In this week's issue of The Goblin Grace Gazette:

• 6 Manuscripts Walk into a Bar
• Work in Progress Updates
• Realm Awards Prayer Request
• A Hoard of Tales: Episodes 10 & 11

Hello, dear friend!

I hope Februrary is treating you well so far. It's only the uh... *checks notes* ...3rd. So hopefully it hasn't had a chance to become cranky with you just yet.

Full disclosure, Februaries are hard for me. There's old scars on my heart that twinge this time of year, and I'm weary from winter but spring still feels so far away.

Luckily, I am EXTREMELY BUSY right now and hardly have time to think about any of that, because I'm too busy thinking about fictional characters' trauma!

What I mean by that is I'm currently scheduled out several months ahead for alpha/beta reading for upcoming books (I currently have six lined up, zero regrets), and let me tell you...

These stories are already turning out to be banger after banger after banger! I can't reveal any secrets about what's going on behind the scenes, but I promise to tell you all about the books when they're ready to release. The future of Christian fiction is looking extremely bright, my friend.

Speaking of alphas...

The first third of AHOT is drafted and is with a small team of readers who are working hard to make sure the episdoes that land in your inbox every month are not total chaos. This has been a very low-pressure project for me which has made it tons of fun, but the more complex the story gets, the more I need other eyes on it to help make sure the plot is plotting, the characters are consistant, and the worldbuilding is tight.

Thankfully, God has given me those eyes and a team of brilliant brains behind them!

WIP UPDATES: A Hoard of Tales is +17K words since we last chatted and is at 34%

I cannot believe I'm talking about this because I promised myself I wouldn't mention it unless my story made it to the long list, but...

1. I realized that was based on pride and a desire to save face.
2. I actually do want to ask you guys for prayers.
3. Anyone who's here reading my newsletter is a real one; I don't need to be embarresed about shooting my shot in front of you even if I miss.

Mending and Madness is currently being evaluated for the 2026 Realm Awards!

For those who don't know, this is a HUGE Christian speculative ficiton competition that gets books in front of a massive audience.

The Prayer Request: I don't expect MAM to win, and I assure you that's not false modesty. Some of the best publishers in Christian fantasy will be entering books alongside mine, and I genuinely hope the best book wins. However, I am praying that MAM will get far enough that the readers who need a story about restoring marriage and trusting in the Lord's provision will find it. I'll probably never even know if that happens (though it would be so cool and encouraging if I did), so I'm trusting God to take my meager offering and do with it what He wills. If you would pray with me that He would use this opportunity to turn MAM for the readers' good and His glory, I would be so grateful!

Previously on A Hoard of Tales...

Amelia is kidnapped and tortured by a mysterious fae. Charles scrambles to find her as time runs out. Desperate, he risks calling on the Djinn of Sovra'an for help.

EPISODE 10

It took fifteen agonizing hours to clear visitation with the highest-security prisoner at the Northwatch Detainment Facility. Even running at top speed (and lubricated by some carefully called-in favors), the bureaucracy moved like a beached whale.

Charles didn’t actually know anyone who’d met the prisoner — the one who had an entire building to himself and no less than a hundred officers assigned to his watch. It sounded like a lot, but according to a friend on the inside, this was just another example of the prison being painfully short-staffed.

Rotshard, if a hundred to one was considered short-staffed…

“Ten minutes,” said the stony-faced correctional officer who met Charles and Captain Greyson at the front gates of Northwatch. “That’s as much as I can give you.”

Charles nodded gratefully, aware of all the extra work his visit was probably creating for this man. Not that he regretted it. He was past caring what he had to do to get Amelia back. And considering who he was about to meet, this was probably just the first in a long string of questionable decisions.

Captain Greyson waited at the gates, and Charles ventured into the facility on his own. He was frisked, then passed through a metal detector and hex neutralizer. He was subjected to a polygraph test, administered by a pixie officer who double-checked his answers with magic. Then a urine test for drugs and something that looked like thermal imaging but apparently checked for glamours.

