Assignment 1:
When outcast Zayla Nox is chosen as a sacrificial offering and discovers she is the heir to an ancient shadow queen, she must embrace her forbidden power, unite with the Resistance, and risk everything to stop the fire-wielders from conquering the planet.
Assignment 2:
General Ignis is the ruthless leader of the Pyremire, the fire territory. A man who clawed his way to power after the Uprising and now clings to it. A master fire wielder, he sees strength not as a gift but as a threat. Especially when it belongs to women. To maintain control, Ignis systematically cuts down the strongest female fire wielders, ensuring no rival can rise to challenge him. His ambition stretches beyond his territory. He envisions a planet consumed by his flames, entirely only under his rule. His vision is absolute domination, not just of land but of will itself. Charismatic enough to rally followers yet merciless enough to instill fear, Ignis is destructive, consuming, and endlessly hungry.
Assignment 3:
THE SUN THAT DOOMED US
WHEN THE SUN SHATTERED
THE SUN THAT WIELDS US
Assignment 4:
It is in the same vein as POWERLESS by Lauren Roberts for its unique magic systems, HEARTLESS HUNTER by Kristen Ciccarelli for its morally grey MMC and enemies-to-lovers romance, and FALL OF RUIN AND WRATH by Jennifer L. Armentrout for its intricate world-building and cliffhanger endings.
Assignment 5:
Branded an outcast and cast out as a sacrifice, Zayla Nox must confront the terrifying truth of her shadow-born power and choose whether to embrace the darkness within to save her people, the planet, and the man she’s come to love.
Assignment 6:
- Upbringing & Indoctrination as Zayla was raised in Pyremire’s Facility, where the Commanders taught her that the Resistance were bloodthirsty rebels responsible for the Uprising and her father’s death.
- Personal Loss as her father’s death is the defining wound of her childhood. She is angry and mistrusting. The Commanders exploit this.
- Identity Crisis. When she learns she has shadow power, the very kind of magic demonized by her society, it destroys everything she thought she knew about loyalty, morality, and herself.
Sketch 1
During a tense debrief with the Resistance, Zayla learns that years ago, her father died in the middle of a Resistance raid. Their mission had been to rescue a group of Pyremire children (including her) from the Fire Commanders’ control. Her father had been caught between the Commanders and the Resistance, and though he fought to protect her, he was struck down in the chaos.
Zayla feels shock and betrayal. All her life, she was told the Resistance murdered her father in cold blood, proof they were ruthless rebels. Now she learns he actually died because they were trying to save her.
Conflict: If the Resistance saved children, including her, then they aren’t the monsters she believed—but the Fire Commanders who twisted the story are. That realization shakes her loyalty to the only world she’s known.
Sketch 2
Zayla is living with the Resistance after they rescued her, but her indoctrination runs deep. She sees the Resistance members aren’t savages. They have towns, schools, families, and communities where children laugh freely and women hold leadership roles. It is the opposite of what the Commanders in Pyremire led her to believe.
Zayla walks through a Resistance town and sees children learning safely in a schoolhouse. Later, she eats dinner with a Resistance family who offer her a place at their table as though she belongs.
She feels confusion and social alienation. She questions which side is right and which is wrong. The Resistance’s thriving society forces her to confront her own loyalty and whether she’s willing to give up the world she came from to embrace a new one she never knew was possible.
Assignment 7
Elysium was once a planet of balance, where the elemental territories coexisted in fragile harmony. Fire, earth, water, and air shaped both the land and the people. The Uprising shattered that equilibrium, leaving scars across the planet’s surface and spirit. What was once lush and radiant is now marked by ruin and destruction as the people work to rebuild and reclaim control.
Pyremire is the fire territory. Once a jewel of Elysium, Pyremire shimmered under the shadow of the Ashpire Volcano, its towers carved from lava stone and onyx. Spice markets fragranced the air, and firelight festivals painted the desert sky crimson. After the Uprising, its beauty was reduced to rubble. Now, cold steel War Facilities rise where art and culture once flourished. Within their oppressive walls, fire wielders are oppressed and forced into obedience by iron-fisted Commanders.
