Scrolls of the Raithsworn:
A Tale of Ghosts and Gods
Book One: Whispers and Wind
In a world ruled by false gods and forged lies, rebellion rises on wings of flame.
​
There are whispers in the wind, of gods long vanished, of kingdoms lost to ash, and of shadows that still remember.
In a world where magic is outlawed, beasts are bound, and the stars no longer speak, something ancient stirs. The old blood runs deep in forgotten places, and not all who bow are broken.
The Vye'Raths,
Raithsworn rebels have waited.
For reckoning.
For return.
For the one who will rise.
The Empire thinks the war is over.
But stories, stories are dangerous things.
And this one is just beginning.
​
Strike first. Burn last. Never fall. Leave none behind.
That is the way of the Raiths.
The World of the Raithsworn
In the beginning, there were the children of Vael’Lorian and Valerion’theil, the first peoples of the continent. Like the elves and fae from children’s tales of old, they were born of the land, the sea, and the stars. The Vyeth and Eeyrenian.​
​
Gifted with great power. Strong. Noble. Ancient.
They lived age after age, practicing the Old Ways, keeping close the teachings and histories of their ancestors, passing their culture down from generation to generation.
​A hundred years before the Age of Golaena, they were known as the Eight Cryscent Kingdoms, ruled by the Eight Kings of Valerion’theil.
Though the continent birthed many races. Grothkin, Dhrellen, Basilisks, Wéwúlves, Drakari, Tharn, all mystic and magical beings. And the Cryscent Kingdoms stood as their heart.
The Skaerynd and D’raygyn-breeding grounds lay to the east. The warrior clans of Duunari held the northeast, and the fierce desert fighters of Shunai ruled the southeast.
And though each realm held its own customs, strength, and pride, all peoples, tribes, clans, courts and kings looked to Valerion’theil for guidance, kinship, and leadership.
It was an age of peace. The gods and spirits bestowed. And though disputes arose, as they do in all places where pride lives, it was a time of harmony, of balance. Until men came.
​They descended from the northwest, with their fire-hungry gods and brutal, blood-born ways. They spoke a language of conquest, of ruin, of dominion. Tribes of war-hardened men ravaged the west, carving through sacred lands like flame through forest.
Still, the Kings of Valerion’theil offered peace. They forged treaties, shared lands, granted sanctuary. And for a time, men lived beside the other races of the continent. They traded. Learned. Even thrived.
​Then came the Age of Golaena.
Twelve lords of men rose to power and ruled the west with order. Their numbers swelled. Their cities grew. Their lands were known as A’Laes.
But one, a warlord with an empire in his eyes, grew hungry.
He wearied of treaties. Of borders. Of peace. He made dark alliances with the southern realms, Sularia, men of dust and fire, and together they became Menetharia and raised an army of thousands.
They brought war to every corner of the realm.
All mystic and magical beings were hunted, enslaved. Forced into labour camps. Made to build ships and weapons, harvest timber, mine the bones of the earth to feed the war machine.
The Cryscent Kingdoms fell, one by one.
The Menetheran Empire brought with them a single god. And with him, his disciples, the Vexari Order.
Ancient men of unspeakable power, the Vexari carried out the will of their god through blood and fire.
Chief among them, the Vexari Knights.God-blessed warriors who rode the backs of Skyre, beasts of nightmare and flame. They were unstoppable. Formidable.And the kingdoms could not stand against them.
Those who survived the fall disappeared. Some enslaved. Others hidden. The noble bloodlines of the Eight Cryscent Kingdoms vanished into shadow.
​
The Twelve Lords of Man, once stewards of peace, were branded traitors and hunted. Their families scattered to the wind.
​
And from the ashes rose a final spark...The Vye’raiths, The Raith Sworn. A rebel alliance. Sworn to live as shadows. To fight from the dark. To keep the memory of the old ways alive. To wait for the day the
Cryscent Kingdoms would rise once more.
It has been hundreds of years since that time.
​
The continent is now deep in the Age of Menethera.
​
The Age of Man. Where dragons are extinct. Magic is outlawed. And all magical races, and any beasts, are enslaved.
​
The empire rules with iron and ash. The Vel’ariin are silent. The old kingdoms are gone. Their bloodlines lost.
​
Their only hope?A scattered rebellion of ghost warriors.
​
​The Vye’raiths.​
​
They say they ride on the wind.
​
Whispers of wings in the dark.​
​
Ghosts of the Skaerynd.
​
And though most call them myth, some say…
They are riding again.
Excerpts
Lyrraveth
​
​
I was running barefoot through a wildflower-covered hill.The late afternoon sun hung in the sky golden and warm. The tall grasses and flowers around me tickled my hands as I ran with my arms out. The ground beneath my feet was soft with moss and uneven in places I needed to balance myself. My older brother chased me. Calling out to me. The sounds were distant like a memory seen through a looking scope. The wind through the grass and the tall trees. The birds in their nests.
“Lyrra, I’m going to catch you,” Kaeleth laughed. “And when I do you are going to get squashed.”
I laughed. “Never Kael. I am too fast for you.”
My three younger sisters ran around us, giggling and following when they could keep up.
My mother was sitting nearby on a blanket, holding our baby brother. He watched from our mother’s lap, waving his chubby arms. My mother was beautiful. She wore a blue and gold dress, her long russet curls falling down her back, eyes bright as she laughed and called after us.
In those days, like most nights, the banquet hall was alive with warmth, family, villagers, and my father’s men. Fighters and nobles who would follow him anywhere.
I remembered my father well. He was tall, with golden hair, a short-cropped beard, and blue eyes that always looked tired, but kind. His voice was deep but soft, and he never raised it unless it truly mattered. That made it all the more powerful when he did.
