to splinter. The sound of its hinges squeaking, and the cracking of the wood drowned out the singing.

Esma screamed as the gate broke open. The force of the ram’s final impact sent several of the men bracing it flying backwards. Handel’s men swarmed through the breach, their swords and axes swinging with wild abandon. The old men and boys were no match for their savagery. Within moments, most of the defenders were slain. Esma fled back inside the hall. Only a few spearmen put up any form of resistance. She glanced behind her as she ran, and saw the attackers slaughtering the men who still stood to oppose them. A spearman cut down one of the attackers but was in turn dispatched by an axe blow.

Inside, the village’s women and children were cowering. Esma called out for her brother and found him huddled in a corner with their mother.

“We have to flee; Wulf get mother up.”

Wulf took his mother’s hand and tried to help her stand. She would not budge. A vacant look was on his mother’s face. She was in shock.

Esma shouted for the villagers to flee out of the hall’s back door and head for the palisades. Behind one of the hall’s outhouses, was a loose piece of palisade that led to a hidden path into the woods at the bottom of the hill. Only she and her brother knew of it. They used to sneak out and play amongst the trees or run away when their father when he was cross at them. Quickly, Esma ran over to her mother and forcefully hauled her to her feet.

“Run to the back-fence Wulf, show the others the way into the woods. Go!” she cried.

The boy didn’t hesitate; he nodded and called for the others to follow. Esma threw one of her mother’s arms over her shoulder and made for the exit of the hall. They emerged into a scene of utter chaos.

Handel’s men had swarmed in through the gate and into the courtyard. Many of them were setting fire to the outhouses, causing smoke to blind the frightened women and children as they tried to flee.

Esma caught sight of her brother running towards the back fence; the little boy dodged the grasp of one of the attackers, kicking him square in the groin. She would have laughed if not for the chaos surrounding her. She lost sight of him in the smoke and headed in the same direction. She noticed that some of the spearmen and male villagers had not all been killed in the initial attack; she saw desperate fighting near the gate. She thanked God for them; those men had bought them the time they had needed to flee the now burning hall.

Tears streamed down her face as she watched her home burn to ashes around her. Her mother stared at the chaos around them. Esma wept for her also. Her mother was lost to her, her mind broken from the horrors she had endured during their captivity.

She made her way through the courtyard, past the dying, struggling figures whirled amongst the smoke and flames.

She blindly helped her mother towards freedom; they were so close. Just as she dared hope that they had escaped, a pair of strong hands grabbed her by the hair and hauled her down onto the hard ground. She lost her grip on her mother as she fell. Aerlene too sprawled to the ground and lay unmoving.

“Mother!” Esma cried.

The pain forgotten, she scrambled over to her mother. She never made it. Handel emerged from the smoke and kicked her hard in the stomach as she crawled, she curled into the pain. The sword fell from her grip; she was at his mercy.

“I’ve waited a long time for this you little bitch.”

He shoved her onto her back with his foot. He unhitched his breeches and forcefully slid her dress over her thighs. She screamed and struggled against him. The bastard would take her, right there, right now.

She could feel and smell his foul breath on her, she punched and clawed at his face, but he violently batted her hands away and pinned her down.

Just as he was about to force his way into her, she felt his weight ease and heard him scream in pain. She opened her eyes and saw her mother standing over him; a rock was in her hand. Handel fell off Esma; he held a hand to his head; it came away bloody.

“YOU BITCH!” he yelled. He pulled a dagger from his boot and lunged at Aerlene. Esma screamed a warning, but it was too late.

Her eyes widened as the blade punched deep into her mother’s side. Savagely Handel twisted the blade, causing Aerlene to cry out in agony. Blood gushed from the wound. She collapsed to the ground, unmoving, her eyes wide in terror.

“Now it’s your turn,” Handel growled as he turned back to Esma who lay stunned at his feet.

Weakly the girl called out for her mother who lay lifeless only a few feet away. This time she did not resist, despair and loss filled her soul.

“Leave her alone.”

Esma turned her head and saw her little brother staring at her and Handel. In his hands was the sword she had dropped. Handel sneered at the boy.

“The whelp. Wait your turn boy. I’ll gut you just like I did your mother,” he mocked dismissively.

Handel turned his attention back to Esma, she cried out to her brother to run away, but the little boy did not.

“I said, LEAVE HER ALONE!”

With a high-pitched battle cry, Wulf ran at Handel and swung the sword with all his strength.

The dull blade struck Handel in the side of the head knocking him off Esma. Esma scrambled to her feet and ran to her brother.

Handel swore. Blood poured from the wounds in his head. He drew his dagger again and marched threateningly upon the siblings. Esma turned to flee, but Wulf stood his ground. Determination was on his young face.

The boy drew back the sword, nimbly dodging Handel’s dagger thrust.