“You do not tell him your name or anyone else’s,” said the stoic CO as he pressed a neatly folded stack of white cloth into Charles’ arms. “No details about your home, place of work, or family. Violations are punishable by up to six months for each offense.”

Charles nodded, then went into a small sterile-looking room to shower, shave, and dress in the plain white scrubs. The Ancient One was to be given no information about his life outside of these walls. So much as a strong scent or a worn shirtsleeve would offer insight that the prisoner could use to manipulate and psychologically torture. Charles would be arriving to the ninth level of Northwatch security as a blank slate of a man. The only thing he brought with him was a copy of the poem (which had gone through a dozen rounds of approval before it’d been cleared). This version had been typed up, sent to Northwatch via encrypted email, and printed by facility printers on charmed paper that would burn to ash if the prisoner so much as touched it.

“Do not attempt to mislead the prisoner,” said the officer as they ventured deeper into the facility. “He’s older and better at this than you’ll ever be. Don’t be a moron.”

Charles nodded and stopped as they neared a door. The officer scanned his badge, but the door didn’t open. Instead, a masculine voice came out of a speaker on the wall.

“The ravens of Fourth,” began the voice.

“Eat the ash of the flames,” finished the officer at Charles’ side.

Utter nonsense, so it was probably a password that changed every day.

At that, the doors opened, and they continued deeper into the block. Was it his imagination, or were the hallways getting brighter and brighter as they ventured deeper into the prison? Truly, it was excessive — almost as if no one wanted to risk a single shadow marring the smooth gray floors lest the prisoner find a place for his secrets to fester.

Superstitious? Perhaps. But Charles worked in a place where no one was allowed to say the word “quiet” on a slow day lest six robberies, four DWIs, and a shooting happen simultaneously.

They passed two more doors. One with a palm pad and another that scanned the officer’s irises. Each door took them in a sharply different direction, and by now Charles was well and truly lost. Lifeblood help him if he needed to make a quick escape.

Which… was probably the point.

The officer stopped walking abruptly in the middle of the hallway, so Charles did too. He was beyond antsy to keep going. Every minute he wasted was a minute that Tarraven knew what was happening to Amelia.

“Kevrinhart?” the officer asked under his breath — almost inaudibly — as if the prisoner really did have eyes and ears everywhere.

Charles nodded sharply but said nothing. They had not exchanged names thus far, and he’d assumed it was part of the prison’s strict security.

“Half of the guys in this place are here because you put ‘em behind bars,” the officer said.

Charles already knew that. He’d called in every favor he’d ever earned to be standing here right now, many of which had to do with filling the cells of Northwatch so those monsters would be off the streets.

“This isn’t… protocol, to discuss,” continued the officer quietly. “But those other guys are nothing compared to him. Whatever you’re picturing, it’s worse. I know you’re not here on a social call because no one ever is, and I don’t want to know.”

Charles nodded slowly, feeling both unsettled and confused. Why…

The CO spoke one last time as he resumed walking. “You took down the guy who assaulted my niece. You’re a hero to my family. Just… live to see another day, okay?”

Charles swallowed. He intended to do exactly that, if only to rescue his wife and bring her home with him where she belonged.

The final door between Charles and his quarry was flanked by twelve armed correctional officers. Knowing what he was about to face, he knew those guns wouldn’t shoot bullets. Military-grade elemental magic was his best guess, and he honestly hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

Four officers had to scan their credentials simultaneously to request the doors be unlocked, and Charles noticed a window set high in the wall where two men sat. They reached forward on their control panel at the same time, and the magically reinforced titanium doors opened with a heavy, ominous click.

The CO who had escorted Charles to the cell nodded at the door gravely, and Charles entered.

He pretended he wasn’t afraid as the doors shut behind him. He imagined the paper between his hands wasn’t already wrinkling with sweat. He’d fought vampires while disarmed. He’d gone toe to toe with a mountain troll who was high on fentanyl. He’d even faced Amelia’s dragon shifter father to ask for her hand in marriage. This should have been nothing.

