A candle flickers beside me, catching the curl of parchment and the edge of an old teacup. I’m staring at a map no one’s ever seen. A blank patch of woodland sits untouched waiting. Not for a battle or a prophecy. Just a name.
Thronheim. Thornwynde. Djenhara.
Each one arrives with a different weight. A different feeling. As though I’ve stepped into a new season, a different wind stirring the trees. I try one, then another, letting the sound of it sit on the tongue.
Naming a place in a fantasy world isn’t just about the sound. It’s about the history you haven’t written yet. The lives you haven’t met. A name carries the mood of the land, its sorrow, its strength, its story.
And some nights, I can’t move forward until I find the one that fits.
Naming places is like uncovering them
Sometimes it feels less like creating and more like discovering. The name already exists somewhere, I’m just trying to hear it clearly. It might come from a half-remembered dream or an echo of another language. Often it arrives when I’m nowhere near the desk. Walking. Waiting. Listening.
Other times, I sit like this. Quiet. Focused. Letting the world grow through the stillness.
The right name shapes the path ahead. It tells me what kind of people might live there. What kind of secrets the soil might keep. A name like Sahmirra might belong to a place scarred by fire. Solvryn whispers of hidden things in the marsh.
And once I hear it, the true one, I know where to go next.
Behind the scenes of a quiet worldbuilder
This is what fantasy writing really looks like most days. Not sweeping battles or lightning storms of inspiration. Just quiet choices, made in the dark, that slowly build a world.
You don’t always need to rush. Some villages take longer to appear. Some names wait until you’re ready to find them.
If you’d like to see more of how I write these stories, how the world of Ældorra unfolds through maps, short stories, and strange midnight moments, you’re always welcome here.
Third in The Wheel of Time Series By Simon J. Phillips
It’s no secret that The Wheel of Time series demands patience. It builds slowly, chapter by chapter, like a tapestry woven in the dark, you don’t always know what the full picture is until you’ve stepped back. But The Dragon Reborn, the third entry in Robert Jordan’s monumental saga, is where that picture finally begins to emerge from the shadows.
This is where the world stops expanding outward and begins folding back in on itself. The stakes rise, the characters deepen, and the mythic weight of Rand al’Thor’s destiny becomes more than prophecy, it becomes reality.
A Shift in Structure, a Strength in Storytelling
Unlike the previous volumes, The Dragon Reborn follows a bold structural shift. Rand, the titular Dragon, is largely absent. And that’s not a weakness, it’s a strength. His presence lingers on every page but it’s Perrin, Mat, Egwene, Nynaeve, Elayne, and others who take centre stage. Jordan challenges the typical ‘chosen one’ narrative by showing us the world reacting to Rand’s ascent rather than merely following in his wake.
It’s in this reaction that the book finds its strength. We feel the weight of prophecy as the pattern tightens. We see the signs, omens, chaos, and political unrest, as nations begin to stir, and the world reshapes itself to accommodate a Dragon Reborn.
Mat Cauthon Awakens
This is the book where Mat comes into his own. Finally freed from the Shadar Logoth dagger, we get our first real glimpse of the roguish, witty, battle-hardened gambler he’s destined to become. His escape from Tar Valon is one of the most thrilling moments in the book, a chaotic run through city streets, dice in the air, and fate at his heels.
Jordan shows incredible restraint here. Mat doesn’t immediately become the legend; he earns it page by page, through struggle and sheer bloody-mindedness. It’s some of the finest character development in the series.
Dreamers, Wolfbrothers, and the Loom of the Pattern
Perrin’s arc continues to evolve, and though his brooding nature can wear thin at times, his growing bond with the wolves adds a haunting edge. It’s here that we begin to sense the vast, spiritual undercurrents of Jordan’s world, dreamwalking: the World of Dreams, and Talents that feel less like magic and more like fate reaching through.
Egwene’s training in the Tower and her own journey through Tel’aran’rhiod offers a parallel to Rand’s, the rise of another kind of power, more subtle but no less dangerous. The female half of the One Power continues to feel richer and more complex than most fantasy series ever attempt, and Jordan does not shy away from making the women in this world powerful, flawed, and capable of true leadership.
