The first draft is complete, and while I work through edits and gather feedback from beta readers, I wanted to keep sharing pieces of the world with you.

From this week onward, I’ll be releasing short, episodic scenes set within Elariel’s and Tharian’s worlds—moments that sit alongside the main story, building out characters, places, and the quieter edges of what’s to come.

This series is going to be called “Before Everything Changed.”

Posts will now be twice weekly, on Wednesdays and Fridays.

And to begin, I’m releasing the first episode now.

This is the first episode in the Before Everything Changed series.

Hide and Seek

“Come here, hen,” I called as I stepped into the living room. The coal fire was already going, crackling low and steady, sending the occasional spark whispering up the chimney. I had been living with Gran for a couple of years by then, helping where I could, though more often than not that meant being reminded what I’d forgotten.

“Mind,” she said without looking up, “bring two pails up. No jist the yin.”

“Aye, Granny, ah’ll dae that for ye.” I paused at the doorway, glancing back toward the hall. “By the way, huv ye seen Saoirse? Ah called for her, but she never answered.”

“Aye, son,” she replied, settling her hands in her lap. “She’s wi’ her mum. They’ll be back for their dinner.”

It did not take long to fill the pails. Three shovels each was enough, and once they were full, I lifted one in each hand and made my way back upstairs, taking the steps more carefully this time.

“Put them in the middle cupboard,” Gran said, glancing over her shoulder. “We’ve got plenty o’ coal on the fire the noo.”

“Nae bother,” I replied, setting them down where she had pointed. “Dae ye want me tae get some o’ the sticks ye’ve got here?”

“No,” she said, already moving toward the hearth. “That’s the kindlin’. Ah need that fur the mornin’.”

She took up the poker and gave the fire a couple of sharp jabs, each strike sending a scatter of sparks up the chimney, brief flashes of light against the soot-dark stone. “We’ve got plenty o’ heat in there yet,” she added, studying the flames, “and if am right, the water should be hot enough for a bath before bed.”

I nodded, letting the warmth of the room settle for a moment before the sound of footsteps broke through it—quick, uneven, and unmistakable. Before long, I heard the familiar patter on the stairs.

“Granny, we’re here for dinner. What did ye make?” Liara called as they came up from below.

“Some mince and tatties,” Gran answered, her voice carrying easily through the house, “and we’ll huv some fresh pie after.”

“Uncky Tharian, can we play?” Saoirse asked, already turning toward me before I had the chance to answer.

I glanced back toward the kitchen. “How long until dinner’s ready, Granny?”

“Probably half an hour,” she replied. “Yeh’ve got time fur yin game.”

That was all Saoirse needed. “Come on,” she said, grabbing at my sleeve, already pulling me toward the door. “Let’s go and play.”

I let myself be dragged along, taking the stairs two at a time as we went back down, the rhythm of the house carrying me forward without thought. Behind me, her smaller steps followed as best they could, quick at first, then faltering.

“Slow down,” she called, her voice trailing just enough to tell me she’d fallen behind. “I can’t keep up with you.”

I slowed, glancing back over my shoulder as she reached the last few steps, slightly out of breath but grinning all the same, as though the effort had only made the game more real.

“Right then,” I said. “Ye’re countin’.”

I backed away slowly and carefully, making my way toward the wall at the back of the garden. It wasn’t high—barely more than a few feet—and over the past year, I had taken to teaching her how to climb it, how to balance along the top without losing her footing. At four years old, she had taken to it quickly, far quicker than I had expected.

Beyond the wall lay a small stretch of trees, uneven and scattered, the kind of place that never quite deserved the name she had given it.

“The forest.”

It was not dense enough to be that, not truly, but I had never found it in me to correct her.

I waited there a moment, listening, until her voice carried out behind me, bright and certain.

“Ready or not, here I come!”

I moved then, slipping along the edge of the wall before dropping down into the trees, keeping low as I went. It did not take long to find a place where I could see without being seen, a narrow line between two trunks that gave me just enough of the garden to watch her search.