Then again, none of them were creatures nearly as old as time itself, made of pure magic, and capable of creating a plague that had killed an entire realm and nearly all of the people inside it. If it hadn’t been for the Blood Bearer…

Charles shook his head slightly. Now was not the time to get distracted.

The prisoner’s cell was a room within a room — a clear, enchanted glass box. Just as brightly lit as the rest of the facility, the twelve-by-twelve enclosure in the middle of the larger white room was disturbing in its simplicity. There should have been more, he thought, even if only for the illusion of protection. Thankfully, several dozen officers ringed the room, each holding guns like the men outside had, and all wearing masks. To protect themselves from giving anything away, he’d assume. Nerves of steel, every last one of them.

And inside the box…

“You’re desperate,” said the creature.

How did you know, Charles wanted to reply. He said nothing. He could not afford to be desperate. Not here. Not while facing this thing.

“No one ever comes unless they’re truly desperate,” purred the monster.

He uncoiled like a snake rising from a box, and Charles swallowed hard at the sheer size of him — twelve-by-twelve had not been a generous enclosure.

The pewter-blue form towered above him, part man and part smoke, shirtless and vast, like he’d been chiseled from a mountain. His massive arms were manacled with gold cuffs, and his sharp features curled with amusement.

“I’m here for information,” Charles said coldly, refusing to be intimidated.

And the Djinn of Sovra’an — the maker of the Rot — grinned.

As a dragon shifter, Amelia had always healed much faster than any human.

Once while camping as a kid, she and Lucy had climbed to the top of a ragged hill overlooking a river. The hill was made of slick shale-like shards over vast, loose mounds of sand. The rocks in the river below had been jagged, turning the cold water white as it crashed against them.

And Amelia’s sparkly purple tennis shoes had not been intended for hiking.

She could still remember the way Lucy’s voice had sounded as she screamed, reaching one tiny, desperate hand down to catch her falling sister. She’d been too late and too small. Amelia had landed among those jagged river stones and twisted as the current battered her little body against them like a rag doll. Her father heard the girls screaming and came running. He dove in and plucked her out, carrying her to safety on the bank by the willows. She’d been a sopping bloody mess.

But by the time they arrived at camp just a short walk later, however, her wounds were scabbed over neatly and her bruises were the sickly yellow of nearly healed damage. Her mother had lost her mind, but after a quick wash with a full pack of baby wipes to remove the crusted blood, she’d relaxed. Amelia was fine, and both girls made it out unscathed — but for a stern talking-to by their parents about staying near camp. By morning, Amelia was practically new.

This time it wasn’t enough.

When Amelia came to, thin cotton was plastered to her body with cold sweat. She was freezing, and the shiver that wracked her body made her whimper with pain.

Her eyes fluttered open. Ever… so… slowly.

They felt gritty and worn out from the tears she’d cried as the blunt-eared fae asked her over and over again to give him details about an organization she’d never even heard of. Darkness colored the edges of her vision, and what she could see was harsh and tinted that same sickly greenish color from earlier. Where was she?

Her arm spasmed as she clawed back to awareness. She looked down at it, surprised to find herself clean and tucked in under neatly made flannel sheets. Not a trace of the blood she’d expected, and her forearm was carefully bandaged where the knife had pinned her to the chair.

The deep purple bruises, though…

“Good morning,” came a gentle voice from her left. “Hangin’ in there?”

Amelia jerked and winced as her alarm jostled her battered body. Merciful Tarraven, why did it hurt to breathe?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said that same soft, masculine voice. “Pinky promise.”

“Who…” Amelia coughed and gasped softly as it made her head pound. She tried again. “Who are you? Where are you?” She cast her eyes around at the room. It was impeccably clean and almost resembled a miniature hospital room on three sides. The fourth was steel bars that led out into a plain white hallway.

“The name’s Kalder,” continued the voice, “and I’m your neighbor to the left. Evrienne is to your right, but she’s not the welcoming basket type. More likely to weave the fibers into a noose. Handy little craft, that.”

