ALEXEIN-Volume I, "Sacred Band," Editing Update!

ALEXEIN-Volume I, "Sacred Band," Editing Update!

Hey everyone! Big news on the ALEXEIN front. Volume I, originally titled "Golden Dawn," has grown beyond expectations! It's become so expansive that I've decided to split it into two parts:

Volume I: Sacred Band: Covering the years from seven years before Alexander's birth to 357 BC.

Volume II: Golden Dawn: Focusing on Alexander's birth year (356 BC) through his third year of life.

I'm currently knee-deep in the editing process. The main plot, key characters (including Philip II and Olympias!), and their pivotal scenes are all finalized. 

Now, I'm adding layers of depth: fleshing out secondary characters, expanding dialogue, adding new scenes, and enhancing existing ones. 

For example, I've added a crucial scene depicting the Hercules ritual and festival—something the story desperately needed! There's even a significantly expanded battle scene set in the icy Illyrian winter.

The holidays almost derailed me—Thanksgiving, a housemate's farewell, weathering parties, Christmas festivities, cleaning parties, monthly house meetings... the list goes on! 

But I persevered, and I'm back on track! My life right now? Mostly hunched over my monitor, writing ALEXEIN, with only occasional forays outside for errands.

Here's a sneak peek at a newly-edited and expanded scene from the Illyrian battle…

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As the battle drew close and the Illyrian lines began to break, their warriors scattered and were routed. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, yet his expression of grim satisfaction surveyed the short breath echoing as they caught snowflakes battlefield. His sons approached, their youthful faces reflecting the exhilaration of victory and the growing confidence they were gaining.

“A victory well-fought, my sons,” Father King said, his voice hoarse from shouting commands with white breath, his hand resting briefly on each of their shoulders. “You have proven yourselves worthy successors to the throne of Macedon. You have shown courage, skill, and unwavering determination. This victory will significantly enhance our power and influence within the wider region. Remember this icy day, and learn from these lessons. The future of Macedon is in your hands.”

Although the battle was technically over, a different kind of conflict raged on—the aftermath. Alexander's breath still hitched, and a lingering tremor of fear betrayed his initial anxiety. Surprisingly, Perdiccas appeared calmer, with a newfound confidence replacing the tension he’d exhibited earlier. Philip remained resolute, his composure unwavering, and his physical and mental strength seemingly untouched by the brutality of the battle.

King addressed his sons, his voice carrying the weight of command and weariness. “The fighting may have ceased, but the battle continues. We must tend to the wounded and search for those still alive amongst the fallen. We will assess the performance of our irregular units, our healers' effectiveness, and our support personnel's efficiency. This battlefield stained crimson with the blood of our men and our enemies… it's a sacred space, and we will treat it with respect. Prepare yourselves to walk through this carnage, to face the harsh realities of war.” His tone was grave, his words a stark reminder that victory came at a price. The battle may be over, but the fight for life and death continued.

King, his voice firm yet laced with compassion, addressed his eldest son. "Alexander, be a king. Be a commander. Control your emotions and maintain clarity of mind. This is the reality of war; you must learn to navigate it.” Alexander, however, was visibly shaken. The horrors of battle, experienced in the heat of the moment, were laid bare before him in all their brutal reality. While fighting, survival had been his only focus. The fallen, Macedonians and Illyrians alike, lay scattered across the field—a gruesome tapestry of death and destruction. He hadn’t truly grasped the extent of the carnage until now. It wasn't simply a battlefield; it was a nightmarish landscape of stark, almost beautiful horror. A grotesque tableau of shattered bodies lay scattered across the snow-dusted ground. The falling snow, sometimes shimmering with the sharp glitter of ice crystals, created an unsettling contrast—a macabre beauty that only served to amplify the brutality of the scene.

This was the realm of Hades—death, the frosted underworld, icy, bitter judgment, and inescapable chaos in Iceland. Thanatos, the personification of death, was palpable in the belittling air, an icy chilling presence manifested in every mangled corpse. The unpredictable and arbitrary nature of death and the uncertainty of the afterlife mirrored the chaotic nature of the winter battlefield itself, a visceral representation of Hades's realm in ice cold.