The boy’s speed took Handel by surprise; he had no chance to react as Wulf thrust the sword at his face. The blade pierced Handel’s left eye. Blood and gore sprayed from the now destroyed organ. Handel roared in pain collapsing to the ground; the dagger fell from his grip as he clamped his hands over the wound.

Wulf stood over him and raised the blade. He stared hard into the eye of the man who had just murdered his mother. Handel stared back.

“I swear...boy...I will find you, and I will kill you. You, and your bitch sister.”

Esma gently placed an arm on the boy’s shoulder. She spat at Handel and kicked him savagely.

Handel screamed for his men.

“We have to run brother, while we still have a chance.”

Handel screamed for his men again and the sound of running boots drew nearer.

The fighting had ended. Handel’s men had killed the few defenders and we’re now moving from building to building. Only the smoke hid the boy and his sister from their gaze.

Wulf took his sister’s hand, and together they fled.

Their home was gone forever, and so was their mother.

I rarely discount my books these days, which is why this sale is a perfect opportunity to dive into the world of the Sundered Crown Saga.

For one week only, Tales of the the Sundered Crown Boxset I is available for just $0.99 across all retailers.

This collection contains four stories set within the world of the Sundered Crown Saga, each exploring different corners of the setting, from assassins and warriors to darker mysteries lurking beneath the surface of the realm.

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Danon

The Nightblade

The Crimson Blade

The Curious Case of Evie Rispin

If you enjoy dark epic fantasy filled with dangerous characters, political tension, brutal conflict, ancient threats, and morally grey heroes, this boxset is the ideal entry point into the wider saga.

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To make things even better, Heir to the Sundered Crown, book one in the main Sundered Crown Saga series, is also discounted during the promotion. That means you can start with the shorter tales before moving directly into the main storyline without breaking the bank.

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The Sundered Crown Saga has grown massively over the years, and I know jumping into a completed fantasy universe can sometimes feel intimidating. Sales like this are my way of making it easier for new readers to step into the world for the first time.

Whether you’re looking for ruthless assassins, grim battles, dark magic, broken kingdoms, or characters forced to survive impossible choices, there’s something here for you.

If you’ve been considering trying my work, now is the time.

Grab the boxset while the sale lasts and begin your journey into the world of the Sundered Crown.

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Also discounted for a limited time.

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Something in the dark

The cool night air prickled at Sarah’s skin as she slipped away from the house party, the distant hum of drunken laughter and music fading behind her. She pulled her jacket tighter to keep out the chill, her footsteps echoing along the quiet, empty street. The party had been loud, almost overwhelming, and she needed to clear her head. The canal path was her shortcut home, it was a route she knew well. She knew she shouldn’t be walking home alone but Chris had been far too drunk to provide an escort. The last time she saw him he was passed out on a sofa.

The moonlight shimmered on the still water of the canal, casting ghostly reflections. The underpass ahead loomed dark and shadowy, a bridge of graffiti covered concrete arching over the narrow path. She hesitated for a moment, her breath misting in the air, before pushing forward. The distant buzz of city life seemed to dissolve into silence as she approached the underpass.

A whisper. Faint, almost unintelligible—carried on the wind. It was like the breeze was speaking to her.

She froze, heart quickening, eyes darting into the shadows beneath the bridge. It wasn’t just her imagination. The whispering grew louder, surrounding her, coaxing her forward. Her pulse thudded in her ears as she squinted into the darkness, her legs stiff with reluctance but moving all the same.

And then she saw them. Two glinting eyes, reflecting the moonlight like shards of broken glass. They hovered just beyond the reach of the dim light, motionless, watching her. Her throat tightened, a cold shiver skimming down her spine. Everything in her screamed to turn back, but her feet betrayed her. They moved on their own, slow and deliberate, as though she were being moved by invisible strings.

Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it. It’s just someone standing there. Maybe a trick of the light? She wanted to shout at the person, tell them to stop being creepy. But the whispers continued—sibilant, beckoning, wrapping around her like a lullaby. She felt herself falling into the rhythm of the whispers, her thoughts growing muddled, dreamlike.

I should stop. I should run. But she didn’t.

The figure remained in the shadows. Those eyes were fixed on her and burning with hunger. Her heart pounded harder, faster, but her body wouldn’t respond. She was walking towards them, her movements slow, mechanical. She felt detached from herself, as if watching from a distance, trapped in some half-dream.

Her thoughts spiralled; ‘Why am I moving? What’s happening?’, but the whispers drowned out her reason, soothing her panic into something soft, numb.

They were right in front of her now, still in shadow, their breath icy cold against her skin, and before she could process it, a hand was at her waist, pulling her closer. She couldn’t scream. Her voice was trapped, locked somewhere deep in her chest.

