From the Table to the Page

  This isn't just another fantasy novel. Shadows of Phesia is a chronicle of a long-running, high-stakes D&D campaign. Every scar Gellia carries, every tactical error by Priorin, and every "natural 1" that led to a disaster actually happened at our gaming table.

  What you are reading is a living story where:

  Tactics Matter: No "plot armor." If a plan is bad, people die.

  Consequences are Real: The world reacts to the players' choices in real-time.

  Grimdark Realism: Inspired by the grit of The Witcher and the tactical depth of Dungeons & Dragons.

  Play the Campaign

  This world is open to you. Along with the story, I will be releasing stat-blocks, maps, and unique mechanics (like the Hourglass of Doom or Artifact Resonance) so that you can run The Shadows of Phesia at your own table.

  What to expect:

  Tactical, high-stakes combat.

  Deep psychological tension and internal squad conflict.

  A world where the line between "hero" and "monster" is as thin as a dagger's edge.

  Author's Note

  I've spent years DMing this world, and now I'm inviting you to see it through the eyes of the survivors. Whether you're a veteran player or just love a dark, well-crafted story, join the squad.

  Let’s see if you can survive the Forbidden Lands.

  Cold—it’s the first thing you learn about death. It doesn't crawl in from the outside; it sprouts from within, slowly displacing the last embers of warmth. I lay on the cellar stones, and they no longer felt solid. Instead, I felt myself sinking into them, as if into black, stagnant water.

  In Erthrusia, they said that at the very end, your whole life flashes before your eyes: my father’s forge, the scent of the glowing hearth, the stern face of the Mother Superior who never let me into the "Wings," deciding my thirst for vengeance outweighed any vow. But instead of memories, the sky rushed into my head. A blue so piercing it made my eyes ache. And then a voice—strange, thin, and vibrating like a taut sinew...

  Leliana (The Keeper of Stories)

  Three hundred years ago, the sky over Akolis didn't wear eternal mourning. It was piercingly blue and defiantly clear—like the conscience of a man who hasn't yet committed his greatest folly. We stood on a hill that would later be called the Hill of Shattered Hopes. That day, it was just a pile of stones overgrown with dry grass that smelled of dust and bitter honey.

  There were four of us. Four madmen who decided that the gods had sat too long on their thrones of bone and fanaticism.

  "You know, Leliana..." Hank faltered.

  He wore no armor. In his Order, they believed the body itself was a fortress, if tempered correctly through pain. Hank was fiddling with his wooden prayer beads, the dry clack of the knuckles echoing in my temples. He was a remarkably decent guy for the world we were about to tear into splinters.

  "If it all ends today..." He looked down at his palms—hands that could punch through an oak door. "I wanted to say... I’ve always looked at you as more than just a sister-in-arms."

  Awkwardness hung in the air, thick and sticky. My fingers, resting on the bowstring, trembled. Poor, kind Hank. He smelled of incense and honesty. If the world were a bit simpler, I might have answered him with a smile. But my world had long been occupied by someone else.

  I didn't turn around, but I felt Dwight’s presence with my very skin. He stood slightly behind, smelling like only he did: a mix of strong tobacco, wet fur, and a storm wind. Dwight was of the "winged folk"—a powerful beast covered in thick black fur. The folds of skin beneath his arms were pressed tightly to his sides; he had become a coiled spring.

  Dwight didn't let our little drama take root.

  "Hank, kid, if you offer her your hand and heart now, I’ll offer you a kick to speed up the descent," Dwight snarled, baring his fangs. The fur on his nape stood on end. "We’re going to kill the man who eats confessions like that for breakfast. Save the snot for your memoirs. If, of course, there’s anyone left to write them."

  I felt a sting of resentment—not for Hank, but for the ease with which Dwight cut it all off. He was my captain, my pillar, and the only being whose gaze made me forget every song I’d learned at the Academy. But to him, I seemed to be nothing more than a tool: "the one who knows the vulnerabilities in others' sorcery."

  Lorelei, our mistress of the elements, cast a glance at Dwight—cold and precise, like a stiletto strike. She was the embodiment of calculation. Lorelei didn't deal in illusions; she commanded the pure fury of fire and ice, and she did it better than anyone. Her storm-colored eyes expressed nothing but readiness for battle. Not long ago, she had rejected Dwight—finally and without wasted words. The union of an old mercenary and the future pride of the Academy made no sense in her worldview. The equation simply didn't resolve.