She checked the bushes first, quick and determined, then moved behind the sheds, peering into corners with a seriousness that far outweighed the game itself. I watched her circle back, her gaze lifting toward the wall as she paused, considering.

Then she stepped forward and began to climb.

I felt a small flicker of satisfaction at that. She had learned well.

Knowing she was on the right track, I moved again, easing further into the trees, careful with each step, mindful of the ground beneath my feet. The air shifted slightly as I went, the sounds of the house growing quieter behind me, replaced by the softer rustle of leaves and the faint movement of branches overhead.

It did not take long to find a fallen log, its trunk hollowed and dark along one side, just enough to break my outline if I stayed low. I settled behind it, steadying my breath, listening as her footsteps drew nearer.

Then I heard it.

Two small feet landing on the other side of the wall.

Immediately, the hairs along my arms stood on end. There had always been something about waiting to be caught that unsettled me, a quiet tension that settled beneath the skin and refused to ease, no matter how many times the game had been played.

“I’m coming for you,” Saoirse called, her voice carrying lightly through the trees as she moved through the grass, the dry leaves beneath her feet crunching with each step. Each one drew closer than the last, measured and deliberate, until I knew she was somewhere above me, just beyond the cover of the fallen log.

I held still, steadying my breath, listening.

That was when I felt it.

A warmth at the back of my neck, close enough to be mistaken for breath, though there was no sound to accompany it. No footstep on the leaves, no shift of weight, no presence that could be placed or understood. Only the feeling of something there, where nothing should have been.

I did not move.

I did not look.

I waited.

“I found you,” Saoirse said, her voice bright with triumph as she came around the edge of the log, her grin wide and unguarded.

The sound of her voice broke the moment cleanly, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding as I pushed myself up. I brushed the dirt from my hands and turned, glancing back toward the hollow behind the log.

It was empty.

Just shadow. Just the same hollowed wood I had slipped behind moments before, undisturbed.

“Did you see where I was?” she asked, already moving around me, too excited to stand still, as though the game had never paused at all.

“Aye,” I said, giving a small nod. “Ye were close.”

“I knew it,” she said at once, satisfied with that alone, before reaching for my hand. “Again.”

I hesitated, though only for a moment, then let her pull me away from the trees, back toward the wall, the game already starting over in her mind as though nothing had interrupted it.

We moved out into the open again, the sounds of the house settling back around us, the quiet of the trees falling away behind us.

I didn’t look back at first.

When I finally did, it was only for a second, a quick glance toward the place where I had been hiding.

There was nothing there.

I told myself it had been nothing.

Still, I kept closer to the wall the next time we played.

“I knew it,” she said at once, pleased with herself, before reaching for my hand. “Again.”

I hesitated for a moment, then let her pull me away from the trees, back toward the wall, the game already starting over in her head as though nothing had interrupted it.

We moved out into the open again, the sounds of the house settling back around us, the quiet of the trees falling behind.

I didn’t look back straight away.

When I did, it was only for a second.

There was nothing there.

I told myself that was all it had been.

Still, I found I stayed closer to the wall the next time we played.

Next episode: something quieter… but not entirely safe.

I got the letter just after breakfast.

It came in a cream envelope, sealed with the mark of Black Hall—the main smithy for the pit—and I knew what it was before I opened it. I had been waiting for it, thinking about it, turning the possibility over in my mind for weeks until it had begun to feel less like a question and more like something inevitable. Still, when I broke the seal, I did so carefully, as though the answer inside might somehow change depending on how I handled it.

I remembered talking to Dad about it years before, long before the letter had ever been more than a distant hope. I had told him, plain as anything, what I wanted to be, what I thought my life might look like.

“I want tae be a smith.”

It had always been met with the same response, spoken in that steady, measured tone that never quite rose to argument but never yielded either.

“What dae ye want tae dae that fur?”

Today was no different.

“Dad,” I said, still holding the letter in my hand, “ma letter came this mornin’.”

“Aye?” he replied, setting his coffee down with deliberate care, as though he already knew exactly where the conversation would lead. “An’ what letter was that?”

“The one fae Black Hall. They offered me an apprenticeship.”