A soft murmur escaped their lips, almost a sigh, and then she felt a sharp, burning in her neck as they bit into the soft skin. It was agony. A blistering, electric stab that tore through her veins and splintered her very soul. It ripped a scream from her that died on her tongue, strangled by the surge of terror blooming in her chest.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, a frantic, erratic drum that slowed, dragged, became a hollow echo swallowed by the silence. Her skin grew clammy, the chill seeping deeper, burrowing into marrow, stealing her warmth, her life.

Her legs buckled, and she sank, eyes wide yet unseeing, into the abyss. The shadows closed in, whispering things she could not name, and as her soul began to slip into the void, her last thought guttered out like a candle in the dark—I’m never going home again.

If you enjoyed this sneak peak at Never Walk Alone please consider signing up to become an ARC reader. I’ll be sending out early copies soon and would love your feedback. This is my debut in the horror genre so all feedback would be greatly welcome! Alternatively please pre-order the book and leave a review. The book is set to release September 1st 2026.

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The synopsis

The horror debut from bestselling fantasy and science fiction author M.S. Olney, Never Walk Alone is a savage descent into urban terror in the tradition of James Herbert.

Journalist James Conners is already under pressure after a source tied to a corruption scandal is murdered before she can expose the truth. Sent away from London before he becomes the next target, James agrees to help an old friend investigate a growing number of unexplained disappearances.

What he uncovers is far worse than murder.

People are vanishing from the streets without a trace. Bodies are being found mutilated near canals and alleyways, their throats torn open in acts of impossible violence. Witnesses whisper about pale figures watching from the darkness beneath the city while police quietly suppress evidence and bury investigations before panic can spread.

As the disappearances grow and the dead begin to pile up, James finds himself hunted by a nightmare that has stalked mankind for centuries, an evil hidden behind folklore, superstition, and fear. And once it marks you, there is nowhere left to run.

Never Walk Alone combines conspiracy thriller tension with relentless supernatural horror, delivering a terrifying modern nightmare that echoes the gritty brutality of classic British horror fiction.

Because when darkness falls, nobody should ever walk alone.

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20th September

Fulford gate

Half a mile from the city of York at Fulford Gate, Morcar’s and Edwin’s army formed ranks as it readied to fight the most fearsome warrior of the Viking world.

On the right flank was the river Ouse, its waters flowing serenely in the hot afternoon. Dragonflies darted above its surface and midges gathered in swarms in the sun’s heat. On the left flank was marshy ground known as the ford lands. The ground there was muddy and deceptive. It was here that Osfrid and his men had been stationed. He did not doubt it was a punishment for his words in York. He had brought over a hundred men from Driffield and its surrounding area. Most of the men were only basically trained. Most wore leather jerkins embossed with iron for armour. Only the Housecarl’s would wear expensive chainmail.

Five thousand Saxons stood in a long line waiting for the arrival of the Norsemen. Scouts had reported that they were approaching rapidly. Harald had split his army into three, and soon each portion would converge upon the waiting Saxons.

Osfrid wore his full panoply of war. His helmet with the faceguard was polished to a glaring shine. Aerlene had painstakingly cleaned and prepared his chainmail until it shone in the hot day’s sun. On his left arm, he carried a heavy round wooden shield. In his right hand, he held his sword. The golden dragon emblazoned on the hilt drew envious glances from the warriors around him.

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He glanced to his left and smiled at Ceadda. The big man wore full armour as well, except he carried his mighty axe rather than a sword. At his belt, he had a short stabbing sword that would be useful when the shield walls joined as one in the dance of death.

Standing to his right was Acca. The young man too wore an expensive set of mail that Hunweld had made for him. He looked nervous but took strength from knowing he was surrounded by his friends and countrymen. Further down the line was Hunweld and the Varangians.

Osfrid felt sorry for the Norsemen who would face those men in combat.

Every man was sweating under the baking sun; the ground was dry and hard causing dust to swirl in the wind.

Osfrid tried to see Morcar over the heads of his men but could only see Cearl. Anger tightened his gut, no doubt Morcar and Edwin would be at the army’s rear, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. Osfrid had learned that despite the men’s bravado, they were both cowardly and self-serving. He knew the only reason Morcar had ordered the army to engage the Norsemen was to take the credit for their defeat and to show the Northern nobles they didn’t need the King or the South.

Excitement rippled down the line as a great dust cloud was spotted in the distance quickly approaching. A few moments later the sound of thousands of marching armoured men reached their ears. It was the sound of thunder rhythmically ringing out across the plain. Ealdred the bishop of York, and his priests walked up and down the Saxon lines invoking prayers and blessings upon the warriors. Ceadda knelt before the Bishop for his blessing as did many other men. Many crossed themselves or muttered silent prayers, either to Christ or to the old gods. Osfrid knelt and scooped up a handful of dirt. He let it fall through his fingers and prayed for the safety of his friends and his family. He didn’t believe in any one god but prayed to any that would listen.