Perdiccas, the initial calm shattered, felt the crushing weight of reality descend, the falling snow macabre confetti marking the grim harvest of the battle. The stench of blood—thick, cloying, metallic—filled his nostrils. The snow-covered ground, saturated with a vibrant, icy crimson, squelched sickeningly beneath his boots. A wave of nausea overcame him; he doubled over, vomiting the contents of his stomach onto the earth.

His eyes, still blurry from the aftereffects of battle, caught on a grotesque sight—a corpse, its eyes wide open in a silent scream of terror, its expression frozen in a mask of unimaginable horror. The body seemed to twist slightly, a macabre illusion created by the shifting, eerily beautiful, frozen ground. Perdiccas recoiled, his hands landing on the icy ground, only to sink into something sickeningly warm and yielding beneath the snow's deceptively pristine surface. He snatched his hands back, the crimson stain preserved by the freezing temperature, a horrifying testament to his touch. It was a thick, viscous liquid—fresh blood, semi-frozen, clinging stubbornly to his skin.

The full horror of the situation crashed over him. He looked around; a sea of icy crimson shone under the winter sun, stretching to the horizon. Countless corpses, twisted and broken, lay scattered across the field, slowly being covered by a soft, chilling blanket of snow—a macabre, breathtaking testament to the brutal reality of war. The scene transcended the ordinary, a landscape transformed into something otherworldly. His carefully constructed world, his opulent life at court, his wife and son—all of it, he realized, was built upon this: the sacrifice, the bloodshed, the endless repetition of this violent ritual. The sacrifices made by his ancestors—Heracles, Zeus—the very foundation of his family's power, were steeped in the crimson tide of death. A fresh wave of nausea overwhelmed him; the lingering stench of blood and the chilling, viscous residue on his hands invaded every sense. The horror shattered his composure, leaving him feeling fragmented and traumatized, his very soul frozen and fractured by the icy grip of the experience.

A low moan, ragged and filled with pain, sliced through the silence. A Macedonian warrior, barely clinging to life, lay half-buried in the icy mud, surrounded by the corpses of his comrades. His expression was grim. Philip found his brother Perdiccas staring down at the dying man.

Perdiccas barely registered Philip's approach. His gaze was locked on the warrior, whose life ebbed away with each drawn-out breath. Frozen death's touch was palpable, the transition almost complete. With a swift, practically merciful movement, Philip drew his sword. A whispered prayer, barely audible above the groans of the dying, accompanied the plunge of the blade into the soldier's chest, ending his suffering. A profound silence, broken only by the whisper of the falling snow, settled over the scene.

Perdiccas finally looked up, his gaze meeting Philip's. The young prince he knew was gone, replaced by a stranger. The image that seared itself onto his mind wasn't his brother but a predator. A young lion, its fur still matted with the gore of its recent kill, stood amidst the carnage, its eyes gleaming with primal hunger—a chilling metaphor for the man before him. Philip, his hands stained with crimson, partially frozen, reached out and, with practiced efficiency, helped his brother rise from the blood-soaked, icy ground. Perdiccas flinched, the touch of his brother’s hand sending a tremor through his body. It was a horrifying realization: the man beside him was no longer the brother he knew but a creature transformed, an instrument of war, his humanity almost entirely consumed by the brutal reality of the battlefield.

The echoes of this hard-won victory would resonate through Macedon, reinforcing King Amyntas III's authority, enhancing the kingdom's reputation, and setting the stage for further expansion and consolidation of power. Across the ice-choked terrain, Macedon's war machine pulverized its enemy, leaving only a frozen wasteland in its wake, its king's vision and leadership, and his warriors' unwavering bravery. This “Kingdom Forged in Ice” victory in a turbulent time would solidify Macedon’s growing dominance and set the stage for its rise to greatness.

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My goal is to finish Volume I: Sacred Band within a week, with hopes of publishing it just before Christmas! Stay tuned!

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