The Stone of Tear and the Dragon’s Claim
The climax of The Dragon Reborn erupts in the heart of Tear, a city long resistant to prophecy, and the prophesied site of the Dragon’s rise. Rand enters the Stone of Tear alone, facing off against one of the Forsaken, Be’lal, and ultimately seizing Callandor, the crystalline sword that no man but the Dragon Reborn can touch.
It’s a moment both personal and mythic. Rand doesn’t just fight a Forsaken, he confronts destiny. He steps fully into the role the Pattern has woven for him. The image of Rand holding Callandor, victorious but shaken, marks a seismic shift not just in his arc, but in the world itself. The prophecies are no longer shadows, they’re real, glowing, and deadly sharp.
Final Thoughts
The Dragon Reborn is not a flawless book, it still carries Jordan’s love of travel scenes, internal repetition, and the occasional pacing lull but it’s where The Wheel of Time begins to feel truly alive.
This isn’t just a continuation. It’s a turning. A reshaping. A slow-burning epic beginning to spark.
If you’ve made it through the first two books and weren’t quite convinced, this is the one that might win you over.
You can also watch my companion review video on YouTube if you’d rather hear my full thoughts aloud. It’s linked below.
Let me know in the comments, how did The Dragon Reborn hit you? Did Rand’s absence bother you, or did it make the book stronger
There was no single spark. The story came slowly, like a breath remembered from long ago, or a half-formed thought whispered through stone. A world shaped by old powers. A realm where kings fear magic, and magicians serve at the edge of thrones.
In the beginning, there was only a boy. He worked the castle kitchens in Bremyra, sweeping floors and scrubbing pans beneath the gaze of guards who barely noticed him. One day, something stirred. It broke through him, unseen, instinctive, and changed the course of his life. The Order of Magicians arrived, and the boy was taken.
He did not shine. While others rose through the ranks with ease, he struggled. There were no accolades, no whispered praises in candlelit halls. His tutors pushed him hard, and he endured. The hours were long. The silence longer. He studied while others excelled, remembered spells long after others had passed their trials.
In time, he left the Academy. There were no citadels calling his name. No grand appointments. His master in the Council intervened, and so he returned, back to the same castle where he once carried bread and carved meat. This time, he came as Advisor. The halls had changed. The faces had not.
That was where the story found its voice.
The world around him unfolded slowly. Whispered tensions in the council chamber. Glances that carried more weight than words. A kingdom balanced on memory and suspicion. Within those stone walls, something deeper began to stir, an echo, perhaps, or a remnant of something long buried.
As I wrote, I did not seek grand battles or sweeping prophecy. I sought something quieter. A man who carried more than others saw. A world that remembered what others had forgotten. Magic that did not burn with spectacle, but pulsed through the earth like a second heartbeat.
The Veil, once unseen, began to lift.
What lies beyond that veil remains hidden, for now. This story, like the world it inhabits, is still becoming. Yet its heart remains the same: a kitchen boy, a crown too close, and a voice that waits beneath the silence.
There’s a quiet revolution happening behind the scenes of my creative work, one I never thought I’d be part of. It’s powered by AI, and no, it’s not replacing my stories. It’s helping me bring them to life in ways I couldn’t have managed alone.
Like many indie authors, I wear too many hats. I write late at night. I design lore in the gaps between work and family. I film when I can. And while my passion for storytelling runs deep, time is always the enemy. That’s why I’ve started using AI-generated YouTube Shorts to support my channel, not to flood it with junk, but to expand the edges of my creativity.
These Shorts Are Still Me
The scripts are written in my voice. The ideas are mine. The worlds, fantasy and sci-fi alike, are entirely my own. What AI gives me is speed. A way to turn a scene I wrote, a bit of lore, or a behind-the-scenes moment into a 30-second story that lives online, without spending three hours editing.
And that matters, because these Shorts aren’t filler. They’re intentional fragments of my world, each one crafted to give readers and viewers a glimpse into the universes I’m building.