​
That night, like many, I’d been eavesdropping.
​
After the feast, he gathered with his men in the study. A map was spread across the table. He was outlining a route. We moved often. For reasons I didn’t fully understand then.
​
He always said it was because our name held power, and that power is feared. But power, he told us, must be earned. Otherwise, it's not power at all, just control and manipulation. Those who rule without earning it become tyrants. So desperate to hold onto power, they wield it in ways that scar the world.
​
Kael came up beside me as we peered through the cracked wooden door.
​
“If he catches us, he’ll belt us, you know that?” Kaeleth whispered.
​
“Then you should leave,” I replied.
​
He didn’t. He only smirked.
He was just as curious as I was, about the whispers, the plans, and why we had to uproot our lives every time the men did. We were always passed from one noble house to another, pretending to be distant relatives, staying only long enough to leave before questions caught up.
​
We watched as the men filed out, leaving our father alone.
​
“I know you’re there,” he said gently. “Come out.”
​
Kael and I looked at each other. He sighed, then stepped through first.
​
“How much did you hear?” our father asked, looking between us.
​
“We’re moving again?” I asked.
​
“We are,” he said, exhaling. “Come. Both of you.”
​
We stepped into the room, drawn toward the large table with the map—its topography raised and carved. Many lords owned them, but ours felt older, worn, used.
​
He sat in his chair and pulled me into his lap so I could see. Kael rose on his toes beside us.
​
“This is the continent. A'Laes is our homeland. Or it used to be,” he said, his hand gliding over the southern lands. “When the old kings ruled, our house, the Quinnceiros, sat among those sworn to keep that realm safe.”
“Safe from what?” I asked.
​
“From the many peoples that reside in these realms. All sorts.”
​
“You mean like dwarves, goblins, and fairies?” Kael asked, incredulous. Our nursemaid filled our nights with such stories.
“Yes,” our father said. “But they are not fairies. They are people. They do not go by childish names. They call themselves by the names of old. The ones the Valiir gave them, long ago. Some were warriors, even great civilizations. Now they are slaves.”
​
“Slaves?”
​
“Yes. Most have been enslaved by the Empire.”
​
“Because they are frightening?”
​
“Because they are feared. The Empire fears them, their beauty, their magic, their power. And what men fear, they seek to control and eventually destroy.”
​
He pointed to the map again. “All this land once belonged to them. Long before kings. Before men.”
​
I stared at the map, wondering what it would look like if it had never been touched by greed or war.
​
“Is that why we move so much?” Kael asked.
​
“In a manner of speaking,” our father said. “We believe peace is possible. That a better way of ruling is possible. One that sustains all the races of the continent.”
​
“We do?” Kael asked.
​
“We do,” our father confirmed. “We are part of a resistance. An alliance that moves quietly across these lands. Fighting the tyranny of the Empire. And because of that, we move.”
​
“We're part of a rebel force?” Kael blinked. “Like the Raiths?”
​
We had heard the name whispered in many of the households we stayed in. Half myth, half threat.
“The very same,” our father said. He adjusted me on his knee and pointed further south. “This is the Southern Tower. If anything happens—anything—you find this tower.”
He traced a path with his finger. “Follow the River of Srven. Go to the village of Venereth. Hike the mountain called Trevern—it’s used as a lookout post. From the peak, you’ll see the tower. Go to the southern tower. Wait. Do not leave. Do you understand?”
​
Kael nodded, sharp and serious. Committing every word to memory.
​
“When someone comes,” he continued, “Kael, you go with them. Lyrra —” he turned to me “—you return to the village. Show the Warden this.”
He placed a brooch in my hand, a lion over a sword, carved in old metal.
​​
I furrowed my brow. Dread tightened my chest.
​
“I don’t want to be without you,” I whispered.
​
“If something happens,” he said gently, “he’ll take you in as a ward. See that you’re raised properly. Find you a husband. Keep you safe.”
​
“Kael, do you understand?” he asked again.
​
“Yes,” Kael said.
​
“Nothing is more important than keeping our bloodline alive,” our father said. “Lineage is everything in an age set on destroying all that is good and noble.”
​
We nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Now off to bed. Your mother will be cross we had this talk.”
As if summoned by his words, she entered, her blue gown catching the candlelight, gold embroidery shimmering.
​
She folded her arms. “Has your father been filling your heads with Eyrenian nonsense and rebellion again?”
​
“Yes,” Kael and I said in unison.
​
Our father grinned and ruffled Kael’s golden hair.
​
“Time for bed, both of you,” she said, waving us off.
​
We brushed past her, but paused just outside the door. We couldn’t help but listen.
​
There was an edge to their voices.
​
“We have to prepare,” my father said. “They’re circling. We can only run for so long.”
​
Their shadows flickered in the hallway, embracing.
​
“Promise me,” she murmured, “you’ll protect them. With everything you have.”
​
“You know I will.”
​
The next morning, our training began.
​
Swordsmanship. Archery. Hand-to-hand combat. His men taught us on the road, between houses.
Raithsworn:
A Tale of Ghosts and Gods
Book One: Whispers and Wind
An Epic fantasy series following the soulbound survivors of a fallen kingdom as they rise from ashes to challenge a tyrant empire, and reawaken the old gods.
​
Whispers and Wind, Book One in the Raithsworn series, is Fourth Wing meets Stormlight Archive, with the intimate trauma-recovery depth of An Ember in the Ashes, the elven-meets-political scale of Throne of Glass, and the soul-bonded, myth-forged epicness of Daughter of Smoke and Bone.
​
COMING SOON!