He gave a low grunt in response, the sound sitting somewhere between acknowledgment and disapproval.

“Hmmph.”

I felt the shape of the conversation before it fully formed, the same pattern we had walked through more than once, each time circling the same point without ever quite settling it.

“Here we go again,” I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “It was you that put me in contact wae Tornuk. You fixed his stane dyke, among other things. He’s got a big hoose, so what’s wrong wae bein a smith?”

Dad leaned back in his chair then, studying me in a way that made it clear he was weighing more than just the words I had spoken. His gaze lingered a moment longer than I liked, as though he was trying to measure not only what I wanted, but what it might cost.

“It’s no that it’s wrong, son,” he said at last. “It’s that there’s been talk o’ the mines closin’.”

I frowned slightly, the certainty I had felt only moments before beginning to shift. “Talk?”

“Aye,” he replied. “After all, it’ll jist take yin mare bad accident at Morrison’s Haven before they pull the plug.”

The words settled heavier than I expected.

The letter was still in my hand, the paper warm where my fingers had held it too long, as though I had been reluctant to let it become real. A moment before, it had felt like a door opening, something clear and certain, a step forward into the life I had imagined for myself.

Now it felt like something else entirely.

Not an answer, but a question.

Not a beginning, but a choice I didn’t yet understand.

Two weeks later, the decision had already been made.

The smithy was louder than I had imagined it would be, the sound of hammer on metal ringing through the space with a rhythm that never quite settled into silence. Heat pressed in from the hearths, thick and constant, carrying with it the scent of iron and ash. It was not unpleasant, but it demanded attention, the kind of environment that made you aware, very quickly, that this was a place where mistakes were remembered.

“Tornuk,” a voice called from somewhere deeper in the workshop, though I could not yet tell who it belonged to.

“This is Davrick,” Tornuk said, guiding me further inside, his hand gesturing with a kind of casual authority that made it clear the space answered to him. “Over here is going to be your space.”

He pointed toward a worn grey table, its surface marked by years of use, the edges smoothed where hands had rested and tools had been set down without thought.

“And over here,” he continued, turning slightly, “is your hearth. Ye’ll be responsible for cleaning it each night before ye leave, and resetting it for the following day. If ye’re here early, ye’ll set Davrick’s an’ all.”

I nodded, taking it in without complaint. The work did not bother me. If anything, it felt right—clear, defined, something that could be improved with time and effort.

I did not care that I might seem like little more than a lackey in those first days. That was not what I saw when I looked around that room. What I saw was a beginning.

One day, I would have a smithy of my own.

This was simply where it started.

“Tharian lad,” Davrick called out, his voice carrying easily over the steady rhythm of the workshop, “did ye bring any o’ yer ma’s cooking fur lunch?”

I turned toward him, catching the hint of a grin beneath the soot and sweat.

“Ah remember workin’ wi yer da’ right oot o’ school,” he went on. “Cuddie, as we called him, was a great worker… and he packed quite a punch anaw.”

There was laughter in it, the kind that came from long memory rather than mockery, and I found myself smiling despite the heat, despite the noise, despite the weight of everything still settling into place.

For the first time since the letter had arrived, the path ahead felt solid beneath my feet.

At the time, it seemed simple.

Work hard. Learn the trade. Build something of my own.

I had no reason to think it would be anything else.

“Wait,” I said, the question catching me before I had time to think it through. “You worked wi’ ma dad?”

“Aye,” Davrick replied, a faint smile forming as his gaze shifted, not away from me exactly, but somewhere beyond the walls of the smithy, as though he were looking back into a place only he could see. “Fur the coal man. We worked after school, and then through the summer before I got ma apprenticeship.” He paused then, the moment stretching just enough to carry the weight of memory, before continuing in a lighter tone. “Ah remember yin time, a few o’ us thought it’d be funny tae hae a bit o’ carry-on wi’ yer da. We waited till it was gettin’ dark, an’ tried tae jump him.”

A short laugh escaped him, roughened by years and heat and the kind of work that settled into a man’s bones.

