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Upcoming Dark Gothic High Fantasy Epic Series Launch
Brackengloom
, Tales of the Thornborn Series.
Book 1: A Whisper beneath the Roots.
An Introduction to Brackengloom
Before memory had roots, the world was nothing but hollow darkness. Before the first word was spoken, before breath had meaning, there was only silence.
From that silence stirred a single pulse, deep and slow, like the breath of something vast beneath the skin of the world. The pulse became a rhythm, and the rhythm became life.
The root that formed from it glowed faintly beneath the black soil, coiling and twisting until its veins spread like fire through the dark. The old tongues called it Vaelmiren, the First Root, the heart that beats beneath all things.
From its glow came warmth and hunger, both born in the same breath. The Root reached upward, and where it touched the cold sky, the heavens began to bleed green light. From that light, the land awoke.
It named itself Brackengloom.
The forests of Thornreach were the first to rise. Towering trees broke through the crust of the world, their bark slick with sap that whispered to the wind. The thorns along their limbs carried memory, and when they cut the flesh of a beast, they learned its name. From these trees came the Thornborn Wyrms, serpentine creatures born of bark and flame. Their scales shimmered like dying embers beneath moss, and their eyes glowed with the knowledge of the Root’s dreams. The Thornborn were neither beasts nor gods, but the bridge between both. When they breathed, the vines grew thicker. When they slept, the forest dreamed of blood.
From the glow of the peaks to the west came storm and fire. The Obsidian Peaks cracked open and bled molten rivers that carved the land into shapes unknown. From that flame were born the Dragons, first children of the mountain’s heart. Their wings carried storms. Their fire burned without heat, turning the air into song. Each dragon bore the memory of the Root’s wrath, and through them, the world learned fear. Griffins rose to hunt them, carved from wind and lightning, noble yet doomed to eternal hunger for the sky. The grifflets followed, smaller, horned, sharper claws, stealth hunters of the foothills.
In the deep places beneath Thornreach, where the roots hung heavy with moisture and the soil was black as rot, the first Goblins crawled from the mire. They were molded by decay and shadow, the refuse of the Root’s earliest dreams. Their eyes burned with the pale fire of the swamps, and their laughter carried through the fog like breaking glass. They built their kingdoms in hollowed trees and fed their young on the marrow of the dead. When the Root whispered, they heard only madness. To them, the world was a wound that never closed.
Far above the mire, light pooled among the branches. From that shimmer, the Elf-Kin were born. They took shape from the Root’s yearning to remember beauty. Their skin bore the silver of moonlight, and their eyes reflected the stars that still watched the newborn land. The Elf-Kin sang the first songs, words that carried power enough to bend the air. They built citadels woven from branches and glass, where light was trapped like water and poured into mirrors. Yet in their music lay sorrow, for they knew the Root was not sleeping. It dreamed through them, and they through it, never free of its memory.
In time, the Elf-Kin’s purity fractured. Some among them sought to walk the shadowed paths, curious of the dark beneath the world. These became the Serathi, born of forbidden mingling and blood once thought lost. They were half-light, half-root, and within their veins glowed the pulse of Vaelmiren itself. The Serathi learned to commune with the Living Veins, glowing roots that wound beneath every forest and marsh. In their dreams they heard whispers of worlds forgotten. They learned to ride the Mountclaws, great cat like beasts shaped from the same soil as their masters. Together they roamed, memory-keepers of the land. Yet every dream they carried pulled them closer to madness, for each vision showed the same truth: the Root remembers everything, even what should remain buried.
From the eastern bogs came the Gloom Rabbits, creatures born of moonlight swallowed by mud. Their fur absorbed light until their bodies became shadows that breathed. They wandered the marsh, their burrows leading through folds in time, and wherever they fled, death soon followed. To glimpse one before dawn was to know your name had already been remembered by the soil.
The Nomadic Wizards came next. Traders and Weavers of a hybrid magic, sacred, mixed between dark and light… light-shadow magic. Both creators and destroyers, their songs create balance through the lands, where at times, chaos ran rampant.
The Elder Gnomes came last. They did not crawl or fly. They stepped from beneath the molten crust, eyes bright with forge-fire, voices low and steady. The Root had given them purpose, to shape what others only dreamed. They built halls beneath Elderroot Hollow, where metal sang like wind and stone remembered touch. They forged the Heartshard Chalice, a cup filled with the Root’s own sap. Any who drank from it saw the true age of the world and never slept again.
As the ages turned, and cycles completed, each race carved its dominion. Dragons ruled the peaks. Elf-Kin guarded the groves. Goblins drowned their dead in the mire. Serathi rode between realms, carrying songs that no longer belonged to them. The Gnomes whispered to the stone, and the Wyrms slumbered beneath the forest, coiling through the bones of Brackengloom.
But the Root beneath them never ceased to dream. It dreamed of what had been, of what was lost, and of what would one day return. When it dreamed of death, the rivers darkened. When it dreamed of fire, the sky bled crimson. And when it dreamed of memory, the living forgot themselves.
The Root’s breath still moves through the soil. It remembers the names of kings turned to ash. It hums beneath the marshes and whispers through the thorns. Each whisper grows louder with the turning of the moons, and in the stillness before dawn, it is almost a voice.
“All that lives must return, Thorns guard, wyrms rise, legends awaken.”