  I saw Dwight clench his jaws. His gruffness was his only shield. He loved Lorelei as much as I loved him. We were a strange chain of unrequited feelings, frozen on the edge of the abyss.

  "Let’s go," Lorelei snapped, adjusting the amulets in her hair. "The gods don't like waiting for those who came to butcher them."

  She stepped forward, and the space around her shivered ever so slightly—nature itself responding to her call. We followed her, leaving behind on that hill our hopes, our words, and the lives that would never be the same again.

  Akolis that night wasn't just waiting for a siege—it was soaking in it. The city resembled a house where the masters had already blown out the candles and locked the doors, knowing the latches wouldn't hold and the creditors on the doorstep were not inclined toward mercy. A siege isn't just the roar of cannons. It’s a smell: a mix of stagnant fear, uncollected trash, and a silence so deep it makes your ears itch.

  We slipped through the streets, trying not to breathe too loud. The city was dead. Only rare patrols and those wretches who decided to drink away what was left of their lives before the steel found them broke the eerie calm.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  At one turn, a poor soul blocked our path. He stood swaying, his finger—trembling and suspiciously filthy—pointing directly at Dwight’s chest.

  "O-oh!" he hiccuped, the sound echoing in the empty alley louder than a drumbeat. "Look... what a big... talking dog!"

  I felt Dwight turn to stone. For his people, being compared to a hound isn't just a slight; it’s the ultimate form of blindness. But the drunkard wouldn't stop. His bleary gaze drifted over to me.

  "And the girl... the girl looks like a horse! Hey, mare, give us a ride, eh?"

  I reflexively adjusted my hair. At the Academy, they taught us that words are merely vibrations in the air, but sometimes those vibrations hit your gut harder than a mace. A mare. Well, I do have long legs and perhaps an overly proud profile, but acknowledging it in a gutter was a dubious pleasure.

  I glanced at Dwight. He didn't even blink. His face, sharp and dark in the light of a pink lantern, remained motionless. In that moment, I would have given anything for him to at least get angry for me. But Dwight was a warrior: he didn't waste himself on those who posed no threat.

  Hank worked gracefully. Those who dedicate their lives to studying the limits of the human body know things about it that doctors are afraid to write down. A short, almost tender poke to a nerve cluster at the base of the skull—and our critic was sent to a world where dogs stay silent and women have nothing in common with hoofed animals.

  We dragged him into a nearby stable. It was warm there, smelling of damp hay and a real horse, which looked at us with far more understanding than that poor wretch.

  "Let him sleep," Hank whispered, settling the man's head on the straw. "When the city falls, he can honestly tell the gods he slept through it all. It’s the best alibi in history."

  Then came the ditch. A real, deep trench full of sticky, icy sludge. We pressed into the mud, feeling the very air above us begin to hum and vibrate—a patrol from Milather’s personal guard was passing by.

  They didn't look like knights from ballads. Just heaps of dull, pitted iron that radiated cold. Their armor didn't reflect light; it seemed to smother it. The air near them grew heavy and stale—the smell of a room where the windows haven't been opened for far too long. Beside such a patrol, one didn't feel like performing heroics; one felt like being in another city entirely.

  One of them broke rank. He walked slowly to the edge of our hiding place, his steel plates clattering. Apparently, the call of nature was weightier than the military code.

  I held my breath. Mud filled my nose, smelling of rust and rotting grass, but Dwight was beside me. Even in this muck, he smelled like real life—tobacco and old leather.

  Dwight struck like a trap. The moment the soldier relaxed, a fur-covered hand lunged from the mud. It clamped around the enemy's throat before he could even realize what was happening.

  No noble challenge to a duel. Only a dry snap and the rustle of reeds as the heavy, armored body sank softly into the sludge. Dwight held him under for a few more seconds, staring into the void ahead with dark, unreadable eyes.

  In that moment, he terrified me. And in that same moment, I knew I would follow that hand into the very abyss. Simply because in this city, there was no one else left to follow.

  "Clear," he exhaled, releasing his grip. Mud dripped down his face, making him look like a river demon. "Move. We need to find the Cathedral before the other 'armored enthusiasts' find us."

  We burst into the hall, and the sound of the kicked-in doors bounced off the vaults for a long time, mingling with the heavy hum of a sermon. Inside, it smelled of incense, old dust, and that acrid, metallic tang that always heralds disaster.

