Here's the beginning of the next draft of Storm's Fall:
No one who knew me would think I was much of a writer. My brother was the one who read every book he could find, and taught himself how to write spells. Me? I listened to the songs and my grandfather's stories about the old heroes of Rynthia and Musai, and played at swords with sticks. I never really grew out of that.
Kalven can't write this, though. He died years ago, in his sleep. So did Lady Kirai, and all of Eristhenia mourned her. It was painful to watch them grow old and die, but that's the price I paid for what I am. And now I'm the only one left who remembers. I'm the one who has to write this book.
This is a dangerous thing I'm doing. Even after all these years, people still hate Rivian. I've gotten in more fights than I can count about the Spellswords' War, and some of those were against fighters who knew exactly who and what I was.
I am Livia Marchani. I fought in the Spellswords' War. Some of the songs even say I won it by myself. They're wrong. This is how the war was won: with Eristhenian golems, the blood of thousands, and a terrible mistake.
PS: I'm not dead. I've been working on the rewrite and playing video games. Also, watching the Olympics. (NBC's coverage is terrible!)