“Ah think aw four o’ us got black eyes… and if ah remember right, wee Willie got some o’ his teeth knocked oot.”

The laughter came easier after that, carrying with it a warmth that softened the edges of the story rather than sharpening them. Davrick shook his head slightly, still half-caught in the memory.

“Damn,” he muttered. “They were the guid auld days.”

For a moment, I could almost see it—the version of my father I had never known, younger, stronger, standing in the half-light with four lads foolish enough to think they could take him and learnin’ the hard way that they couldn’t.

Davrick turned then, the moment slipping away as easily as it had come, and began to walk, already moving on to whatever came next as though the past had no reason to linger.

“Follow me,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. “Ah’ll show ye where the howff is.”

In a previous post, I shared the inspiration behind Elariel. Now it’s time to talk about the other main character in Of Ash and Prayer: Tharian MacRen.

If you read that earlier post, you may have already guessed something. If Elariel was inspired by my wife, then there’s a good chance Tharian was inspired by me.

You’d be right.

When I first began writing this story, it was never meant to be anything grand. It was a simple anniversary gift — something small, something personal. But stories have a way of outgrowing their containers. The characters grew, the world expanded, and what began as a quiet gesture slowly became something I couldn’t put down.

One of the first questions the story demanded I answer was his name.

I’ll be honest about how I found it. I used an AI tool to help brainstorm possibilities. I wrote down who he was — his character, his trade, the age I imagined him, the feel I was reaching for — and asked for names that carried a dwarvish weight with Gaelic influence. From that list, one name pulled ahead of the others without much argument.

Tharian.

In the world of the story, the name carries the meaning noble steward. It felt right the moment I read it. In the early chapters, he works as an apprentice blacksmith, living an ordinary life before the world begins to ask more of him than he expected.

Some of what shapes him came directly from my own life.

Like Tharian, I spent years chasing money instead of meaning. It took time — and a few hard lessons — to understand that life rarely follows the script we write for it in our heads. Today, my wife and I live in America with our two children, and the road that brought us here left marks I couldn’t keep out of the story even if I tried. Those experiences found their way into Tharian quietly, the way real things tend to.

But somewhere along the way, he stopped being a reflection and started being himself.

That’s the part I didn’t expect. What began as something close to a self-portrait gradually revealed more differences than similarities. He developed his own instincts, his own way of carrying hard things, his own path to walk.

I think that’s when a character truly begins to live — when the writer steps back and the character steps forward.

Anna was not that.

She arrived mid-sentence one afternoon, stepped into a scene I was already writing, and simply refused to leave. There was no planning involved. No outline entry. No moment where I said I need a character like this. She just appeared — and somehow, she already knew who she was.

What surprised me most was how quickly she found her footing. As the story deepened around her, she deepened with it. Her personality didn’t develop so much as surface, as though it had been there the whole time, waiting for me to catch up. She knew what she valued. She knew how she moved through a room. She knew what she would and wouldn’t say.

I just had to pay attention.

I won’t tell you much about the role she plays in the larger story — that reveal is one I’m protective of, and I think you’ll understand why when the time comes. What I will say is that she matters. More than this excerpt suggests.

Last week’s post was a standalone piece from her backstory — a glimpse of who she was before the story begins. Whether I build on it here, or whether it belongs to a different book entirely, I haven’t fully decided. Some stories ask to be told in their own time.

For now, she is simply Anna. A woman called to something she didn’t seek, walking a path that revealed itself one step at a time.

I think that’s enough.

Thank you for staying with me through this process. It means more than I tend to say.

Tomorrow, we meet Tharian.

A few things I did: I leaned into the “she surfaced rather than developed” idea, kept the Sky Forge/Serath Kai detail out to protect the reveal, and ended with just enough forward momentum to make Tharian feel anticipated.

What do you think — does it still sound like you?

Where the Story Stands — An Update

As I mentioned previously, the first draft of Of Ash and Prayer is now complete.

At the moment, the manuscript is with a small group of beta readers who are reviewing it and providing feedback. Their role is to help identify places where the story might be expanded, deepened, or clarified. Having fresh eyes on the work at this stage is incredibly valuable, and I’m looking forward to seeing what insights they bring.