The Wastelands are perhaps the greatest scar across Elysium. Jagged red dunes, charred ruins, and skeletal remains of villages mark this no-man’s-land separating Pyremire from the other territories. Survival here is unlikely. Storms whip the sand, and scavengers lurk among the bones. It is both a graveyard of the past and the crucible where Zayla begins her rebirth.
The earth wielders live in Stonehelm. Stonehelm’s labyrinthine cities, carved deep into bedrock, house the greatest armory on the planet. Their weapon-makers are unmatched, brimming with war machines and axes hewn from the earth itself. Aboveground, Stonehelm looks barren, but beneath, its people thrive.
Tidescar is home to the water wielders. A massive tsunami swept away Tidescar’s outlying islands during the Uprising, leaving a broken coastline. Still, the territory endures, led by a royal family in their sandstone castle perched over a sea-battered village. The scent of salt and fish fills the air, while coral lanterns line the docks. Despite their losses, Tidescar remains proud. Known for their medicinal healing talents and love of wisdom, the people strive to educate themselves as much as possible.
Perched precariously along the cliffs of a great mountain, Zephyrhold, the air wielding territory, is both breathtaking and perilous. Its wind-carved stairways and skybridges connect aerie-like dwellings built directly into the stone. It is accessible only to those brave enough to climb. Their people are more elusive because of the territory’s dangerous terrain, but they are known for their science and inventions.
Setting the Scene:
On mornings like this, I wonder what the sky looks like. I mean, I’ve seen it. Dozens of times. Captured in paintings, glimpsed through the thick glass wall of the Great Hall, our only window to the outside world. But I’ve never stood beneath it, outside the walls of my Facility.
So more specifically, on mornings like this, at the peak of summer, I wonder what the moon looks like as she fades. If she lingers for just a moment, winking at the sun before slipping beneath the horizon, swallowed by the endless red sands of the dying planet. I wonder if she ever catches a glimpse of him—if she ever wants to—as he ascends, casting his golden fire behind the domineering silhouette of the Ashpire Volcano.
The sun. The moon. Our creators. Eternally orbiting in purgatory.
There’s not much privacy at all in the fire wielder’s territory. In the three identical buildings, constructed equidistance across from each other to form a triangle.
We call them Facility One, Facility Two and Facility Three.
Creativity is not tolerated in Pyremire.
The people who weren’t killed during the Uprising when the Resistance attacked are stuffed into these metallic, impenetrable fortresses.
I wasn’t alive for it.
I was born a year later, during the Rebuilding, when the elemental territories sealed themselves off from the world, and from each other. Tensions were too high. Trust was a forgotten luxury.
The solution was meant to be temporary, just until the Resistance members were found and wiped out. But years passed, and Elysium never united again. Pyremire learned to survive in isolation. So did the other territories.
Once a year, Pyremire’s highest-ranking Commander—the General—selects one woman to sacrifice herself to Elysium. Always a fire wielder, always powerful. She will offer her fire, her very life, to the dying sun. Her sacrifice sustains the Facilities, keeps the sun from collapsing in on itself, keeps Mother Nature’s vengeance for the crimes committed against the land during the Uprising at bay. It is the highest honor a woman in Pyremire can achieve, to become the fuel that sustains our world. To live out the rest of her days on the red rock corpse of the long-dormant Ashpire Volcano, slowly feeding her power into the sky.
Highest honor—according to the Commanders, petulance laces my thoughts.
She will be chosen in just two days, on the Summer Solstice. The longest day of the year. When the sun is at its peak, demanding its due. Few women in the Facility will admit the words out loud, but the Great Sacrifice terrifies us. An inescapable reality, one we can never find relief from, never stop worrying about. Wondering if this is the year that you or a family member or a friend will be called to complete the Sacrifice, sucked dry, wasting away for all to see.