A horseman galloped out of a copse of trees and towards the army. It was a Saxon scout.

“They come, prepare for battle!” the man shouted before bringing his horse to a halt and leaping from the saddle. He ran into the ranks of men and took up his position in the shieldwall.

The thundering footsteps grew louder and sure enough, emerging onto the ground before them were the Norsemen. At the head of the army rode Harald Hardrada and next to him was Tostig Godwinson.

Osfrid roared a challenge but was drowned out by the noise made by five thousand men also hurling insults.

The Saxons banged their swords onto their shields making a deafening racket. The rhythm of the banging increased as more of the Norsemen came into view. Quickly, the Vikings formed ranks and roared their own challenge at the Saxons. Their shields locked together creating a seemingly impenetrable barrier.

“Advance!” bellowed Morcar from the rear ranks. Osfrid saw what the Earl intended. The Norsemen were still forming ranks and reinforcements were arriving all the time. Now was the time to strike, he just hoped the Norsemen didn’t have too many reinforcements.

With a roar, the Saxons jogged the first few feet towards the enemy before breaking into an all-out charge. The right flank smashed into the Vikings taking them by surprise. A few seconds later Osfrid on the left was slamming into his foes.

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The initial charge broke the Norsemen’s unready shieldwall, allowing the Saxons to hack and slash their way deep into the enemy ranks. Osfrid cut down a Viking berserker slicing his blade into the man’s neck. Blood sprayed covering his face and hand. He parried an axe blow with his shield and thrust again feeling the blade sink deep into flesh and glance off bone.

Screams filled the air as the Saxons carried all before them. Osfrid staggered as a sword struck his helmet almost knocking him off his feet. Acca sent the Viking attacker crashing to the floor with a hit from his shield.

With a savage downward thrust, Acca drove his sword deep into the man’s guts. The stench of shit and blood permeated the air. Men were falling all around them. Osfrid shook his dazed head and glanced around him. He could see the right flank was collapsing as more and more Norsemen reinforced the river side of the battle. He clambered to his feet and yelled at Acca and his men to form a shieldwall. Soon they would be surrounded unless they could hold their ground.

Ceadda swung his axe decapitating a berserker before he launched himself at another enemy. The man parried the blow with his shield staggering Ceadda and was about to slash his own axe when Acca again came to the rescue. He caught the deadly blow on the tip of his sword and brought his elbow savagely into the Viking’s face causing him to crumple to the ground.

Osfrid raised his shield and barked orders for his men to form up on him. Within moments, a hundred men had locked their shields. The wall was formed and began pushing back against the Norsemen’s savage counterattack. Osfrid cut down three more men before he noticed that the right flank was on the verge of collapse, and they would be engulfed by the enemy. He swore. Morcar had ordered the charge too soon. The Saxons were close to exhaustion and yet more Norsemen were entering the fray.

The left flank was being forced into the boggy ground of the ford lands. The footing was becoming treacherous as the heavy fighting had churned the already marshy ground into thick mud. Men were falling into the mud and being trampled by the advancing Norsemen. Osfrid and his men fought desperately, but it was no use. Harald had reinforced his centre, and now the entire Saxon line was close to buckling.

Osfrid watched as Harald Hardrada himself and his bodyguards charged into the fray. Being carried for the King was his royal standard the Land-Ravager, before him scores of Saxons fell. Fighting was fiercest near the river. Osfrid caught a glimpse of Hunweld and the Varangians. Even they were being driven back by the onslaught.

Acca yelled a warning. Osfrid looked to the left and could see another force of Norsemen marching through the trees beyond the ford lands. Once those men arrived on the scene, then they would be surrounded, and only death would greet them.

“Fall back to the city!” he roared to his men.

The same call was taken up by the men in the centre; he watched as Edwin and Morcar fled to their horses and bolted back to York.

“Bloody cowards” yelled the men as they saw their Earl’s flee.

The Norsemen launched another push and this time the Saxon line broke. The Vikings swarmed through the breach cutting down Saxons without mercy.

Osfrid turned and fled along with the others leaving behind a trail of blood-soaked earth and broken bodies. Escaping the Norse pincer movement many of the Saxons fled into the ford lands, where they floundered in the boggy ground until cut down or sucked into the quicksand. On the right flank, most drowned as they fell into the Ouse, once a serene river, now a place of unspeakable horror. Soon the marsh and ditches were clogged with the bodies of English dead. The Norsemen waded in blood marching over the impacted bodies as though the marsh was solid ground.

It was a dark day for England.

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The indie author world has developed a bizarre obsession with policing how other creatives make things. Actually, now that I think about it, it’s always been this way and it raises the question; who the fuck do these people think they are?

