u/AngelaCapWriter

I'm rewriting my dark fantasy novel "Tales of Fate" and I'd love your eyes on it.

Hi everyone! I've been working on a dark fantasy called Tales of Fate. A frame narrative about Elara, a marine biology student who stumbles into an ancient bookshop and finds a book that pulls her into centuries of stories, memories, and lives that feel like her own.

At the heart of it is her connection to Leon, a figure who appears across every story and every era. Cold and tender at once. Always there.

I'm currently rewriting the whole thing from scratch. Deeper atmosphere, stronger characters, tighter structure. The first 13 chapters are live on Inkitt now.

I'd genuinely love feedback from this community. What works? What pulls you in? What loses you?

If this sounds like your kind of read, I'd be incredibly grateful for your thoughts. 🖤

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/1565461

Hallo,

ich möchte euch heute einen kleinen Abschnitt aus meiner Reihe Tales of Fate da lassen.

✨ DAS LETZTE GESPRÄCH ✨

Das Fenster starrte gähnend in den Schlund der Nacht, die Kühle kroch herein, hat Frost und Angst gebracht.

Die Vorhänge, sie blähen sich wie Lungen, hohl und schwer, als gäbe es kein Morgen und kein Gestern mehr.

Dort auf dem Sims, ein Schattenbild, so schmal und fein, zu wach für diese Welt, zu fremd, um rein zu sein.

In Gold getaucht der Blick, wie Glas, das brennt und bricht, ein Raubtiergeist im fahlen, kranken Mondenlicht.

Die Finger spielen müßig mit der Schwärze einer Feder, die Haut wie Samt, die Sehnsucht zäh wie altes Leder.

Und daneben ragt er auf, der Herr aus Staub und Zeit,

im Mantel aus Erinnerung, genäht aus Einsamkeit.

Die Hände bleich und zärtlich, wie ein tiefer, dunkler Kuss, der jede Qual beendet, weil er enden muss.

Es kreist das Gold, es tanzt das Metall in der Hand,

ein rhythmisches Gebet am schwarzen Abgrundrand.

Klack.

Klack.

Klack.

Der Atem flach, die Augen trocken, starr und weit,

der Sterbende ersehnt das Ende seiner Zeit.

„Tut es weh?“, bricht es hervor, ein Krächzen in der Nacht, während die Gier des Abschieds leise in ihm wacht.

Die Münze ruht. Der Blick des Todes hebt sich sacht,

nicht grausam, nicht erlöst, nur jenseits aller Macht.

„Nein“, haucht er leise, wie ein Wind im dürren Gras,

„nur selten bricht das Herz aus Fleisch, wie dünnes Glas.“

Das Wesen auf dem Sims, es lächelt schief und leer,

ein Funke Leidenschaft im dunklen Tränenmeer.

Dann tritt der Tod ans Bett, sein Schatten fließt wie Wein, umhüllt den schwachen Leib, bricht in die Stille ein.

„Ihr denkt, ich bin der Schmerz, der euch die Glieder biegt, der Henker, der am Ende über eure Schönheit siegt?“

Ein Lächeln stiehlt sich auf sein Antlitz, kalt und klar:

„Ich war es nie, der euch das Herz zerbrochen hat, fürwahr.“

Der Wind peitscht auf, das Zimmer bebt im letzten Licht, als draußen in der Schwärze eine neue Welt anbricht.

Das Wesen schaut hinaus, wo Schatten tanzend geh'n, und lässt den Tod allein im Raum des Abschieds steh'n.

Tales of Fate started as a question I couldn't stop asking: what if the darkness in us isn't the enemy – but the mirror?

Elara doesn't fight fate. She remembers it. Through centuries, through lives, through a grimoire that finds her whether she wants it to or not. And alongside her: four Riders – not horsemen of apocalypse, but embodiments of what humans carry inside. Hunger. Conflict. Transformation. Death.

They don't bring these things.

They reflect them back.

This is literary dark fantasy. No chosen one. No final battle. Just the slow, sometimes brutal process of recognising who you've always been.

If you've ever read a book that felt like it already knew you – this might be that book.