On the eve of the Solstice, it is tradition for Facility One to host a massive ball in the Great Hall, so that all can gaze at the base of the Ashpire Volcano through the thick glass of the monstrous window. It’s the only wall in the entire Facility that isn’t steel and cold and grey. The only window to the red, barren, deserted outside world. The entire fire wielding territory of Pyremire participates. It’s the only day of the year that the others can leave their Facilities, traveling to ours using an underground tunnel system that connects each building. The names of fire wielding females in Facilities Two and Three are fair game as well. We all watch as the chosen female wielder joins those who came before her, handing over their lives—slowly—to the dying sun, keeping it from winking out with their power.
Restoring balance. Returning to Mother Nature what the shadow wielders stole during the Uprising.
Balance was shattered 21 years ago. The shadow wielders, the supposed enforcers of equilibrium, betrayed us all. They were the only oversight to the elements. The balance to Mother Nature Herself, created by Her as she birthed earth, fire, water, and air from the black void of nothingness at the beginning of time.
The elements, created from darkness, are also controlled by it.
The shadow wielders became insatiable for power, learned to fuse their ancient darkness with the elements, creating Bloodflame. A living, breathing corruption. A power that could consume not just its wielder, but Elysium itself.
The element wielders unified as one, barely defeating the wielders of darkness. Victory took a toll on the planet. One we pay for with the Sacrifice. Sometimes I will visit the Great Hall on my own. Sometimes I stand alone and stare at the women littering the edge of the Ashpire Volcano through the thick, impassable floor to ceiling glass.
There’s singing and dancing. Instruments and art. There’s color.
The General will decorate the Great Hall in burning flags of crimson and gold. Pyremire’s official territory colors from a time when grey could only be found in the sparkling flecks of stone along the silhouette of the city and metal was a mere element in the lava of the Ashpire.
The attendees are encouraged to reflect their appreciation for the sun in their attire. Men exchange their charcoal Facility uniforms for Pyremire-gold dress slacks with crimson jackets, tailcoats freshly pressed and outlined in glimmering metallic thread. Particularly high-ranking military Commanders will drape golden sashes across their chests.
My father having been one of them.
Women will wear ballgowns of varying shades of yellow, orange, and red, paying homage to the burning ball of fire that fuels the people of Pyremire with its strength. The women are responsible for sewing their own gowns, fabrics of varying textures and hues brought up from storage. Lace and gemstones and ribbons all waiting to be chosen and turned into a work of art.
It’s a tease, really. A cruel taunt. A reminder of everything we’ve lost as a people.
My mother was one of the few who survived the Uprising. She is one of the few fire wielders who remembers Pyremire as it once was. Vibrant, teeming with life. Still a desert, still red, but alive. A city built from gold quartz and deep black lava rock, its buildings flecked with uncut gems that caught the sun, making the market squares shimmer like embers in the heat. At midday, Pyremire burned with reflected light, a city of fire that looked ablaze beneath the sky. An oasis amid the arid expanse, rich with the scent of spices and aromatics, home to artisans and engineers who mastered the art of harnessing the sun’s energy.
My mother also remembers the fall. The war that turned Pyremire to ash. And why the Rebuilding was necessary in the first place. The volcano that once stood peacefully beside our great city erupted, reducing Pyremire to nothing but molten ruin. Most of our people were wiped out—the women, the children, the elders. Their souls buried in the red ash wasteland beyond the Facilities.
Mudslides swallowed the mountain villages of Zephyrhold, the northernmost region of Elysium, leaving only ruin in their wake. A society built into the cliffs, its people, renowned for their intellect and innovation, were either buried alive beneath the shifting earth or torn from their homes, plummeting into the abyss below.
South of Zephyrhold, the earth territory of Stonehelm, fortified, battle-hardened, and famed for its weaponry, was no match for the wrath of the land it once commanded. Earthquakes split the forests apart, swallowing entire mud homes and treehouse villages. Tornadoes ripped through the armory, sending centuries of craftsmanship crumbling into the ravaged ground.
To the west, the waters of the Rusted Sea rose with fury, claiming much of Tidescar in a single, monstrous tsunami. The sea stole more than just lives. It drowned centuries of healing knowledge, washing away medicines and books on homeopathic remedies. With the elders lost, their wisdom faded, leaving only fragments of the past.