There is an entire subsection of terminally online gatekeepers who I could name and shame and will do so if they come after me for writing this piece who seem to spend more time hunting for suspected AI use than actually creating anything themselves.

Every week we see yet another witch hunt kick off. Someone spots a hand that looks slightly odd on a cover. Someone decides a piece of promo art was generated. Someone accuses an author of using AI-assisted editing tools, AI narration, AI research, AI marketing copy or AI concept art. Then the mob rolls in demanding confessions, blacklists, boycotts and purity tests.

Enough.

If an author wants to use AI, that is their decision. Nobody elected a self-appointed council of indie author enforcers to dictate what tools creatives are and are not allowed to use. The sheer arrogance behind this behaviour is staggering. Many of the loudest voices involved in these pile-ons act as though they own the creative industry itself, despite the evidence pointing to the fact that readers overwhelmingly do not care about these internal culture war meltdowns.

These people are losers. Often bitter, sad and lonely creatures who get some sick kick out of the fear they spread. My advice if you ever run foul of these ‘people’ own it and just tell them to go fuck themselves.

Readers care about whether a story is gripping. They care whether characters are memorable. They care whether the pacing works, whether the ending lands and whether the cover catches their attention. The average reader browsing Amazon is not conducting forensic analysis on brush strokes or trying to determine whether an author used an AI to help brainstorm chapter names or hell, even assist with the actual writing and editing.

If anything these ‘people’ insult the intelligence of readers. They can tell if something is AI and then it’s up to them whether they like or dislike it. They couldn’t give a shit about your pathetic gatekeeping.

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The ai detector fantasy

Let’s face it the obsession with AI detection has become deeply embarrassing and more than a little sad. I’ve criticised AI a lot myself and I’ve used it for my dayjob. I know it’s flaws and I know that it’s nowhere ready to replace humans anytime soon.

What makes the situation even more ridiculous is that AI detectors themselves are fundamentally unreliable. Time and time again these tools have falsely accused human writers of using AI while simultaneously missing genuinely AI-generated content. Entire careers and reputations are being judged based on glorified guesswork wrapped in a flashy interface.

I wrote about this before. You can read that article HERE

People are genuinely out here acting like the results of these useless tools are some kind of holy scripture.

There are already countless examples of AI detectors flagging classic literature, news articles and even sections of the Bible as AI-generated with the best one I’ve seen being a guy who shared an image of one of Monet’s paintings. He didn’t slyly said it was an AI image and hilariously his feed was filled with idiots agreeing with him. It wasn’t. It was the original artwork. These self styled ‘experts’ just show they know nothing about how it works and that they just like to think themselves clever.

Despite all this certain corners of the indie world continue to treatthese systems as definitive proof during public call-outs and harassment campaigns. It would be laughable if it were not so damaging. Most (99%) of these people are not digital forensic experts. They are hobbyist internet detectives armed with screenshots and confirmation bias.

And that leads directly into one of the ugliest parts of this entire culture war.

The indie contest witch hunts

Book contests and indie competitions have become another battleground for these self-appointed purity police. Groups of people actively monitor contests looking for covers or promotional material they suspect may involve AI. The second they think they have found something, the screenshots start circulating. Threads appear demanding organisers disqualify authors. Coordinated complaints get submitted. Whisper campaigns begin. It was never about protecting creativity. It is about public punishment and to stroke their egos with a power trip.

Some of these individuals seem more excited about getting authors removed from competitions than they are about celebrating books they actually enjoy. Entire online communities have formed around scrutinising artwork, zooming into fingers, analysing reflections and attempting to expose creators like they are conducting criminal investigations.

It is pathetic.

The irony is that many of these same people claim to support indie authors and creative freedom while spending huge amounts of time trying to sabotage the visibility and success of other independents. Nothing says community spirit quite like attempting to get another author blacklisted from an award because you think their dragon artwork looks suspiciously polished.

Most normal readers look at this behaviour and think exactly what it is: unhinged internet drama.

The vast majority of people buying books do not care whether a cover involved AI assistance, stock assets, digital painting, photobashing or traditional illustration. They care whether the cover catches their interest and if the book itself is worth reading.

What makes it even more absurd is the sheer hypocrisy involved. Many of the same people screaming about AI use happily rely on modern technology for every other aspect of their business. They use digital editing software, advertising algorithms, automated mailing systems, grammar tools, image enhancement software and social media schedulers. Somehow those technological shortcuts are acceptable, but the second somebody experiments with generative AI they are suddenly treated like a heretic.

This entire debate is fuelled less by artistic integrity and more by fear. A lot of people in the indie scene know exactly what is happening. AI tools are improving at a frightening pace and they are lowering barriers that once protected established creatives from competition. That terrifies people who built their identity around being part of a closed creative class. Instead of adapting, improving or finding ways to stand out, they lash out at newcomers and smaller authors using whatever tools they can access. The result is a culture that increasingly resembles a digital mob.