Currently revising the English edition. Self-publishing late 2026.

Hi everyone,

I'm working on a literary fantasy story — Sie nannten mich Huli Jing / They Called Me Huli Jing — about a fox spirit who travels across different cultures, searching for where she belongs. Every time she helps humans, she is met with fear or rejection.

I'd love feedback on the opening chapter (first ~1000 words).

Specifically:

• Did the opening hook you?
• Did the pacing feel too slow at any point?
• Where did you feel emotionally connected – and where not?
• Would you keep reading?

I'm especially unsure whether the atmosphere works or if it's too quiet for an opening. Happy to return feedback!

Thanks a lot ✨

Chapter 1 – The Hill and the First Light

The morning was not merely still; it held its breath as she opened her eyes for the first time. Thick wisps of mist glided like ghostly fingers over the Green Hill, and the rustling of the bamboo leaves sounded not like wind, but like a soft, polyphonic welcome. There was no memory of a before, no darkness from which she had emerged. She knew only that she was.

A small fox with reddish-gold fur, as warm as the last autumn light breaking through the trees. She stretched, feeling the strange strength in her tendons and the cool, damp earth beneath her paws.

Above her, a white owl circled silently. A stag with antlers that shimmered like spun silver in the pale light stepped out of the shadows of the trees. On a moss-covered stone lay a golden snake, lazily flickering its tongue and eyeing her with lidless eyes.

These were her first friends. Her welcoming committee in this new world.

But as she looked into the stag's eyes and could almost feel the calm beat of his heart, a feeling grew within her that she could not name. None of them were like her. They belonged to the forest, unquestionably rooted in its order. But something else burned within her: a quiet, pressing question. A tugging in her chest that tasted of a sense of belonging the forest could not give her.

She realised in that moment: if she stayed here, she would be safe, but she would never know who she truly was. She would be a beautiful shadow beneath the trees – existing, but unseen.

She walked down the hill. Her paws touched the damp grass cautiously. Curiosity drove her forward, stronger than any instinct for caution. Down below, where the mist was thinning, lay a small village by the river.

The people were loud, chaotic and full of life. Yet she sensed something else in the air, a subtle, bitter undertone: fear. The people were fragile, and they knew it. She wanted to understand who they were – and why the ache in her chest grew stronger when she looked at them.

Then it happened.

A child on the bank slipped on a slippery stone. A brief scream, a splash – and it vanished beneath the grey-green surface. The current immediately seized the small body.

She leapt before the thought could take shape. The impact was hard, the water ice-cold. She dived under, her eyes stinging in the murky water, until she saw the child's shadow. With a powerful kick of her hind legs, she reached it, seized the fabric of the sleeve with her teeth and jerked its head upwards.

With all her strength, she dragged the child to the bank. The child coughed, choked up water, began to cry – but it was alive. Its heart beat wildly against her muzzle as she let go of the fabric.

Then it fell silent. The voices came as whispers.

"Huli Jing…!" An old man sank to his knees. "A good omen," he murmured. But another stepped back, his hands trembling. "Or a bad one," he hissed. "You never know what she really is. They bring good fortune… or ruin."

She didn't understand the words, but she understood the tone. The doubt. The fear. The child looked at her. Not a spark of fear. Only astonished gratitude. It raised its hand as if to touch her. But before the little fingers reached her fur, the mother pulled the child back and pressed it close, as if it were not the river that posed the danger, but her.

The pain came unexpectedly. Sharper than the cold of the water. She turned and walked up the hill. The water dripped heavily from her fur. Unharmed. Just emptier than before.

What was the point of being a miracle if, in the end, one remained nothing more than a warning?

At the top, the owl, the stag and the snake were waiting. She sat down between them, her wet tail wrapped tightly around her cold paws, and shivered slightly.

I don't belong here, she thought. Not with the people who fear what they don't know. And not quite with the animals who ask no questions.

She looked down one last time at the smoking rooftops. The wind brushed against her fur and rustled through the bamboo groves. It no longer sounded like a welcome.

It sounded like a challenge: Find the place where your name is not whispered with fear.

And so her journey began.