Pyremire, Stonehelm, and Tidescar clawed their way back from the brink, adapting to Mother Nature’s new, unforgiving rules. But Zephyrhold, isolated and distrusted, faced a different fate. During the chaos of the Uprising, suspicion fell on the air wielders. Their scientists and inventors, once the pride of Elysium, had been working on a way to fuse elemental powers, claiming it would unify the territories and strengthen our world. But it was their research that revealed the dangerous truth that only shadow wielders could merge elements, endure the strain, and survive it. Worse, they could control it.
When the Uprising ended, Zephyrhold paid in blood. Those inventors who were caught were executed alongside the shadow wielders they had unknowingly empowered. The few who escaped are rumored to be in hiding, lost somewhere deep within the Shardcrest Mountains—if they’re still alive at all.
Of course, all of this is rumor. Fragments of a forgotten past, whispered through the steel corridors of the Facilities. Ghost stories passed between children who once heard their grandparents speak of a time before the war. Before such talk was outlawed. Now, none of the territories have communicated in decades.
The Facilities are more than a home. They are a barricade. They are a weapon.
Practical. Brutal. Efficient.
There was a scouting mission. Five years after my father died. A mission led by the General and three of his closest advisors to leave the Facilities and venture into the wild, red sand desert of Pyremire.
The news upon their return was bleak: the desert is desolate. No signs of life, and no promise that it would one day be able to sustain it again. The Commanders called a Facility-wide assembly upon the completion of the mission to inform the people of what they found in the outside world. Which, apparently, was a whole lot of nothing.
That night, I heard soft sobs from behind my mother’s bedroom door in our family chambers. She has only cried twice in my life. Both times because of loss. The first was the loss of my father. This second was the loss of hope. The loss of a dream of ever living freely again. Of looking up and seeing the blue of an outside sky instead of steel-grey ceilings.
My mother was once a wild spirit. My father used to whisper stories about her many adventures across Elysium as he put me to bed. He said her wildness is why he fell in love with her. Unbound and unbroken and free, my mother was a force, generously gifted with powerful fire wielding abilities by Mother Nature herself.
Ambassador of Pyremire. That was her title. She was a high-ranking Commander.
Before.
Before it was deemed too unsteady for woman to hold positions of power. Now, she is just “Cook.” And a Homemaker. But before the world burned itself, crumbled in on itself, tried to destroy itself, she was a liaison between lands.
She had a horse, Kassium, and she would race him faster than the desert wind across the land, helping to establish trade and relationships with the territories to our north and west. She traded our fire energy for medicine and vaccines, books on healing and herbs, from the water wielders of Tidescar. She studied deep in the Shardcrest Mountains, travelling farther than any in our territory ever dared. Working under the inventors and scientists of Zephyrhold, learning from them. She took what she learned to the armory of Stonehelm. Teaching them how to combine our fire power into weapons in exchange for supplying our military. That’s when she met my father, returning home to Pyremire with the fire powered weapons from the Orrenwald Forest.
As he describes it, the warriors of Pyremire erupted in pure chaos, undulated terror as they watched “a burning ball” of Bloodflame soar across the desert flanked by a line of unbreakable fire. My father, being my father, decided he was going to risk his life to take the brunt of the hit, to protect his General and his home. He did not hesitate before jumping on his horse and racing across the desert towards fire and death. Only as his own horse approached, that flaming ball of destruction started to take form. The form of a woman. And behind her, bending to her will, thousands of transport wagons filled with flaming weapons.
She had wielded her fire and welded it to the weaponry, a mere thought allowing her to power them on command using the knowledge she learned in Zephyrhold. Powering the weapons as she crossed into Pyremire territory was absolutely not necessary. Other than the desire for a dramatic return. But that was my mother. She has a flare for the sensational and could never turn down an opportunity for a show. My father slid out of his saddle as my mother let the flames extinguish with a smirk and the snap of a finger. Hair the color of burning rust flaring on the fading fire’s phantom breeze.
“Brave, brilliant woman.”
His first words to her. Filled with awe and wonder that a young woman in his city would risk her life for her territory. For her people. And would not only return with the most advanced weaponry Elysium has ever seen, but alliances. Friendships. Information.