The ‘stolen artwork’ argument falls apart quickly

Authors are now afraid to post artwork. They are afraid to experiment with tools. They are afraid to admit using AI for brainstorming or visual concepts because they know a swarm of bitter internet activists may descend on them accusing them of destroying art itself. Entire careers can become targets because someone on social media decided to launch an accusation thread.

It is toxic, exhausting and completely detached from reality. The funniest part is that this crusade is doomed to fail.

AI is not going away. It will become more sophisticated, more accessible and more deeply integrated into every creative industry on Earth whether we like it or not. Publishing, gaming, film, music, marketing and design are all heading in the same direction. The people screaming loudest online are not holding back the tide. They are standing on the beach shouting at the ocean.

Another favourite slogan endlessly repeated during these arguments is the claim that all AI-generated imagery is “stolen artwork”. Like most internet slogans, it sounds emotionally satisfying right up until somebody actually examines the logic behind it.

Creative industries have always learned from, referenced and absorbed existing work. My wife who is an artists and her mother who is an actual artist professionally study styles, compositions, colour palettes, anatomy, lighting and techniques from thousands of other creators throughout their careers to develop their own styles and in turn other artists will mimic and learn from them. Writers meanwhile are shaped by books they have read. I for example love the works of Bernard Cornwell, Tolkien and Herbert. All have inspired me and their styles I’ve tried to emulate to a degree into my own writing. We learn from others and develop our own voices and styles. Influence and iteration is just part of how creativity evolves.

Musicians are influenced by artists they admire. Filmmakers borrow camera language and storytelling structures constantly.

The people screaming that AI is uniquely theft-driven also tend to ignore the reality of how modern digital art ecosystems already function. Countless artists use stock assets, texture libraries, pose references, brushes, photobashing techniques and editing tools built on pre-existing datasets. Entire creative careers are built on remixing and transforming existing visual language.

Yet somehow AI alone is treated as morally unforgivable.

The argument also collapses under the weight of its own inconsistency. If AI-assisted work is automatically invalid because training involved exposure to existing material, then vast sections of human creativity would also fail the same purity test. Human beings learn by consuming existing work. That is literally how artistic development functions.

What critics are really objecting to is not theft. It is automation.

They are angry that technology is allowing people without traditional artistic training to create visuals, concepts and promotional material faster and cheaper than before. That discomfort is understandable, but dressing it up as some grand moral crusade about stolen art does not suddenly make the argument coherent. If they actually learned and adapted to this new reality they’d still be able to compete. Instead their tactic is to use fear and to intimidate and threaten newer indie authors who haven’t yet learned that many in this space are pieces of human trash.

Claiming every creator who uses AI tools is participating in mass theft is intellectually lazy nonsense so don’t fall for it and don’t be intimidated by it. For a group of people supposedly devoting themselves to an artistic endeavor meant to bring joy and beauty into the world, the writing community certainly has more than its fair share of jerks.

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History will not be kind

History is not kind to reactionary gatekeepers who try to suppress technological change. There are countless examples.

Photography did not kill painting. Digital art did not kill traditional art. Ebooks did not kill physical books. Self-publishing did not destroy literature. Every major technological shift creates panic from people who don’t want to adapt, who were too comfortable and in this case most likely shafting indie authors out of their cash for piss poor cover art (again, countless examples).

Let people choose and leave them the hell alone

There will still be readers who prefer fully human-created covers and artwork. There will still be artists thriving through commissions and custom work. There will still be huge demand for talented writers capable of telling compelling stories. But there will also be creators who use AI tools to accelerate workflows, overcome budget limitations and bring their ideas to life in ways previously impossible. And that is perfectly fine. I do it and I know many others who also do it. It is a tool and a useful one at that.

What is not fine is the growing culture of harassment and ideological purity testing that infects indie publishing.

Nobody owes internet activists an explanation of how they made their cover. Nobody should be bullied into public confessions over what software they used. Nobody should have mobs attempting to sabotage their careers because they embraced new technology.

Use Photoshop. Use Midjourney. Use Canva. Use AI-assisted editing. Use a typewriter if you want. Use charcoal on cave walls. The only thing that ultimately matters is whether the final product connects with readers.

And as always and something that the bitter often lefty ludites in the ‘community’ fail to understand. The market not their threats nor intimidation will always decide what succeeds.

Every so often a sale comes along that feels like a genuine chance to discover something new without emptying your wallet, and The Based Book Sale is exactly that.

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What makes this sale different for me personally is that I do not lower my prices very often anymore. In the early days I ran promotions regularly, but over time I became much more selective about when I discount my books. So if you’ve been waiting for the right moment to jump in, this is probably it.

