Hello readers!

  It's been a fun journey so far and we're approaching the end of this book. I wanted to give you a little scoop of what's coming.

  I estimate about 9 chapters remain and it's hard for me to end this book, I could do it now, but I am trying to tie up and connect all the loose ends. The chapters that follow have not been written, whereas the rest of the book had been already.

  After it's conclusion I will begin a polishing pass and re-release chapters as I try to cut the word count and remember to bring forward important details into later chapters. I have a problem as a pantser (I write by the seat of my pants with no outline) and it's that I tend to forget objects and how certain places look. (Thalindras office, the layout of the city, ect) so I will focus on that during the next pass.

  I compensate by avoiding describing it sometimes (most recent thalindra visit)

  The engagement on this book has really inspired me, seriously, I appreciate every single comment and follow. I'm not the type to beg for it, but damn does it fire me up!

  So, what comes next?

  I have an idea for a book in my head that I really want to write and it would be something about Lord Death. I may post the intro below for fun. It follows a guy named Azram who works in the local apothecary healing people but he absolutely hates humans, prefers being around the dead. He likes Rebecca who works with him but otherwise, his internal thoughts are VILE and VULGAR.

  Story concept is, he gets wrapped up in a grave robbing scheme for coin and discovers a shard of death which wakes the Graves around him as ghouls and they murder his whole town. He accidentally revives Rebecca as a ghoul and she goes from a very positive and cheery girl to a morbid humor character. They will follow "the wanderer" and try to find answers and more shards, encountering ghouls who think they're human and infiltrating cults.

  What's really going on?

  Lord Death is passing the torch to Azram and he becomes the new Death.

  So over the course of the book, he works on bringing Rebecca back to life as he becomes more dead.

  In the end, he ascends to godhood and she becomes a human.

  Tragic love story, I might lean heavier into the romance because it would be creepy and awkward since shes a ghoul.

  Or, or or,

  I continue with the Akilliz book two, where we venture into the frosthelm mountain. The dwarves have been digging for something and the dark elves aren't as high up on the totem pole as they think.

  It would bring in Nox, the god of shadows, Lord Death, Pyridion (fire god), and more Taimon.

  Dwarves aren't typical in my world. Theyre natrual born sorcerers, when they reach maturity they have this uncontrollable magic that begins where they develop stone and armor on their bodies that they cant remove. Rare materials, ect. They continously mine deeper and deeper looking for Pyridions key (they key to waking the sleeping titan, the father of demons, Pyridion)

  And,

  I will likely begin publishing a more polished version of my first book on this account as I am permanently locked out of my main account due to switching from apple to android.

  I will leave it up to the commenters on which of the two books I write next. If I only get one comment, you win, ill do that one next. If I get zero, well-shit. I will wing it.

  So, I will begin seeking an agent for traditional publishing with this book here, very soon. (After the polishing pass) . Therefore, you are instrumental in my success. If you see something or noticed something i missed or things you dislike, any feedback at all, it's super appreciated.

  That said! I have launched my website and wiki. Both are in the baby stages and I will begin updating them furiously.

  If you're interested- the website is cozygrimdark.com and my wiki is on the front page of this book at the bottom. (Akilliz Brewing with Demons synopsis page)

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  In the wiki I will be posting pictures of all the characters and so forth. Be warned, massive spoilers.

  Also- that picture of the Asian dude on my site is not me, I have tons of updating to do and not enough time.

  Here's the rough intro I drafted for the Azram book. Tentatively titled "How to Grow a Grim Reaper"

  Chapter One: The Hollow Brew

  It was the fifteenth of Hollowtide, and Azram Vesper was late for his rounds at the clinic.

  "Fucking hell," he muttered under his breath as the apothecary door slammed behind him, the chill autumn wind slapping at his threadbare cloak like an impatient creditor. What was it this time? Another snot nosed brat with the flux, or old man Harrow coughing up his lungs again? What did it matter? They all ended the same cold meat on a slab, debts unpaid, and one less voice cluttering the world. Just let the bastard croak already, whispered that nagging voice in his skull, the one that slithered up unbidden during these morning slogs. Save the herbs for someone worth the effort. Or better yet, no one at all. Azram shoved it down, grinding his teeth until the copper tang of blood hit his tongue. Not yet. Not while the sun still mocked him from a bruised sky.

  He'd always prided himself on his precision, the alchemist's art measuring out willow bark and nightshade with scales balanced finer than a beggar's hope. What good was a healer who couldn't keep time? He'd allotted a full hour to trek from his cramped lodgings to Master Eldric's clinic, certain that would leave him twenty minutes to sort the morning's vials before the first wail echoed through the door. Thornwick's lanes were said to all snake toward the old stone building, after all, a festering knot at the village's heart. And he just hated being late.

  Only now, it seemed every piss poor path in Thornwick led through a gauntlet of the living dead pilgrims shambling toward the barrows for Hollowtide blessings, what passed for merchants hawking withered roots and dubious charms, beggars with sores that wept like open secrets, and a gaggle of whores from the edge tents, their paint cracking in the frost as they cooed at passing carts. What one begged forgiveness for wasn't specified. Greed? Lust? The sheer bloody stupidity of drawing breath in this mud choked hole?