“Shut up, Kal,” snapped a throaty female voice. Kalder appeared to be correct — it did sound like it came from Amelia’s other side. “New girl’s still trying to decide if she’s having a nightmare or just woke up in the worst hotel ever. I’ll save you some time, babe — it’s the hotel. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Sheets are nice, though.”

“So,” said the male voice after a moment of silence. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering, eyes welling with tears as she spoke.

“Amelia.”

“Amelia,” repeated Kalder gently. “I won’t lie; I hate that you’re here. But it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

EPISODE 11

“No, no, don’t tell me,” said the Djinn, still grinning. “Let me guess.”

Charles gritted his teeth, forcibly keeping his expression neutral. If a creature of pure magic could salivate, surely the Djinn would be drooling. Was this ‘his meals’ from the riddle? The creature didn’t eat, but he looked like he was about to feast all the same. On Charles’ desperation, perhaps? His ears grew hot with rage. This was life and death for Amelia, but for the Djinn…

“I don’t have time for your games,” said Charles evenly. “Tell me what this means.” He stalked forward and slammed the wrinkled paper against the glass wall of the enclosure so the Djinn could read it.

Several of the officers on the perimeter of the room shifted as if uncomfortable, hands gripping their elemental magic rifles more securely. Despite the high security, no one had specifically told Charles he couldn’t touch the Djinn’s walls. Then again… no one in their right mind ever would.

For better or for worse, Charles had abandoned his right mind approximately twenty hours and 2,000mg of caffeine ago.

“Your left third finger has a strip of lighter skin where you usually wear a ring,” mused the Djinn, completely ignoring the paper. “You’re married, and quite happily so. There’s a groove there, too. You rarely take it off.”

“Tell me…” Charles repeated.

“Law enforcement,” interrupted the Djinn. “You don’t let your back face the door, even if the threat is in here. And you carry yourself like they do.” He flicked his massive pewter-blue hand towards the officers lining the walls, lips curling with sick pleasure. “So self-righteous. So very proud to be wielding the sword of the state — as if the people in charge are worth blindly following. So very… embarrassing.”

The Djinn swirled around, reorienting himself so he was upside down, still smiling like a lunatic.

“Scar through your left eyebrow is cute. How’d you get that? Impressing a pretty girl?”

“Tell me what it means!” Charles snapped, his blood roaring in his ears and hands beginning to shake.

“Oooh,” purred the Djinn. “You did! How very heroic.” The Djinn righted himself then settled down, chin on his hands as if preparing for juicy gossip. “She’s gone, though,” he noted.

Charles’ nostrils flared, and the Djinn appeared to take it as permission to continue.

“You look like you’ve got two black eyes — not sleeping well, I see. And you’ve nicked yourself shaving just now. She likes a little scruff, doesn’t she? You’re not used to being clean-shaven.”

Charles felt like he was going to throw up. If he didn’t get answers soon, the Djinn was going to guess enough information to send him on a wild unicorn chase, and what would become of Amelia then?

“I’ll decode the whole riddle if you tell me all about her,” taunted the Djinn.

No. Never.

“The acrostic spells out LOTHIENNE,” said Charles coldly, painfully aware of the line he was walking as he both asked and didn’t ask about the Faengster of Valehaven. “Is the riddle a map? And how do I find where it leads?”

And there it was.

Just the faintest twitch of one eye. Hardly more than a flicker that would have been all too easy to dismiss as imaginary. Was Lothienne a sore subject for the Djinn? Seriously? The fae gangster who trafficked drugs and girls and… it seemed crazy. But he’d already gambled much to get this far.

Charles bet the rest of his chips.

He leaned forward, one forearm braced on the glass above him and voice lowered, knowing the Djinn wouldn’t be able to resist the allure of a secret.

“You’re not the only one who wants him gone,” he murmured.

It wasn’t information about his life or even Lothienne’s. Not technically. If the Djinn chose to draw conclusions, well… that was hardly Charles’ fault. The Djinn was a criminally insane creature of ancient magic. One sleep-deprived human illusionist couldn’t possibly trick him.

