Excerpt: Mercy: Tears of the Fallen (The First Volume) by Chance Dillon

Blurb

Relics of the past scattered. A hero broken. A world on the brink.

A paragon left for dead, Alevist Lightseeker sought peace—but peace had other plans.
Thirty four years past, the blade he buried must rise again. As he hunts the ones who shattered his world, another exile awakens—Erevayn. A man drunk on grief and bound by blood. A minstrel must bring the two together in a war against a rising ill fate.

Viyala, a lost love, unexpectedly returns and sparks a fire in Erevayn—but will it be enough to quell his thirst for vengeance? And will the world unfolding around her offer the chance for the future she has long desired?

Salasmir, Blade of the Reckoning, must answer the call of duty once again.

Hayde and Neera, twins of the Stained, hunt for sacred artifacts for their false king. Steyvin and Ilatu must travel across the Sundered Sea in order to do the same, but for their once wise father—who holds damning secrets of his own.

The Tears awaken—and call to the broken.
Two men, one path, and no Gods left to help them.
Some martyrs stay dead. Others—become legend.

For fans of Elden Ring, The Malazan Book of the Fallen, and Joe Abercrombie comes an epic series where blades crash, kingdoms fall, and fate is never as it seems.

---

Praise

“A gritty and fast-moving fantasy from a promising new voice.” – Kirkus Reviews (✔️’GET IT’ Recommended)

“Pulse-pounding action, bloody trauma, and intricate worldbuilding — Mercy smacks you in the face out of the gate.” – Philip Chase, Author of the Edan Trilogy

“This is one of the most dangerously ambitious and boldly imaginative debuts I have ever read.” – GRIMDARK MAGAZINE (Esmay Rosalyne)

“This is going to be something enormously special. This is a debut that demands people’s attention.” – John Minton, Talking Story and one of the Authors of Discovery

“This will undoubtedly go down as one of the best fantasy debuts this year; if not the best.” – Zachary Shaye of Shaye’s Library

“Dillon throws you into the deep end… His writing is good. Really good… He’s doing something special here, bringing his fiery passion to the story in spades.” – iSamwise, Book Reviewer

“A meticulously crafted world bounded only by the limits of the human spirit which Mercy tests and explores, offering precious little of its namesake.” – Jake Remmert, from Nerd Level Rising

“There will be emotional damage.” – Zammar Ahmer, Author of The Book of Astea

---

Excerpt

THE BEFORE

I

Fear smelled better on enemies.

The dampness in the air outside the golden city. The crack of leaves breaking from that sacred Tree branch. The ground shaking with the approaching horde. The warmth of blood leaking from a fresh cut. Fear was all of those things, all at once.

Harglon shifted in his shackles. He hated smelling fear on himself; he hated the ocean breeze and the blistering crash of the waves outside, the scent of iron chafing his skin and the sweat mixing with his blood as it dripped to the stone floor.

He tilted his head up, clearing his throat again, the irons clanking. He had spent so much time alone the previous weeks—his brothers and sisters of the former blood knights he was responsible for were now lost to him. He shouldn’t have gone to the Dawn Tree alone, for too much had been at risk. Saving Maetlynd, a world already so lost, had been a moot venture. The other Knights of the Nine felt Alevist had done that already.

Cursed them all. That’s what Alevist had done. The fool had no idea what he invited into their world. Alevist. Harglon spat what little saliva he could manage, his mouth still dry. Alevist was the man that had stopped Harglon, the leader of those former Bloünine, from ever getting to the Dawn Tree.

The Bloünine used a form of Will frowned upon by the other Orders. Theirs was a mysterious magick, one that called for a connection to the Outer Gods. When it served the other Orders, the Blood Will was of the greatest power. It stopped generations of evil from taking Maetlynd, leaving it secure under the Artisans’ rule. The same Demigods that died when the enemy came from Mersianei.

They brought with them the Crimson Death. The Red Blight. The Reckoning.

