EARLY ACCESS | Unreleased Chapter Excerpt #1
Hi all!
Below is a segment of writing that I am presenting this Sunday, September 20th, 2026, as part of a reading of Thicker Than Blood at the annual speculative fiction convention, Flights of Foundry! I have been invited to share my work and speak on my design and illustration process throughout the convention weekend, closing on Sunday with this reading.
I've picked excerpts from three unreleased chapters to share at this event, and I figured it was only fair to let Patreon supporters take the first look at it. Bear in mind that this piece of writing and its two companions are excerpts, so don't worry if you feel you've missed some context. Don't fret though, all three of them are from the first third of the story, so you won't be needing your context hat for too long (I find this meme very amusing and very pertinent).
If you've never heard of Flights of Foundry, I highly suggest you check them out! They are an annual, weekend-long, virtual convention touching on all aspects of the speculative arts—that is to say, writing, drawing and painting, poetry, editing, sound, comics and any other form of art, that all contain subject matter pertaining to the genre of speculative fiction (sci-fi, horror, fantasy, dystopian... essentially anything not based in strict realism). This year, there are over 200 panels spanning Friday to Sunday, with programming around the clock so that everyone all over the world can participate! This will be my first year not only speaking at but attending the convention and I'm really excited to share what I have with all of you.
If you are a writer, artist, creative, or just generally interested in anything I just said, you can register for the convention at flights-of-foundry.org/registration ! Free and by donation tickets are available, but this event is a fundraiser to support more programming for the speculative arts, so if you have the means, please consider including a donation with your ticket.
Okay, that's everything! The first excerpt is below, available to lovely paid Insider supporters <3
It takes a village to raise a child. I can’t tell if, applied to my situation, it’s ironically false or frustratingly true. Ironically false, because in the end only Ariadne raised me. But frustratingly true, because I’m not one to say whether she actually raised me right. Does the village need to raise the child right or just raise them to the point of no longer being a child, I wonder?
The villagers take our banishment as proof that I am a bad omen, and so by the time Ariadne and I move into the cottage, the fingers of their hate are starting to latch onto her as well. It’s not enough for them to hate me, they have to hate her too for allowing herself to fall to my level.
And she does fall, just not in the way anyone had seen coming.
The break in her leg is severe, and although at the time I haven't seen much, it is unlike anything I have ever seen. And so suddenly, I am no longer responsible for just my own survival, but for the both of ours. Suddenly, I have to pull myself together and actually start making sure we make it another day, because I need her to make it another day.
She breaks it because she is on the roof trying to fix the slate tiles the following spring. I am sixteen. Years of neglect have weakened them, and we did not have time to fix them before the winter storms came. When I go into town to ask for help, the infirmary outright does not let me in. The man smoking by the open door looks at me like I possess some kind of horrible disease—ironic, because that’s exactly the type of thing they are supposed to be treating. Aside from that, he does not acknowledge me until I actually make a move to enter the building, at which point he straightens his back and steps into the doorframe, blocking me from entering. “You are not welcome here,” is all he hisses before going back to his cigarette, flicking the ashes at me.
I try to explain to him that I am not here for myself but for Ariadne, but he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes do not touch mine, not once. Not ever.
I end up at the other edge of the village, at the last spot I can think of—a small natural remedy shop, mainly for minor ailments and aches. The street is empty and only a small oil lamp behind a cloudy window suggests any kind of life inside the shop. A bell above my head tinkles loudly as I push the door open and step into the dimly lit room. It smells of dust and patchouli.
A man at the other end of the store raises his head. He’s sitting behind a counter, face partially lit by another oil lamp at his end of the shop, the light so diffused by bottles and jars on its way to him that I can hardly make him out. He doesn’t make a face when he looks in my direction, simply gestures with one hand for me to come up to the counter and then puts his head back down to focus on crushing the bowl of herbs in front of him. I take one step towards him, not wanting to get too close, not knowing who—or what—else could be hiding behind the shelves between me and him.
He looks up again, this time more pointedly. “Come,” he says, in a voice sharper than what I expect from a man looking as withered as he. I do.
“Tell me what you are looking for,” he says to me, a gnarled hand gripping his bowl. I hesitate, and the same pointed look crosses his face again.
“Ariadne has broken her leg. I don’t know what to do.”
Under a mass of drooping skin, his expression softens ever so slightly. Without speaking, he rises from his chair, comes around the counter, and shuffles off into the shelves. He doesn’t seem to care that I don’t follow him. My feet stay firmly planted; this entire place puts me on edge.
After some time, the man shuffles out from the shelves again, holding a box, a bottle, and two long sticks alongside his bowl. He shoves the box and sticks into my hands as he walks past me, back to his chair behind the counter. Still wordless, he pops the cork from the small bottle and pours its contents, a dark purple liquid, into his bowl. It fizzes as it combines with the crushed herbs.
“Open the box,” he says, watching the liquid bubble. I do. It contains several dusty rolls of leather. “Realign the leg as best you can. Use the leather to tie the splints to her leg to keep it in place.” He pulls a small jar from somewhere underneath the counter, pours the mixture into it, and pushes a cork into the top. He slides it across the counter. “Use that for the pain.”
“I don’t have any money,” I stammer, my hands trembling.
“Then you shouldn’t have come looking for help in a shop,” he snaps. But he doesn’t make a move to take the items back. In fact, he gives me a glance, then turns away and begins to clean out his bowl. “Out of my sight now, you,” he says at the bowl, but I know he’s talking to me. “Don’t let anybody see you leaving this place.”
I hesitate once more, then snatch the jar from the table. “Thank you,” I muster up, before practically running to the door.