It’s an Experiment in Creativity
I’m not doing this to cheat the system. I’m doing it to see how far I can stretch what it means to be an author in the modern world. To test if AI tools can act not as shortcuts, but as creative amplifiers. Could they help me reach new readers? Could they let me express my lore through new media? Could they keep the fire burning on days I’m too tired to speak into a camera?
So far, the answer feels like yes.
This Channel Will Stay Focused
Let me be clear: I’m not turning my YouTube into a spam machine. Every AI-generated Short I post will stay rooted in the themes of this channel: fantasy lore, writing life, story updates, and creative experiments.
Some Shorts will feature book updates. Others will bring a map to life. A few might explore the deeper questions inside my world, things like prophecy, time, or gods. All of it ties back to the core: my books, my stories, and the journey I’m inviting you to follow.
Join the Experiment
This is all new, and honestly, a little strange. But if you’re curious, about the writing, the stories, or the way AI might shape the future of art, stick around. Subscribe. Share your thoughts. Watch how this channel grows.
Because I’m not just telling a story. I’m learning how to build it in public, and you’re part of that process now.
Three years ago, I sat down in front of a camera, unsure of my lighting, unsure of my delivery, but certain of one thing: I needed to talk about The Great Hunt.
I had just finished re-reading it after a long time away from the series, and something about it wouldn’t let go. Not just the pace, the characters, or the sprawling world that Robert Jordan begins to fully stretch open in this second volume, but the feeling that, finally, the Wheel had begun to turn with purpose.
That’s what I tried to capture in that video. And even now, years later, I still wonder:
Is it the better book?
The Eye of the World : The Necessary Spark
The first book is the beginning of everything, of course it matters. It introduces Rand, Mat, Perrin. It gives us Emond’s Field, the mysterious Moiraine, the first flight from the Shadow. But The Eye of the World is also cautious. It mirrors Tolkien in many ways. It plays safe to establish the unfamiliar.
It’s not until The Great Hunt that Jordan stops whispering and starts shouting.
The Great Hunt: The True Opening of the Wheel
This is where the chase begins. The Horn of Valere. The portal worlds. Selene. It’s faster, stranger, and far more ambitious. The world suddenly expands, not just in geography but in consequence.
And Rand… Rand begins to become someone you can’t ignore.
When I rewatch that video (yes, it’s still up), I see a younger version of myself trying to articulate this exact turning point. How The Great Hunt didn’t just build on the first, it transformed it.
The Verdict?
If you’re asking me now? Yes, The Great Hunt is the better book.
But The Eye of the World is the better beginning.
And maybe you need both, the spark and the storm,for the Wheel to turn the way it should.
🎥 Watch the Original Video If you’d like to see where my mind was back then (lighting quirks and all), the original video is still live on my YouTube channel.
What do you think? Does The Great Hunt outshine its predecessor or is the charm of The Eye of the World too powerful to beat?
Let me know in the comments, and if you enjoy this kind of reflection, subscribe to the blog. I’ll be revisiting more classic fantasy as I build my own.
There are days when the words come easily. They arrive like old friends, familiar, unannounced, and warmly welcome. You sit down with your tea, open the manuscript, and something clicks. The sentences lean into each other. The story breathes.
And then there are the other days.
You know the ones. Where every sentence feels like it was dragged from the mud. Where the cursor blinks like a silent metronome, keeping time with your growing doubt. When the characters stop speaking. When the world you’ve built, so vivid yesterday, fades like mist at first light.
We talk a lot about inspiration in this line of work. The muse. The spark. The rush of a new idea. But we don’t often talk about what it means to write without any of that. To write when it’s quiet. When it’s hard. When it hurts.
That, I’ve found, is where the real work lives.
Writing isn’t always romantic. Sometimes it’s just a decision: to show up. To sit with the silence. To tap out a paragraph you’ll probably delete tomorrow, not because it’s good, but because it keeps the habit alive. It’s resistance in its softest form, writing even when the muse doesn’t show up.