When it had ended, Stalhom was the only Artisan remaining. And he had abandoned the blood knights before the Reckoning. When they finally decided to take their loyal followers and wage war against the other Orders of the Nine and the Republic. In what was supposed to be the Last War. The Blood Rebellion.

Harglon’s rebellion failed, and the Reckoning came. The other Orders frowned on augmenting the body with the Sacred Runestones—that was why he had decided to call to arms his brothers and sisters. Yet that very augmenting was what the Bloünine did in order to grow stronger; to face the monsters they were sent to kill in epochs past. Now they were rewarded with imprisonment, the other eight hunted like dogs, the same as Harglon. The Runestones they worked so hard to harness were a great source for magick, but Harglon learned the truth—they weren’t the only source. There was something more. And one day, the lies of the Artisans were going to come out. But he wasn’t likely to survive long enough to be the messenger.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, causing him to stir. He couldn’t move much, for he wasn’t strong enough. Pain was something he learned to love as a blood knight, but fear he was not kin to. That changed when Alevist ripped the Runestones from his skin. It was his fault Harglon now suffered. It was Alevist’s fault.

Warm blood dripped down into his palms as his wrists boiled from the irons. The sun beat down through the crooked bars, the chill in his spine discordant against the warm breeze.

Mercy, he begged.That’s all he wanted. He had proven himself before, and countless weeks into torture, he suffered still. Harglon was all too familiar with the agony. A good Bloünine wasn’t worth a damn if they couldn’t use pain. His gaze drifted once again to the shallow drying holes in his torso and forearms. Where he used to embed his Runestones. Where he used to hold his power.

Empty. Everything felt empty. There was no power, only pain. The same pain all the Runeborn felt when they used their Forms, but the Bloünine felt the most profound connection to that discomfort. Pain had always been an answer. But with fear, it held none.

The footsteps drew nearer. The hair over Harglon’s face scratched beneath his brow as his head rose, rattling the chains once more. His red-tinted skin burned, a deep fire raging within. His heart beat faster, blood dripping from the open wounds in his chest. If only he had his Runestones. If only he had his strength.

“Harglon,” a voice said. Still in a daze, his vision blurred, Harglon couldn’t make out who spoke. A shadowy silhouette stood over him. “You can still serve.”

Harglon glanced up long enough to see glimmering red scales on the man’s skin—an indication that a younger Daerikal was before him, one of Harglon’s own kin. Those whose blood came from the line of the dragons of Mercy.

Mercy.

“We gave you everything,” Harglon said. “Why… betray us?” He labored for breath as his head fell once more.

“We aren’t betraying you,” the voice snapped.

Harglon’s eyes weren’t adjusting in the shifting light as he forced his chin up. It felt as if the Omen Form of Will poured through him, severing his connection to the All Will.

“We are saving you,” the figure said as he waved his hand in the air. “We will make you whole again. That I promise. You only need to hunt. For us, not for your Order’s own greed.”

Where was his Order, his brothers and sisters? Admittedly, he cared less and less as the weeks went on. His neck gave out and the irons clanked. Then he swallowed, his mouth still dry.

“Those who came before sacrificed themselves to save us from the Blight. And what they left behind was of great value.” The Artisans’ rumored sacrifice. The Outer Wills poisoned their blood, and so they put their gift of eternal life into Runestones. Into what became known as Tears. “You know—of what I speak,” the voice said, hesitating. The figure started to pace as he placed his hands behind his back. “You will train more warriors to help you hunt down these artifacts. And you will be redeemed by the world you turned away from.”

Harglon fought against the weight of his head, his black strands of hair stinging his eyes, sweat dripping over his face onto the stone floor. The man before him shifted into focus.

How can I say no? “Yes,” Harglon said, bowing in relief.

He felt a smile burning into him. “Then I will give you a force. And you will find me the Tears.” The figure then turned to leave.

Harglon’s blood continued to pour from him, a single grueling drop at a time.

Drip. Drip.