Book 1, Coming November 2025.
Stay tuned for more information.
, Tales of the Thornborn Series.Book 1: A Whisper beneath the Roots.
An Introduction to Brackengloom
Before memory had roots, the world was nothing but hollow darkness. Before the first word was spoken, before breath had meaning, there was only silence.
From that silence stirred a single pulse, deep and slow, like the breath of something vast beneath the skin of the world. The pulse became a rhythm, and the rhythm became life.
The root that formed from it glowed faintly beneath the black soil, coiling and twisting until its veins spread like fire through the dark. The old tongues called it Vaelmiren, the First Root, the heart that beats beneath all things.
From its glow came warmth and hunger, both born in the same breath. The Root reached upward, and where it touched the cold sky, the heavens began to bleed green light. From that light, the land awoke.
It named itself Brackengloom.
The forests of Thornreach were the first to rise. Towering trees broke through the crust of the world, their bark slick with sap that whispered to the wind. The thorns along their limbs carried memory, and when they cut the flesh of a beast, they learned its name. From these trees came the Thornborn Wyrms, serpentine creatures born of bark and flame. Their scales shimmered like dying embers beneath moss, and their eyes glowed with the knowledge of the Root’s dreams. The Thornborn were neither beasts nor gods, but the bridge between both. When they breathed, the vines grew thicker. When they slept, the forest dreamed of blood.
From the glow of the peaks to the west came storm and fire. The Obsidian Peaks cracked open and bled molten rivers that carved the land into shapes unknown. From that flame were born the Dragons, first children of the mountain’s heart. Their wings carried storms. Their fire burned without heat, turning the air into song. Each dragon bore the memory of the Root’s wrath, and through them, the world learned fear. Griffins rose to hunt them, carved from wind and lightning, noble yet doomed to eternal hunger for the sky. The grifflets followed, smaller, horned, sharper claws, stealth hunters of the foothills.
In the deep places beneath Thornreach, where the roots hung heavy with moisture and the soil was black as rot, the first Goblins crawled from the mire. They were molded by decay and shadow, the refuse of the Root’s earliest dreams. Their eyes burned with the pale fire of the swamps, and their laughter carried through the fog like breaking glass. They built their kingdoms in hollowed trees and fed their young on the marrow of the dead. When the Root whispered, they heard only madness. To them, the world was a wound that never closed.
Far above the mire, light pooled among the branches. From that shimmer, the Elf-Kin were born. They took shape from the Root’s yearning to remember beauty. Their skin bore the silver of moonlight, and their eyes reflected the stars that still watched the newborn land. The Elf-Kin sang the first songs, words that carried power enough to bend the air. They built citadels woven from branches and glass, where light was trapped like water and poured into mirrors. Yet in their music lay sorrow, for they knew the Root was not sleeping. It dreamed through them, and they through it, never free of its memory.
In time, the Elf-Kin’s purity fractured. Some among them sought to walk the shadowed paths, curious of the dark beneath the world. These became the Serathi, born of forbidden mingling and blood once thought lost. They were half-light, half-root, and within their veins glowed the pulse of Vaelmiren itself. The Serathi learned to commune with the Living Veins, glowing roots that wound beneath every forest and marsh. In their dreams they heard whispers of worlds forgotten. They learned to ride the Mountclaws, great cat like beasts shaped from the same soil as their masters. Together they roamed, memory-keepers of the land. Yet every dream they carried pulled them closer to madness, for each vision showed the same truth: the Root remembers everything, even what should remain buried.
From the eastern bogs came the Gloom Rabbits, creatures born of moonlight swallowed by mud. Their fur absorbed light until their bodies became shadows that breathed. They wandered the marsh, their burrows leading through folds in time, and wherever they fled, death soon followed. To glimpse one before dawn was to know your name had already been remembered by the soil.
The Nomadic Wizards came next. Traders and Weavers of a hybrid magic, sacred, mixed between dark and light… light-shadow magic. Both creators and destroyers, their songs create balance through the lands, where at times, chaos ran rampant.
The Elder Gnomes came last. They did not crawl or fly. They stepped from beneath the molten crust, eyes bright with forge-fire, voices low and steady. The Root had given them purpose, to shape what others only dreamed. They built halls beneath Elderroot Hollow, where metal sang like wind and stone remembered touch. They forged the Heartshard Chalice, a cup filled with the Root’s own sap. Any who drank from it saw the true age of the world and never slept again.
As the ages turned, and cycles completed, each race carved its dominion. Dragons ruled the peaks. Elf-Kin guarded the groves. Goblins drowned their dead in the mire. Serathi rode between realms, carrying songs that no longer belonged to them. The Gnomes whispered to the stone, and the Wyrms slumbered beneath the forest, coiling through the bones of Brackengloom.
But the Root beneath them never ceased to dream. It dreamed of what had been, of what was lost, and of what would one day return. When it dreamed of death, the rivers darkened. When it dreamed of fire, the sky bled crimson. And when it dreamed of memory, the living forgot themselves.
The Root’s breath still moves through the soil. It remembers the names of kings turned to ash. It hums beneath the marshes and whispers through the thorns. Each whisper grows louder with the turning of the moons, and in the stillness before dawn, it is almost a voice.
“All that lives must return, Thorns guard, wyrms rise, legends awaken.”
Book 1, Coming November 2025.
Stay tuned for more information.