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If you’ve been circling the Sundered Crown books for a while, this is a very easy entry point.

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Or jump into a new sci-fi adventure

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Support indie authors and discover something new

One of the best things about sales like this is the chance to discover authors you may never normally encounter. The indie scene is packed with incredible fantasy and sci-fi writers doing ambitious work outside the traditional publishing system.

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17th September 1066

York

The news had spread like wildfire throughout the northern lands. The town of Scarborough had been sacked, and all its inhabitants enslaved or put to the sword. The Norsemen were on the move. First, they had sailed down the coast of Scotland ravaging as they went. All forces sent to oppose them were routed or annihilated. An army sent by Morcar was soundly defeated at Holderness and refugees were pouring south to safety. Tales of Norse brutality instilled fear in all who heard them. Hardrada marched with his banner ‘the Land Ravager’ before him.

The city of York was in an uproar as the unstoppable march of the Vikings grew ever closer.

Morcar’s fleet had been outmanoeuvred on the river Ouse, and now Norse ships were being spotted in rivers and estuaries across the region, even at Driffield, the warning beacon had been lit for the first time in a generation. Osfrid had rallied his Fyrd to defend the village, but no attack had come. It had been a tense few days and nights. When an attack was obviously not going to occur, he had ridden hard for York where Morcar had called a war council of the Northern Thegns. He had left Ceadda and Acca as well as a contingent of his best fighters to protect his family.

Hunweld and Velmud had gone with him to York.

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They arrived in the city in the early afternoon; the place was swarming with armed men. To Osfrid it seemed as though Morcar and his brother were raising an army. They made their way through the dusty streets towards the city’s main hall. The sun was still scorching hot and the heat magnified the stench of a bustling city. Supplies of grain and water were being stockpiled; blacksmith forges were busy making weapons and armour. The war that had been threatening for so long was now upon them.

They entered the hall and found the place in an uproar. Thegns were arguing with one another, many feared for their lands worried that Morcar would leave them to suffer at the hands of Hardrada’s army. Sat at a long oak table on a raised platform at the back of the hall sat Morcar. His features were heavy with worry. He slouched in his seat with his head in his hands. Osfrid pushed his way through the noblemen, catching sight of Cearl and Edwin in the process. The two men waved wearily to him.

“The devil’s tits. What the hell is the fool doing?” Hunweld growled, angry at the pathetic sight of the man who should have been rallying his men.

Osfrid mounted the platform.

“Fellow Thegns of the North hear me!” he bellowed raising his arms so that all could see him. The bickering stopped, and the hall went silent.

“We must not allow fear to overcome us; we must prepare for war against Hardrada’s army.”

He turned to face Morcar.

“Earl Morcar it was here, just short of a year ago that we marched with you against the tyrant Tostig. Take heart in this and know that we will march for you again against this greater enemy.”

Morcar stirred as though being shaken from a daze at those words. The hall echoed with shouts of agreement with Osfrid.

Osfrid stood before Morcar and offered the man his hand. After a pause, Morcar smiled and grasped it.

He walked to stand in front of the table.

“My brother Saxons, Thegn Osfrid is right. We must fight the Norsemen. Despite our defeat at Holderness, we must try again. I loathe engaging them in open battle, but it is in battle, with you all behind me that we can best them.”

A great cheer filled the hall in response.

“Gather your men; we march in three days.”

The hall quickly emptied as the Thegns rushed to prepare their men for battle leaving Osfrid and Hunweld alone with Morcar, his brother and, Cearl.

“I’m glad to see you Osfrid,” greeted Edwin.

“News from the North has been grim indeed. I fear that engaging Harald in battle could be a mistake, I was there at Holderness, and it was a slaughter,’ Edwin gave his brother a hard stare; ‘I had too few men.”

Morcar laughed.

“Next time we will fight them and beat them. The North can stand alone.”

Tensions had been growing between the two brothers since the sack of Scarborough, and now it was clear that Morcar had underestimated the threat he was faced with.

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“Has any word been sent to the King?” Osfrid asked the men before him.

Morcar scoffed and waved his hands dismissively.

“This is a problem for the North; it is none of Godwinson’s concern. And besides, he would never reach here in time.”

Osfrid slammed his hands on the table in frustration, startling the others.

“Enough of this foolishness, your desire for an independent North will be the death of us all!”

Edwin placed a hand on Osfrid’s shoulder in warning.

“Calm yourself, friend my brother is still your earl,” he warned.

Morcar glared at Osfrid. Anger was in his dark eyes. Hunweld tensed, his hand moving to his sword hilt.

“Gather your men Osfrid and bring them to York. I will deal with you after we have defeated the Norsemen,” Morcar spoke quietly and threateningly.

He gestured for Edwin and Cearl to follow him as he left the hall.