While that process is underway, I’ve also begun making a start on Book Two. The working title I’m currently using is Roses and Ruin. It’s still very early days, but I’m excited about where that story might lead. I’ll share more updates about that project as it develops.

So what comes next for Of Ash and Prayer?

The next step is the second draft. This is the stage where scenes are tightened, some chapters may be revised, and certain characters might be adapted or deepened. It’s the point where the story becomes more focused and intentional.

But—and it’s an important “but”—I’m genuinely happy with where the story stands right now. Will things change during the next draft? Almost certainly. That’s part of the process. But the first draft already holds the story I want to tell, and that’s the version I’m moving forward with.

One of the most interesting lessons from this process has been learning what happens when I try to force the story into a rigid structure. Every time I tried to push it into a box that didn’t fit, the story stalled. The characters stopped moving. The momentum disappeared.

A writing friend gave me a piece of advice that helped unlock things again: trust the story.

Trust the characters.

And most importantly, don’t keep it hidden away. If the story exists, it deserves to be pursued.

That encouragement made a difference. It helped me commit to seeing Of Ash and Prayer through.

Next week, I’ll share something a little different: the origin of one of the story’s central characters—Tharian—and where the idea for him first began.

The letter bore the seal of Serath Kai — simple, unadorned, pressed in pale wax. She held it for several moments before breaking it, steadying her breath as though she were about to enter prayer.

Elder Arn had written only a few lines. Her work in Avionne had been noted. Her teaching had been careful. Faithful. She was invited to join the staff at Serath Kai as an Eldress, to instruct in the History of Solaneth and to train the Junior Lightbearers.

There were no embellishments. No praise beyond what was necessary.

Still, her hands trembled.

Serath Kai was spoken of within the temple system with restraint. Not because it was secret — everyone knew it stood somewhere beyond the northern ridges — but because few were called to walk its terraces.

Anna read the letter twice more before kneeling beside her desk.

“If this is where you would have me,” she whispered, “then I will go.”

Her reply was brief.

It would be her honor.

Two months passed before the second letter arrived.

Come prepared.
Arrive by the third moon of the fourth month.
Training begins with the fifth.

There were no directions beyond that.

When she told her closest friend, she did not boast. She simply held the letter out with both hands.

“It came,” she said, unable to contain the quiet brightness in her voice.

Her friend’s eyes widened as she read the seal. “Serath Kai?”

Anna nodded.

“What will you teach?”

“History,” she said, smiling. “The History of Solaneth.”

Her friend laughed softly. “You always did love the old texts.”

Anna only smiled wider. “They matter.”

A month later, she stepped from the ship into mountain air sharper than the valley winds she had known all her life.

The path began in cobblestone, damp with morning dew. Snowdrops lined the edges where the frost had begun to thaw. The pines rose tall and steady, their scent heavy in the thinning air.

Gradually the stone gave way to rougher ground. The climb grew steeper. Her breathing shortened.

She did not hurry.

Each step felt like preparation.

By the time the trees began to fall away, her legs ached and her lungs burned lightly with the altitude. Ahead, the mountain face rose unbroken, pale stone catching the late afternoon light.

She paused.

The instructions had been sparse, but clear: Continue until the trees end. Walk toward the stone.

There was no gate. No archway. No visible path forward.

Only rock.

Anna stepped closer.

The stone did not move, yet something about it shifted in her perception. A faint seam where light bent strangely. A line that had not been there from a distance.

She reached out.

The air felt denser there — not resistant, not forceful — simply present.

Another step.

The seam widened.

What had appeared to be sheer cliff clarified into depth. Terrace. Carved edge. The faint outline of stair against marble that moments before had seemed solid stone.

She did not look back.

Crossing the threshold felt ordinary beneath her boots. The marble held warmth from the sun. The air settled around her.

Behind her, the mountain stood whole and seamless once more.

Before her rose white stone shaped with intention — columns clean and deliberate, terraces ascending in measured order, light resting along each edge.