Which was exactly what Charles was betting on the Djinn believing. Internally, he apologized to the kind CO who’d warned him against playing this game.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “and we both win.”

“So what do they think you know?” asked Amelia, staring straight up at the bland white ceiling, and trying to find pictures in the barely-there texture.

She kept imagining trees — probably because she hadn’t seen anything organic in days, not to mention the fact that everything still looked faintly green like it had when she first arrived. It was weird. She felt like her eyes should have adjusted to the strange lighting by now.

Silence.

“Sorry, was that rude? Or… dangerous?”

She flushed. She couldn’t afford to alienate the only allies she’d made here in Hotel Hell, as Evrienne so affectionately called it.

It’d been two days since she’d woken here in this cell, and she hadn’t seen the blunt-eared fae or his dwarf henchmen in that time, just a few nurses — one dryad, one faun, and a shifter — who arrived at regular intervals to change her dressings, check her vitals, and make sure she was eating enough. She was mostly healed by now, though she still couldn’t break through that metallic haze to reach her dragon form. Her neck still ached at the injection site and her muscles were weak, but whether that was from whatever they’d stabbed her with or this unfamiliar bed, she couldn’t be sure.

Ironically, the care here was immaculate and reminded her forcibly of her last hospital stay. As if just being here wasn’t bad enough without her worst memories layered on top of it.

“What do you mean, Amelia?” asked Kalder slowly.

“Like…” Amelia grimaced. “The questions? They think I know things, but I don’t, I swear. And I’m kind of scared of what’s going to happen when they start asking again.”

Evrienne snorted. “They don’t want what’s in our brains, babe, they want what’s in our veins.”

“Poetic,” noted Kalder. “You’re good at crafts and arts, Evrienne — nooses and blood poetry. You’re a regular Renaissance woman.”

“Once there was an obnoxious troll, whose head was the shape of a popcorn bowl,” said Evrienne, voice dripping with disdain and a hint of affection.

Kaldar snorted. “I like it,” he said. “Embroider it on a pillow for me, won’t you?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s in your veins?’” asked Amelia, ignoring their banter as she was not about to give up on getting some shift-snared answers. Information was power, and so long as she knew what was happening, she wasn’t entirely helpless.

“It’s how they survive here in Sovra’an,” said Evrienne blandly.

Amelia swallowed thickly. They’d told her on her first day where they were and why the whole world was that sickly yellowish-green. It made sense, but it was hard to accept even now.

“Take our blood and pump it through those tubes on the walls,” continued the snarky werecat woman. “It’s not just a macabre design choice, though I might respect it more if it was. Being covered by blood protects you from the Rot, ya know? That’s why vampires are the least affected race — because of the blood. It’s like… this gross perversion of what the Blood Bearer did when he opened the Tarraven. But it’s stolen blood and mortal blood, so it’s not nearly as effective. They need new blood daily to keep the Rot from claiming this place and turning all of our hearts to stone.”

“Calcified organs, but sure,” replied Kalder.

“Whatever,” snorted Evrienne.

“Amelia,” said Kalder after a moment in a measured tone.

He said her name a lot, she’d noticed. Nearly every time he spoke to her. It was almost as if he was determined to make sure both she and Evrienne were called by their own names as much as possible.

“Are they not taking your blood?” he finished slowly.

Amelia blinked. “No? I mean… a bit, I guess. But like, in tubes. And only a few. It wouldn’t be enough to pump through the walls like Evrienne was saying.”

“No, that sounds like tests,” said Kalder. “They like to keep us healthy.”

Evrienne snorted. “‘Course they do. Can’t bleed a dead prisoner.”

Amelia opened her mouth to ask more questions, but was interrupted by the now-familiar sound of the door at the end of the hallway emitting a heavy click as it opened. She pushed herself into a sitting position, preferring to face her nurses upright now that she was strong enough. It felt both safer and more dignified that way.

But the person who swiped a key card and entered her cell was not one of her three nurses. It was the dwarf, Gunthalg, pushing an empty wheelchair.

“Come,” he said gruffly. “Lothienne has questions.”

With love, prayers, and tea,

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