Step into the Helvert World and get lost. Welcome!
A tragic epic of love and family, the costs of power, and the trauma that follows it.
A feral child found in the wilds. A prophecy older than kingdoms. And the people who keep taking her memories to keep her alive.
The prophecy closes in. Gods stir, armies gather, and Kalian refuses to belong to anyone.
Three days. One impossible errand. The people she loves held hostage to a choice no one should have to make.
War comes for the Helvert world, and it sends the bill to everyone she loves.
The reckoning begins.
Now WritingThe faces of the Helvert world, as brought to life by the author's character art.
Ancient bloodlines, living dragons, and magics that remember what you try to forget.
The oldest blood in the world. Beautiful, dangerous, and very nearly immortal. Their customs are not ours.
Kings of Blood, bound to the Blood Rites for a hundred generations.
Forest clans and desert wanderers alike, keepers of older loyalties and longer memories.
The Fire Line. Living fire, older than the kingdoms that fear them.
Sight beyond the veil between the living and the dead.
Memory, bond, and hunger. The magic of the Helvert line.
The dragon gift. It chooses its own.
A mercy, or a theft. Ask anyone in the Helvert world. Then ask them again, and see what they remember.
@the.helvert.legac
@the.helvert.legac The Elven Lands of Tiene
Small windows into the world. From the opening of Book One, A Child of Fire and Blood.
His hand gripped her small jaw as he pulled her face close, glacier-blue eyes burning into the dark places of her mind.
“Survive.”
She couldn't remember his face. His voice was fractured in her memory, broken pieces she could no longer fit together. Everything he told her was lost except that one word.
“Survive.”
The blood moon cast wild shadows through the trees as she ran. Someone was following her. White robes moved through the darkness, too calm, too steady.
They walked. She ran.
Her bare feet stumbled over roots. A branch snapped across her cheek as she tore through the underbrush, desperate for somewhere, anywhere to hide.
She had never been away from home. She knew that much. But the memories of it hovered just beyond reach. She wanted her father. She could still feel his strong arms around her, but she could no longer see his face. Even his scent was fading.
Carolyn M. Rowles is a Colorado-based writer, poet, artist, and musician. By day she works as a Regional Accounting Specialist. She spends her remaining hours finding new ways to express her art, and studying human behavior, history, mythology, and world cultures.
I paint with oils and I paint with words.