There was no fanfare. No proclamation.

Only stillness.

The air closed softly around her.

The months of waiting, the climb, the uncertainty of the final stretch — all of it felt purposeful now.

She had not been summoned for recognition.

She had been chosen.

She had nearly reached the end of the chapter.

“Elariel, it’s time for supper.” Amariel’s voice carried up the stairwell, even and composed.

“In a moment,” Elariel called back. “I’m just finishing the chapter.”

The book described distant coastlines and mountain passes, cities built where cliffs met the sea. She traced the faint outline of a map in the margin and let herself imagine standing somewhere far from the valley, wind in her hair, purpose clear and uncomplicated.

She closed the book gently.

The heavy oak door gave a soft groan as she opened it, and the scent of rosemary and warm bread drifted upward. She stepped onto the landing, fingers grazing the polished mahogany banister as she descended the sweeping staircase.

In the dining room, the table was already set.

Four places.

Elariel’s eyes paused on the extra setting. The fourth plate sat at the far end, napkin folded too neatly, silverware aligned with careful precision.

“Is Anarel joining us tonight?” she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

Amariel did not look up immediately. “Yes. She said she would try.”

Try.

Elariel pressed her lips together. “Of course.”

A silence lingered briefly between them, familiar and unspoken. Supper with the four of them rarely ended without something fraying at the edges. Anarel’s questions had grown sharper in recent months. Less curious. More pointed.

Amariel’s voice softened, though it did not waver. “Be patient with her. We must not push her further from Solaneth than she already stands.”

Elariel nodded automatically. “I won’t.”

The front door opened before the temple bells finished their evening toll.

Anarel stepped inside without knocking, wind clinging to her cloak, and her cheeks flushed from the cold. Strands of hair had escaped whatever attempt she’d made to bind it back.

“Good evening,” Amariel said carefully.

“Evening.” Anarel’s tone was flat, but not yet sharp.

She removed her cloak slowly, eyes scanning the table before settling briefly on Elariel.

“I see we’re all here.”

There was a weight to the words that made them feel heavier than they needed to be.

They sat.

For a time, only the quiet clink of porcelain and the soft tear of bread filled the room.

Elariel passed the basket across the table. “There’s rosemary tonight. Mother tried a new blend.”

Anarel took a piece without meeting her eyes. “Of course she did.”

It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite. But it wasn’t neutral either.

“How was your afternoon?” Lindara asked.

“Productive.”

“In what way?” their father asked, calm and measured.

Anarel set her fork down.

“It’s interesting,” she began, her voice steady but tightening at the edges, “how every question around this table feels like an evaluation.”

“That isn’t fair,” Elariel said gently. “No one is evaluating you.”

Anarel laughed once, short and brittle. “That’s easy for you to say.”

There it was.

“I’m not against you,” Elariel replied. “You know that.”

“Don’t I?” Anarel’s voice rose slightly. “You defend everything. Every rule. Every correction. Every lecture about how I’m drifting.”

“No one said you were drifting,” Amariel answered.

“You don’t have to.”

Her chair scraped sharply against the floor as she stood.

“You all remember things differently than I do,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “It’s always been that way.”

“That’s not true,” Elariel said, the words leaving her mouth before she could soften them.

Anarel’s eyes filled instantly.

“There. See?” she said. “Correct me again.”

She stepped back from the table, shaking her head.

“I can’t do this tonight.”

The front door closed harder than it needed to.

Silence settled over the room.

Elariel stared at the empty chair. “She always turns it into this,” she murmured, though her voice lacked conviction.

Amariel folded her hands carefully in her lap. “It isn’t that simple.”

Elariel looked up.

“Anarael hears things differently than we intend them,” her mother continued. “When we correct her, she hears accusation. When we question her, she hears doubt. And when she feels doubt…” She let the sentence trail off.

“She thinks we don’t love her,” Elariel finished quietly.

Amariel nodded.

Elariel believed what she had said at the table. She had not meant harm. She had not intended judgment. But intention did not always shape how words were received.

