#aegis

🤍 Would you ever consider a follow-up piece?

I have actually considered it! I think it would be a lot more politics heavy than what I'm usually comfortable writing. The Magisterium subplot is mostly background noise in Aegis, and it would definitely come to the forefront for a follow-up. Especially because it's unresolved.

I think I would sooner do an Emmrook companion piece than a follow-up, but never say never! Intimidating, but not impossible.

🤍 How did you choose the disciplines for the tournament?

It's funny, because I had actually outlined a tournament in my WIPs about a year before I actually wrote it. Part of that was the disciplines. I originally had knife-throwing in there and hand-to-hand combat instead of wrestling. Chess was also not listed.

To decide, I did some brainstorming with friends, then chose based on what felt right and what gave me a good mix of different activities based on different skills. Strategic thinking was the final thing that seemed like it might be important to the Chantry, so that's how I ended up with chess.

And horses were always going to be part of it, because it's just fun.

🤍 What is your favourite line/Paragraph?

Ooh, tough one. The last few chapters have quite a few lines I do like.

It's probably this, though:

The Herald raises his arm. The sun beats down on Tarquin’s shoulders. The crowd seems to hold its breath. Well. Time to face his fate. Whatever it may be. It’s fucking now or never. The thought isn’t loud; it is a quiet, cold certainty settling in the marrow of his bones. There’s no retreating, there’s no second chances, and no shadows left to hide in. Only the sand, the sun, the person he must beat, and the man up above, watching, who holds the key to everything Tarquin has ever wanted but has been too afraid to name. Too bloody cowardly.

However, I also very much enjoy Tarquin's inner monologue post-signal in that chapter, starting with:

Something inside Tarquin shifts. Breaks, perhaps. Snaps. Like a dam, overflowing. The anxiety, the fear of failure, the nagging doubt about his place in this wretched, awful country—it all crystallizes into a single, burning point of clarity. Like a mage’s focus, the way it grants the caster full precision and control. In that moment, he just knows. He knows he isn’t doing this for pride, or ego. He isn’t doing this to prove he’s better than Rook or anyone else, or to silence the snide remarks of the Magisterium. Not at all. Not in the slightest. He’s doing it for them. For him.