  Milather stood at the altar. Gods, he was terrifyingly handsome in his arrogance. The Tiefling reached slowly for his helm, and there was no haste in the movement—only the confidence of a being that had already won. But Dwight robbed him of that confidence. The Hadozi’s heavy sword, howling through the air, slammed into the black steel of the helm an instant before it touched the Tiefling’s head. A crash, sparks, and the artifact clattered away into the darkness behind the pillars.

  "What do you want from me, mortals?" Milather’s voice was soft, but it sent a faint vibration through the floor. "You interrupt that which you cannot hope to understand."

  My arrow was the only answer. It merely grazed his cheek, but it was enough for the mask of composure to crack. Red blood on pale skin looked almost unnatural.

  "Take them," he said quietly, almost with regret. "Try not to maim them too much. We still need to talk."

  Five of Milather’s Paladins—mountains of dull iron—began to fan out, methodically blocking our escape routes. Their boots thundered on the marble like hammers on an anvil.

  "Don't let them close in!" Lorelei shouted.

  Dwight slammed into them first. The powerful Hadozi used everything: body weight, the momentum of the leap, claws. He knocked the nearest Paladin off his feet, and they rolled across the floor—a tangle of black fur and grinding steel. Hank took the second Paladin. It was terrifying and beautiful: the boy without armor simply slipped under the swinging sword and delivered a series of short, dry strikes to the joints of the plate. I heard the guard’s knee snap, and he slumped heavily.

  Milather didn't wait for the end of the brawl. He slowly drew a massive greatsword of matte black metal from his back. The blade didn't reflect light; it devoured it, remaining cold even in the flickering flames. The Tiefling swung it, and the air groaned from the weight of that steel.

  Lorelei struck first. Instead of the fire Tieflings are accustomed to from birth, she unleashed a blinding cascade of white lightning. The air in the hall instantly filled with the scent of ozone. Milather took the hit on the blade of his black sword, and sparks danced across his arms, but he didn't even flinch.

  "Your fury is fruitless, child," he said, stepping forward.

  Lorelei, teeth bared, threw her hands up for her most terrible technique—a beam of sickly green Disintegration tore from her fingers, seeking to turn the Tiefling into a pile of ash. Milather barely moved his shoulder, and the beam grazed a pillar, instantly turning the ancient stone to dust.

  The fight turned into a bloody melee. I fired, trying to aim for the slits in the Paladins' helms; Dwight was literally mauling two guards, while Hank spun like a whirlwind, dodging the blows of heavy maces. At one point, one of the Paladins, heavily wounded by Hank, fell at his master's feet.

  Milather stopped. He looked at the bleeding warrior almost with love.

  "Forgive me, brother," he said softly, placing a hand on the Paladin’s bloody pauldron. "Your service is not yet finished. You shall serve a higher purpose."

  I saw life literally drain out of the poor soul in grey trickles, absorbing into Milather’s fingers. The dying warrior didn't even scream—he only exhaled sharply before turning into a desiccated husk. The wound on the Tiefling’s cheek closed, and his eyes flared with a sinister gold light.

  "Death is but the beginning of something greater!" he roared, and his coal-black greatsword slammed into the floor with monstrous force.

  A wave of necrotic energy rippled outward, knocking us all off our feet. Hank was thrown against a pillar, and Lorelei fell to her knees, coughing dust. Dwight managed to brace himself, but even he was pinned to the ground by the weight.

  Milather raised his pitch-black blade for the final strike, but in that moment, Dwight and I hit him simultaneously. My arrow sank into his shoulder, and Dwight, letting out a primal roar, lunged forward and clamped onto the Tiefling's sword arm. Lorelei, pushing through the pain, unleashed everything she had left—a final bolt focused into a single point.

  There was a crack like none I’d ever heard. The stones beneath us couldn't withstand the concentration of fury, magic, and the weight of armored bodies. The cathedral floor, undermined by our struggle, simply snapped.

  We plummeted. A second of flight, lungs full of dust, and a hard impact against the cellar stones. The last thing I remember is the dry clang of the black sword somewhere very close in the darkness and the smell of raw, disturbed earth.

  "Thanks for reading the first chapter of The Order of Priorin! This story is deeply rooted in my love for tactical D&D campaigns and dark, consequence-driven fantasy. If you enjoyed the ride, please consider following the story—there's a lot more ash and glory to come!"

  Enjoyed the chapter? If the wait for updates is dealing you psychic damage, I’ve got just the "Healing Word" for you!