
by T. M. Briar
Solanthor is a civilization in slow, dignified decline. Its institutions still stand: faith, learning, order, commerce. And they just stopped producing the right kinds of people. Instead, it got these four. A priestess who agrees to everything and means all of it, which is its own kind of catastrophe. A scholar fifteen years into debt for magic he still can’t cast properly… though his right hook works exceedingly welll. A holy warrior whose solutions are always total, sincere, and leave craters. A quartermaster who already wrote down exactly how this would go wrong, and was right. They are not failing. That’s the problem. The right outcomes keep happening, through the wrong people, in the wrong ways, at considerable cost to everything around them. Solanthor has survived worse. It just hasn’t had to survive them. An episodic fantasy about capable people running from their own nature, and a world that keeps demanding exactly what they’re trying to escape. Every episode, a new problem. Every episode, the same four people. The situation changes. The wounds don’t. Something, eventually, gives.
| # | Title | Words |
|---|---|---|
| 0 | Prologue - Apotheosis | 0 |