“Solaneth teaches truth,” she said after a moment. “Truth doesn’t change because someone feels wounded.”

“No,” Amariel agreed softly. “But wounded people do not always recognize truth when they hear it.”

The room grew still again.

And the fourth place at the table remained empty.

The first version of her was never meant for publication. She was my attempt to honor my wife. I have always admired her faith, the steadiness of it, the way it shapes her decisions without drawing attention to itself. Her intelligence can be intimidating. Her depth of biblical knowledge runs deep. And her discernment, the ability to see through things quickly and clearly, is something I respect more than I can easily put into words.

I wanted to write a character who carried those qualities. A woman whose strength was not loud, but rooted. A woman who expressed love through acts of service and valued presence over performance.

At first, Elariel looked very much like that.

But stories have a way of resisting confinement.

Somewhere along the way, her thoughts stopped lining up with how I know my wife thinks. She began responding differently and interpreting things differently. There was a naivety in her that my wife does not possess.

I didn’t like that at first.

I rewrote her. Then rewrote her again. And again. I kept trying to press her back into the mold of the person who inspired her. It felt disappointing to realize she was drifting from that original intention.

Then I watched The Man Who Invented Christmas, the film about Charles Dickens writing A Christmas Carol. There’s a moment where Dickens argues with his own characters as if they have lives independent of him. I didn’t know characters developed that way. I thought you controlled them.

That realization changed how I approached Elariel.

She wasn’t drifting. She was becoming.

The difference between her and my wife ultimately came down to formation. My wife came to faith at 4 years old, grounded in biblical truth from the beginning. Elariel also entered formation at four, but inside a temple system. At first, she was trained in truth. Over time, deception slowly wove itself into that training.

Where my wife’s faith was rooted in Scripture, Elariel’s faith was shaped inside structure.

That difference matters.

My wife has not read the manuscript yet, but through conversation, she has recognized both the similarities and the divergence. And that feels right. Elariel carries inspiration from her, but she stands on her own.

At some point, I had to let her.

For centuries, a small harbour on the coast of East Lothian, Scotland, played an outsized role in the industry of the region. Known today as Morrison’s Haven, this once-busy port was a hub for coal, brick, pottery and even oysters—linking inland industry with sea trade long before railways took over the landscape.

Origins: Newhaven and Acheson’s Haven

Before it was called Morrison’s Haven, this stretch of coastline bore earlier names. In the 1520s, monks from Newbattle Abbey were granted permission to build a port known as Newhaven—a name designed to reflect its purpose: a haven from the unpredictable Firth of Forth tides. Over the decades, as ownership changed, it became known as Acheson’s Haven.

Historic map showing the site of the Battle of Prestonpans, from the National Library of Scotland

By the 17th century, the name that endured was Morrison’s Haven, deriving from the Morrison (or Morison) family of Prestongrange, who invested in rebuilding and expanding the harbour for trade and industry.

What Passed Through These Waters

Morrison’s Haven was never a grand deep-water port. Instead, it thrived by serving local industries and coastal trade. It exported:

• Coal, mined from nearby Prestongrange and wider East Lothian fields
  

• Bricks and tiles, products of the firebrick and clay works
  

• Salt, pottery, and chemicals, produced from local manufacturing
  And it imported goods like timber, stone, and salt rock from the continent.
  

Early illustration or photo of ships at Morrison’s Haven loading cargo

Trade was strong enough that by the late 17th and early 18th centuries, customs records show Morrison’s Haven hosting many imports and exports with Europe—making it a small but significant node in Scottish coastal commerce.

Prestongrange: Coal, Industry, and Community

Photo of the Cornish beam engine or winding gear at Prestongrange Museum

Just inland from Morrison’s Haven lies Prestongrange, one of Scotland’s oldest industrial sites. Coal was first mined there in the early 1200s, likely the earliest documented coal extraction in Britain.

Over centuries, the site evolved from simple pits to a full-scale industrial complex featuring:

• Collieries
  

• Brickworks
  

• Glass works
  

• Pottery and ceramics production
  
  

All these industries were connected to Morrison’s Haven by road, rail and water.