  Everyone's got something, haven't they? And you'd be first in line to reap it, you cold hearted prick, the voice hissed again, sharper this time, like gravel under boot. Azram flinched, nearly spilling the satchel of dried mandrake slung over his shoulder. Shut your hole, he thought back, but it only chuckled, low and wet. That sort of rot was what had him sneaking out at night, grave digging with cutpurses for specimens, whispering to shadows that didn't answer. What got a man in trouble wasn't the knowing it was the wanting.

  "Fucking hell!" The word escaped louder than intended, drawing a sidelong glare from a crone hawking eel pies that smelled more of river shit than supper. He pressed on, boots sucking at the muck, the cacophony of barters and bleats and half hearted hymns swelling like a fever dream. The bells for dawn prayers were tolling now, starting with a lazy groan from the roadside shrine to Saint Marrow patron of the gutted and ungrateful building to a ragged clamor as each hovel chapel tossed in its peal, scrabbling for coin and contrition. What thrift was there in prayer when the gods turned a blind eye anyway?

  The clinic loomed at last, its sagging eaves dripping with yesterday's rain, the sign a faded mortar and pestle creaking like a hanged man's noose. Relief flickered, then guttered out as the door flew open and Rebecca Solis burst through, arms laden with a basket of fresh picked feverfew and her skirts a whirl of impractical yellow sundress, the kind that screamed sunshine in a shitstorm. She nearly bowled him over, her laugh bright as polished brass, freckles dancing across her nose like stars mocking the gloom.

  "Az! You're late again! Eldric's about to dose the Harrow boy with radish water and call it a miracle." She beamed up at him, blue eyes wide and guileless, a daisy tucked behind one ear as if the world's rot couldn't touch her. What did she see in this gray slog? Hope? In him? Fool girl, the voice sneered. She'd shine brighter buried. Let her wither save yourself the ache.

  Azram forced a smile, the kind he'd practiced in cracked mirrors until it didn't crack him first tight, professional, hiding the void gnawing at his ribs. "Wouldn't miss it. Wouldn't want to deny the radishes their glory." He took the basket, fingers brushing hers warm, alive, a spark he crushed before it caught. Precision, remember? Measure twice, cut once. Or in this trade, stitch and pray the thread holds.

  Inside, the clinic reeked of boiled herbs and despair sweat, shelves groaning under jars of desiccated things that might've been roots once. Eldric hunched over the workbench, his gnarled hands grinding pestle against mortar with the rhythm of a man who'd long ago stopped caring. The Harrow boy wheezed in the corner cot, skin gray as ditch water, while Aunt Tilda fucking Tilda, with her endless prattle and hips like barges hovered, wringing her apron into knots.

  "Azram, lad! Where've you been? This poor mite's on his last rattle, and Eldric here's brewing piss for potion!" Tilda's voice boomed, shrill as a gutted pig, her eyes red rimmed but sharp, always probing for weakness. What did she want? Gratitude? A miracle from the nephew she'd never wanted?

  Tell her to shove it up her ample arse, the voice urged, gleeful now. Or better dose her brew with nightlock. One less mouth breathing your air. Azram's jaw clenched; he busied himself with the vials, pouring elderroot tincture with hands that didn't shake. Not today. "Just fetching the fresh stock, Aunt. Mandrake's scarce after the rains gods know why they bother growing it here." He glanced at Rebecca, who was already cooing to the boy, her fingers light on his brow, spinning some nonsense about fever dragons fleeing at dawn. The kid's wheeze eased a fraction. How did she do that? See light where he saw only the shadow's edge?

  Eldric grunted, shoving a clay cup Azram's way. "Get this down the whelp. And mind the dosage last time you skimped, old Gutter's heart stopped mid sip." His eyes, milky with age, flicked to Azram's satchel. "And what's that? More of your midnight gleanings?"

  Azram shrugged, the lie smooth as oil. "Just barrow moss. For the poultices." Not the truth the half ghoul finger he'd nicked from a fresh dug pit last night, its flesh still twitching with whatever soul shit lingered. Dig deeper next time, the voice purred. The dead have secrets worth the dirt.

  The morning blurred into sutures and suppositions, Tilda's nagging a drone under the boy's labored breaths. By midday, the Harrow kid stabilized Rebecca's doing, no doubt, her sundress a defiant splash against the gloom. As she wiped her hands, grinning that grin that twisted something in Azram's gut, a shadow fell across the threshold. Cloaked, hooded, the figure smelled of earth and something sharper decay, perhaps, or the faint tang of forbidden inks.

  "Supplies," the wanderer rasped, voice like gravel under cartwheels. "Myrrh resin. Natron salts. The lot for preservation."

  Eldric's pestle stilled. He leaned close to Azram, breath hot and sour. "That's embalmer's shit, lad. For the dead that won't stay. Watch this one he reeks of grave magic."

  Azram nodded, all business, but the voice in his head laughed. Follow him, you prick. The dead whisper louder than the living ever will. And for once, he didn't argue.