And on those days, there’s a different kind of satisfaction. Not the high of a breakthrough, but the quiet pride of keeping faith with the story. Of putting your hand to the wheel even when the stars aren’t shining.
Because the truth is, the muse does come back. Eventually. She always does. But sometimes she waits to see if you’ll keep writing without her.
Before he became the greatest threat to Ældorra, Azaroth held a place among the divine.
During the age of the Imperium Arcana, the gods still shaped the world. Their presence guided the rise of empires, the movement of stars, and the sacred flow of magic. Among them stood Azaroth, an entity devoted to balance and universal law. He did not govern love or war. His realm existed at the intersection of order and arcane truth. Mortal kingdoms honoured him with silent offerings, while the Order of Magicians held his name among the highest in their ancient texts.
Over time, something within Azaroth shifted.
No records reveal the full path of his descent. Even the Order, with all its stored knowledge and sealed tomes, whispers only fragments. What remains clear is this: Azaroth chose to leave the High Heavens. He reached downward, into the wounded depths of reality, the realm known only as the First Hell.
That place devours meaning. Magic there fractures into madness. Time becomes a storm of echoes. Azaroth returned changed. Divine no longer, he emerged cloaked in shadows that moved like thought. His magic no longer carried harmony. It consumed. Across the divine realms, tremors of dread followed in his wake.
The God of Magic rose in response. Once kin to Azaroth, he stood alone before the fallen deity. The clash between them tore across sky, land, and sea. Entire mountain ranges cracked. Oceans surged beyond their borders. Celestial towers collapsed into memory.
The fallen was sealed. Azaroth’s essence remained trapped within the First Hell. To ensure the prison held, the God of Magic sacrificed himself. No tomb bears his name. No statue rises in his honour. His essence faded, though his victory allowed the world to continue.
The seal endured across centuries.
Now, it weakens.
In The Veil of Kings and Gods, faint tremors move through forgotten chambers and shattered temples. Spells fail. Visions twist. In moments of silence, some hear voices echoing with words never spoken. The First Hell watches once more. Azaroth reaches toward the living world through cracks in the veil.
He remains more than a demon. A god’s ambition shaped his fall. His memory was stripped from scripture, yet his will never faded. He waits, not in silence, but in hunger.
In Ældorra, magic is not studied. It is claimed. A birthright, a spark born into the blood, seen by the Order, and seized before the world can lay its hands on you.
From the moment a child reveals the first hint of magic, whether by accident or fear, the Order of Magicians arrives. There are no family farewells. No second chances. The child is taken, their name entered into the record of the Academy, and whatever life they knew is quietly severed. To possess magic is to belong to the Order. Nothing else.
All magicians begin the same. They are taught the spoken forms, the written glyphs, the rigid cadence of incantation. Magic cannot be used without language. It must be spoken aloud, shaped by voice and carved by word. There are no silent spells, no intuitive gestures, no whispered charms in the night. If a magician forgets a word, the spell fails. If they twist its structure, the spell misfires, or worse.
Yet among those who speak the same spells, power is not equal.
Each magician draws from what the Order calls their well. Some wells are shallow, only able to fuel modest enchantments, brief illusions, momentary shields, small bursts of flame. Others are deep, vast, and enduring. Those who carry such wells rise quickly. These are the ones who bend flame to their will, who can speak a word and bring down the sky. They are the ones who ascend to the Council: The Order of Five, whose decisions shape the kingdoms more than any throne.
But even the greatest magician faces one immutable truth: they cannot heal.
It is not that healing magic is forbidden, it is simply beyond their reach. No spell, no incantation, no force of arcane will can mend the flesh or restore the spirit. That gift belongs solely to the Church of Christiana. Theirs is the divine touch, the holy word. It is a truth both sides know, yet seldom speak aloud: the Order commands the arcane, but it is the Church that claims the soul.
And though the world fears the Order, it is not without its own cruelty.
In Ældorra, only men may wield magic. Women, no matter how gifted, are forbidden by law. A woman who speaks a spell, whether for battle or for mercy, is declared a criminal. Even a healing incantation, performed in secret, may bring death. The punishment is absolute. The Order’s law is iron, and its reach does not falter.