In 1830, Prestongrange installed a deep shaft to access the Great Seam of coal, and by the late 19th and early 20th centuries, thousands of men worked and lived around the colliery.

A Harbour and a Mine, Growing Together

For much of the 18th and 19th centuries, the fortunes of Prestongrange and Morrison’s Haven were closely linked. Coal pulled from the earth was shipped out by sea; materials brought in fed factories, furnaces, and homes.

Yet, by the early 20th century, larger ports and rail transport began to eclipse the small harbour. Trade declined and, by the 1920s and 30s, the last foreign ship left Morrison’s Haven, and the port was gradually filled in and landscaped.

Photo of the remaining roundel on the beach today

Today, what remains are remnants of stone piers and a quiet beach where ships once called. But the site is woven into the broader story of Scottish industrial history—so much so that the Prestongrange Industrial Heritage Museum now preserves artefacts and machines from the era.

Why This Matters

Morrison’s Haven wasn’t vast or glamorous. It was a working harbour entirely shaped by industry—by coal and clay, by ships and by the sweat of miners, craftsmen, dock workers, fishermen, and families. Its story intersects with the rise and eventual decline of traditional industries in Scotland.

More importantly for the story I’m building, Morrison’s Haven represents a threshold—a place where everyday toil met the wider world, where unseen systems carried weighty consequences, and where quiet resilience mattered.

Closing Thought

This is a world shaped by the interplay of labour and land, of sea and coal, of past and present. It’s a landscape that refuses simplicity—just like the people who lived within it.

But as the story developed and the characters began to feel real, something changed. What unfolded on the page wasn’t only about an internal battle. It was about stepping into a conflict that already exists, whether the characters recognize it or not. A war not born inside a person, but one waiting beyond them, unseen and largely unacknowledged.

At some point, the title stopped fitting the story, and I realized I was trying to make the story live inside a name it had outgrown. That’s when the search for a new one began, not to rebrand the book, but to listen to what it was becoming.

The shortlist looked like this:

• The War Within
  

• Of Ash and Prayer
  

• The Caledon Chronicles
  

• Tales of the Creator
  

• Faith and Destruction
  
  

Each of them reflected something true about the world or the themes, and yes, I still like The War Within. It just no longer felt like this story.

After a fair amount of deliberation and, admittedly, some help from AI, the same names kept resurfacing. First, it came down to Of Ash and Prayer and The Caledon Chronicles. Then to Of Ash and Prayer and Faith and Destruction.

In the end, the choice was clear.

Of Ash and Prayer didn’t try to explain the story. It didn’t announce conflict or promise spectacle. It simply named the atmosphere. The cost. The posture of the people living inside it.

It sounded like the book I had actually written.

And so it was decided, Of Ash and Prayer was what I chose, and suddenly the title fit the story, rather than the other way around.

See you all next week,

Stewart

I now have a complete first draft manuscript that I’m genuinely happy with. Not because it’s perfect, but because the story feels whole. The voices on the page no longer sound like mine. They sound like themselves.

One thing this process continues to teach me is patience. Sometimes characters need time to grow beyond what we originally planned for them. They resist shortcuts. They insist on becoming more than outlines, and when you let that happen, the story deepens in ways you couldn’t have engineered.

This is where the story learns how to breathe.

Now that there’s a working manuscript with living places and settled voices, I’ll be sharing more from behind the scenes. In the coming weeks, expect character bios, short scene snippets, and occasional special releases of material that won’t make it into the final book. If something stands out to you as meaningful, I’d genuinely love to hear why.

From here, the work turns toward reading, refining, and developing the second draft.

Thank you for walking alongside this process and for the quiet support you’ve shown along the way.

Stewart

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Hey there,

Thanks for subscribing. I’m Stewart, and I’m writing a dark fantasy series called THE WAR WITHIN.

What’s it about?

Imagine alternate Scotland where spiritual warfare isn’t metaphorical—it’s real. Where corrupted temples suppress truth through memory manipulation. Where two unlikely witnesses must expose centuries of lies before darkness consumes…

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