Hunweld stood next to his son and chuckled.

“You certainly have a way with people son. C’mon, let’s get back home and raise the Fyrd. We have a battle to fight.”

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Spend enough time around writing communities online and you’ll quickly run into people treating writing “rules” like sacred law. Never use adverbs. Never open with weather. Never use prologues. Show, don’t tell. Don’t head-hop. Don’t write long books. Don’t write short books. Don’t write present tense. Don’t write first person. Don’t use too much dialogue. Don’t use too little dialogue.

Online and on social media there is always some smart arse berating other authors about them breaking the ‘rules’. The stupid debates over prologue use etc always bring them to the fore.

The truth is that most of these so-called rules are not rules. They are preferences, trends, or guidance based on what tends to work well in certain situations. There’s a huge difference between understanding why something can fail and declaring that nobody should ever do it.

Being creative, especially as an indie author, means understanding that there is no single approved formula for storytelling. If there were, every successful book would sound exactly the same. They don’t. Some are fast-paced and minimalist. Others are dense and descriptive. Some break every convention imaginable and still find huge audiences because the story connects with readers.

That freedom is one of the best things about being indie. You are not writing under the control of a publishing committee trying to fit your story into a narrow commercial mould. You can take risks. You can experiment with structure, tone, pacing and genre blending. You can write the strange idea that traditional publishing might reject because it doesn’t fit neatly into a category.

Some of the most memorable books stand out precisely because they ignored convention. That does not mean craft is meaningless, though. There’s a difference between breaking conventions intentionally and simply ignoring the fundamentals of storytelling. Readers still expect certain basics to be in place. They want coherent sentences. They want characters who feel believable within the context of the story. They want pacing that keeps them engaged. They want a story that feels edited and readable.

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You can absolutely bend or break conventions, but readers still need to feel that the writer understands what they are doing.

Take “show, don’t tell” as an example. It’s probably one of the most overused pieces of writing advice in existence. In theory, it’s good advice. Readers generally connect more with emotion and action when they experience it through scenes rather than dry explanation. But some writers interpret this so literally that they become terrified of simply telling the reader anything.

The reality is that good storytelling uses both showing and telling. If every single detail is exhaustively shown, pacing collapses under its own weight. Sometimes a quick line of exposition is exactly what a story needs. The skill comes from knowing when to slow down and immerse the reader, and when to move things forwards.

The same applies to adverbs, dialogue tags, exposition dumps and countless other “rules.” Poor use of them can weaken writing. Effective use of them can strengthen it. Context matters more than internet writing dogma.

Readers are far less obsessed with technical writing discourse than writers often think. Most readers do not finish a novel and complain that it contained too many adverbs or that the opening chapter used exposition. They care about whether they were entertained, emotionally invested, surprised, scared, excited or moved.

That’s why chasing trends or trying to obey every piece of writing advice can become creatively paralysing. Writers start second-guessing every paragraph instead of actually telling the story they wanted to tell. Entire manuscripts get stripped of personality because the author becomes terrified of violating arbitrary internet commandments.

We Indie authors especially should embrace the freedom we have. The rise of self-publishing has allowed stories to succeed that would never have survived the gatekeeping of traditional publishing twenty years ago. Readers now actively seek niche fiction, unusual ideas, genre mashups and unconventional storytelling styles.

At the same time, readers deserve effort. “There are no rules” should never become an excuse for lazy writing, poor editing or refusing to improve. Learning structure, pacing, dialogue, grammar and storytelling fundamentals matters because those tools help writers communicate their ideas effectively.

The best writers are not the ones who blindly obey rules. They are the ones who understand why those guidelines exist and know when to follow them, bend them or ignore them completely.

If your story grips readers, makes them feel something and keeps them invested, most of the so-called rules suddenly become far less important.

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I’m officially looking for ARC readers to join my reader team and help support future releases across my projects.

For those unfamiliar with the term, ARC stands for Advanced Reader Copy. ARC readers…

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South Coast of England

August 1066

The days slipped by one by one, and yet the enemies of the Saxons still did not appear on the horizon. The Fyrd was becoming restless and men deserted daily to return…

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Book reviews have become one of the strangest parts of the modern indie publishing world. On paper they are supposed to help readers discover quality books, build trust and give authors social proof.…

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Following on from my previous post about my Star Core series I figured I’d do something similar for my heroic fantasy series the Sundered Crown Saga. If you enjoy adventure, magic, heroes, monsters a…

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Dover

Harold stood on the high cliffs, his cape fluttering out behind him in the wind. He stared out across the dark blue of the channel and narrowed his eyes. Barely visible on the horizon was the la…

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July 1066

Driffield

Osfrid was happy despite the troubling news spreading through the Kingdom. For the first time in years, he had his entire family with him. He smiled as he watched Esma chase her you…

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