So is magic a gift? A curse? Or something stranger still?
For those who carry the spark, there is no choice. Only the path set before them, the laws carved in stone, and the weight of a power they did not ask for, spoken word by spoken word, until their voice is no longer their own.
People often ask me how I find the time to write while working two jobs. The short answer is: I don’t. Not really. Not the way I wish I could. But I do write, every week, sometimes every day, usually when I should be resting. And despite the exhaustion, the long nights, the early mornings, and the occasional doubt, I keep going. Because the story matters.
The Chaos Behind the Chapters
Right now, my life is split between running a small school, working night shifts, and squeezing in writing during stolen hours. Most days, I get by on sheer routine. Coffee helps. So does knowing that every chapter I finish brings me one step closer to the book I’ve dreamed of releasing for years: The Veil of Kings and Gods.
I’m not writing from a cabin in the woods or some serene studio. I’m writing at school, on the dinning room table, between shifts, and late into the night when everything else is quiet. This novel is being built between real life’s demands and that, in a strange way, makes it even more personal.
Why Not Wait?
It would be easy to say, “I’ll write when life slows down.” But the truth is, life might not. And if I wait for the perfect time, I might never finish the story I’ve already poured so much of myself into.
So instead, I chip away. One scene, one chapter, one revision at a time. And you know what? That consistency adds up. Even if I’m tired. Even if I sometimes question whether it’s worth it.
The Deeper Reason
I write because I love this world I’ve created. I believe in the characters. Simion, Elana, the fractured kingdoms of Ældorra, they’ve stayed with me through everything. And if they’ve stayed with me, maybe they’ll stay with readers too.
Writing gives me a sense of purpose beyond the day-to-day. It’s a reminder that I’m building something for myself, something that might one day outlive the jobs, the side gigs, and even the fatigue.
If You’re in the Same Boat
To anyone reading this who’s also juggling too much while trying to create something: keep going. Your work is valid, even if it’s slow. Even if it’s messy. Even if no one sees it yet. Just showing up matters.
What’s Next?
I’ve just finished proofreading and editing three more chapters, and it’s starting to feel real. I’ll be sharing more about the process and the book itself, both here and on my YouTube channel soon. If you’re curious about how a fantasy novel gets written under pressure (and often after midnight), subscribe or follow along.
Until then, thank you for reading, and thank you for letting me share this chaotic, hopeful journey.
Over the past few days, I’ve been deep in the process of proof-reading and editing three chapters of my novel, The Veil of Kings and Gods. It’s not the most glamorous part of writing, but this time, it felt different.
Something about reading the story with fresh eyes after a short break made the experience… enjoyable. Genuinely enjoyable.
I wasn’t just correcting grammar or trimming repetition, I was rediscovering the world I’d built. The tension in a particular scene, the rhythm of dialogue I’d forgotten writing, or that one line that landed exactly how I hoped it would months ago. These small victories reminded me that, yes, I’m actually telling a story worth reading.
There’s a strange kind of pride that comes with this phase. It’s less about ambition and more about affirmation. Not “Will this sell?” but “I’m glad I wrote this.”
Of course, I still tweak. I still cut. I still sigh when a sentence refuses to behave. But the difference now is that I’m refining something real, something that already exists, not chasing a blank page.
If you’ve ever written something long-form, be it a novel, a thesis, or even a personal journal, you might know the feeling: rereading your own words and thinking, This isn’t perfect… but it’s mine. And it’s good.
That’s the stage I’m in right now. And I wanted to share it, not just the technical process, but the strange joy of falling back into a world you created and realising you want to stay there a little longer.
Want to Hear the Behind-the-Scenes Version?
If you’d rather hear me talk through the editing process, I recorded a short face-to-camera video as well. You can watch it here:
Whether you’re a fellow writer, a reader waiting for the book, or just curious about the creative process, I hope this gives you a little window into what it means to edit with joy.
Let me know in the comments: Have you ever gone back to something you made and felt quietly proud of it?
Simon J. Phillips 