epic fantasy novel

Writing Through Illness Keeping the Flame Lit

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There’s a particular stillness to the house when one is unwell. The windows dim, the hours stretch thin, and even the simple act of sitting at a desk becomes a task weighed with strange solemnity. Over the past week, I’ve been writing through a heavy spell of illness, not the romantic sort that lends itself to poetic fever-dreams and sudden inspiration, but the ordinary kind. The draining, silent kind. Head fog, aching bones, and the slow drag of breath.

And still, the story asks to be told.

It hasn’t been easy. The rhythm of my chapters, those long, rolling sentences that mirror the breath of the world I’m building, do not come quickly when my mind is wrapped in cotton. Dialogue feels slower to surface, the flow of magic across a battlefield takes more effort to visualise, and Simion’s thoughts… his weariness starts to echo my own. Yet somehow, that makes the writing more honest. There’s no room for pretense when you are sick. What emerges on the page feels stripped back to truth.

There’s comfort in the discipline, too. Even a few hundred words become a kind of anchor. I’ve been working steadily through Chapter 31, part by part, and while I’ve not progressed at my usual pace, I’ve remained in the world. That matters more than anything. Staying inside the rhythm of the novel, no matter how slowly, prevents the silence from becoming distance. And when you are tired, truly tired, that distance grows fast.

This post is not a grand revelation, nor a triumphant declaration of productivity. It is simply a mark on the wall. A quiet signal that the story lives, even on days when the author does not feel particularly alive himself. If you are also working through something, whether a cold, a long week, or a deeper weariness, I hope you remember this: words written under strain are still worthy. They still carry weight. And sometimes, they carry more of you than you realise.

I’ll return to the cliff’s edge soon, where Simion waits beside those ancient stones. There is much still to tell.

Until then, rest, breathe, and if you can, keep the flame lit.

Prince Patrick: Duty Wears a Crown of Silence

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

There are kings born with glory in their blood, and there are those who wear power like a wound.

Prince Patrick of Bremyra is no conqueror carved from legend. He is not the first son, nor the boldest. He did not march off with banners raised and swords drawn like his father and brothers. Instead, he was left behind, to rule in silence, to shoulder a realm not by destiny, but by circumstance.

When King Cedric departed on his expedition, taking with him Patrick’s elder brothers, Aric and Aiden, the third-born prince was not meant to lead. And yet, years have passed, and no word has returned from the expedition’s path. Now the court stirs with unease, and Patrick remains, a regent in all but name.

He governs with quiet endurance. His hands are stained not with blood, but with ink, the endless scrolls of diplomacy, tax levies, marriage negotiations, and royal petitions. Yet there is something deeper behind his golden hair and cool gaze. A weight. A weariness. A knowing look passed only between those who did not ask to carry the realm, but do so anyway.

In the quiet of the library, where the firelight reflects off old treaties and maps, Patrick does not play at king. He studies. He listens. He calculates not in ambition, but in caution. Around him, kingdoms bristle, Arvendral grows restless, Tsunamia watches with silent interest, and suitors press for alliances. Yet the prince offers no bold proclamations. Only silence. Measured decisions. The stillness of a man who understands the cost of speaking too soon.

He is not alone in his burden. His sister, Elana, moves like a shadow alongside him, fierce, articulate, and bound for marriage to secure Bremyra’s position. There is a shared understanding between them: the weight of expectation, the sacrifices they will not name aloud.

And then there is Simion, the magician now bound to Patrick’s court,once a kitchen boy in the same castle where Patrick now rules. A childhood thread, pulled taut by fate.

If Patrick sees more than he says, he does not show it. But one cannot walk long among wolves without learning how to bare their teeth.

He was never meant to wear the mantle of power. Yet power, like silence, often chooses those who do not crave it.