“What do they call you in the villages and towns? I know you as the Black Wolf of Mariskaya, but…tell me, little wolf. Sheath your claws and tell me what your name is.”

I bare my teeth at him, my hands tightening on my sword as he lowers himself back onto the broken throne, mouth twisted into a soft grimace. “They call me many things. One of them the Black Wolf, certainly. Some know me as the Reaper, or Ksenia’s Hound, or even the Mariskayan Viper.”

The king smiles again - fatherly, gentle. “That may be so,” he says quietly. “But I asked for your name, son. Not your titles.”

I turn my blade slightly, so that it’s pointed directly at his throat. “Aleksander Volkova, but you may call me Kingkiller.”

when nineteen year old farmboy sascha volkov goes into the woods one stormy, fateful night, he expects to come out safe with the reins of his family’s lost cow in hand and his unused club in the other, despite the warnings of his mother and the stories he’s heard around the fire about the monsters dwelling in the woods, shadowy monsters with spindly arms and too-long teeth and dead eyes looking for a warm meal to eat.

but he gets more than he bargained for when he accidentally frees an ancient horror, confined for millennia in a weakening magical trap. a starving, eldritch old god, just waiting for some unsuspecting animal to wander into its clutches.

sascha volkov dies that night.

he dies violently and alone in the woods, in these woods teeming with magic and monsters. and yet, he wakes up the next morning in one piece, the woods too-quiet around him, alone once again - but there is always a price for breaking such a fundamental law of the universe.

miles away, trouble brews in this country of visionaries and dark kings, as sascha learns when he sets off to avenge himself. and before he knows it, everything has changed. what started off as a simple quest for bloody vengeance quickly turns into something more, as sascha finds himself drawn deeper and deeper into a web of dark plots thick with magic, violence, and betrayal. and soon enough, he learns the only lesson that matters in this world of uncertainty and fear - history is written by the victors.

• if you're interested in beta reading, DM me here (@wifewulf) or on discord (@/hotspurpercy) to let me know.
• beta readers will have until the 30th of september to finish ASKOH. unless you're a mutual, please don't sign up unless you know you can finish it by then
• beta readers will get access to a private discord server where you can read ASKOH and give feedback, as well as get some bonus short stories and art pieces from me!
• there's currently no limit on the number of beta readers i'm looking for. however, if a lot of people sign up, i may prioritise mutuals and readers of colour

what comes next?

• writing some short stories to submit to student magazines at cambridge
• editing my hotspur poem for a mini zine i'm making with a friend
• picking a new long-form project to be my mainstay
• and querying askoh!!

where can i read askoh?

Long, long ago, before your great grandmother or her great grandmother or even her great grandmother, there was absolutely nothing at all. You ask me, “How can there have been nothing? That’s impossible, there had to have been something.” And I tell you that there was nothing, child. None of the things you’re used to. No sky, no land, no animals, no delicious shashlik, not even a breath of air. But nothingness can only exist for so long before something comes out of it. 

“What do they call you in the villages and towns? I know you as the Black Wolf of Mariskaya, but…tell me, little wolf. Sheath your claws and tell me what your name is.”

I bare my teeth at him, my hands tightening on my sword as he lowers himself back onto the broken throne, mouth twisted into a soft grimace. “They call me many things. One of them the Black Wolf, certainly. Some know me as the Reaper, or Ksenia’s Hound, or even the Mariskayan Viper.”

The king smiles again - fatherly, gentle. “That may be so,” he says quietly. “But I asked for your name, son. Not your titles.”

I turn my blade slightly, so that it’s pointed directly at his throat. “Aleksander Volkova, but you may call me Kingkiller.”

when nineteen year old farmboy sascha volkov goes into the woods one stormy, fateful night, he expects to come out safe with the reins of his family’s lost cow in hand and his unused club in the other, despite the warnings of his mother and the stories he’s heard around the fire about the monsters dwelling in the woods, shadowy monsters with spindly arms and too-long teeth and dead eyes looking for a warm meal to eat.

but he gets more than he bargained for when he accidentally frees an ancient horror, confined for millennia in a weakening magical trap. a starving, eldritch old god, just waiting for some unsuspecting animal to wander into its clutches.

sascha volkov dies that night.

he dies violently and alone in the woods, in these woods teeming with magic and monsters. and yet, he wakes up the next morning in one piece, the woods too-quiet around him, alone once again - but there is always a price for breaking such a fundamental law of the universe.

miles away, trouble brews in this country of visionaries and dark kings, as sascha learns when he sets off to avenge himself. and before he knows it, everything has changed. what started off as a simple quest for bloody vengeance quickly turns into something more, as sascha finds himself drawn deeper and deeper into a web of dark plots thick with magic, violence, and betrayal. and soon enough, he learns the only lesson that matters in this world of uncertainty and fear - history is written by the victors.