They courted and were married on the eve of the Summer Solstice that same year. My father in his crimson dress uniform. My mother, a gown of silver and white with moonflowers crowning her braided hair. The sun and moon incarnate, united in harmony, celebrating the wealth and prosperity and fruitfulness of their territory. Back when the Solstice signified nothing more than a thanks to the sun for Pyremire’s bounty and blessings.
There is a small painting my mother keeps of their wedding night celebration, gifted to her by a long dead artist, buried in either the carnage or the lava during the Uprising. It was the only reminder of her past life, the only memorabilia she smuggled into the Facility before the steel doors slammed shut 21 years ago.
The canvas was yellow with age, but the colors, the colors, were pristine. My breath hitched in my throat as I studied the tiny moment painted in time. I’d never seen such colors, such artistry. I had not yet come of age, so had never attended the Solstice Ball. Never knew a world beyond grey. No colors so bright existed in the Facility.
But in this painting… in this painting.
The arm of my father’s crimson jacket outstretched as he twirled my mother through the air. His golden sash seemed to sparkle with flecks of orange and yellow the painter expertly flicked onto the canvas. Tiny globes filled with wielded fire gleamed above their heads on the dancefloor, casting a flickering glow on my father’s hay-colored hair, which was longer, freer than I remembered it being before he died.
My mother’s dress, a living whirlpool of white and silver, swirled around her ankles. Delicate bridal slippers arched as she spun on her toes. Her braided auburn hair whipped out from the pins that had crowned it atop her head. Milky moonflower petals pulled free and floated around her like desert snow as they drifted to the floor. Their smiles were dazzling, two sets of russet eyes locked on each other. The revelers surrounding them faded away into nothing more than whirling, swirling bursts of color in the background. Shades of blues and purples and reds and greens.
Bright, spirited, alive.
As I gazed at the painting, I’d never felt so dead.
Loss. This is what we lost.
OPENING SCENE - Introduces antagonist or major character, setting, tone, and perhaps a foreshadow of the primary conflict. On mornings like this, I wonder what the sky looks like. I mean, I’ve seen it. Dozens of times. Captured in paintings, glimpsed through the thick glass wall of the Great Hall, our only window to the outside world. But I’ve never stood beneath it, outside the walls of my Facility. So more specifically, on mornings like this, at the peak of summer, I wonder what the moon looks like as she fades. If she lingers for just a moment, winking at the sun before slipping beneath the horizon, swallowed by the endless red sands of the dying planet. I wonder if she ever catches a glimpse of him—if she ever wants to—as he ascends, casting his golden fire behind the domineering silhouette of the Ashpire Volcano. The sun. The moon. Our creators. Eternally orbiting in purgatory. I scold myself. I’ve done it again. Gone and started thinking. I must hurry. The hem of my modest, grey work dress swishes around my ankles, tickling me, but I ignore it. No time for that. My white canvas shoes pad quickly across my bedchamber floor as I yank open the door, expecting the familiar steel corridor beyond. Pyremire is more a collection of glorified war facilities than a city now, reduced to steel and dust after the Uprising demolished the original lava stone and gold quartz desert oasis. Cool, steel fortresses rose from the ashes. The walls beyond my chambers should be flickering like molten lava, pulsing with the heat energy of our fire wielders contained in glass sconces. Instead, I collide with something solid. No, not something. Someone. Liam. “Zayla,” he chuckles, even as the breath rushes out of him. I didn’t realize how fast I was moving, how desperate I was to leave the nightmare that jolted me awake before dawn behind in that cold, grey box I call my chambers. The nightmare. The one that got me thinking… But Liam… No, I can’t burden him with this. I suppress a shudder, remembering the recurring dream that haunts my subconscious. The panic from its entrapment has faded, but something else festers in its place. A familiar, roiling darkness. It scratches at my insides, begging for release. I shove it down, down, down, locking it away. His smile is easy, effortless. His uniform is pressed, pristine. The left lapel of his charcoal military jacket adorned with a single titanium triangle. Shiny. Simple. Brutal. The mark of Pyremire. The symbol of his rank. “Lieutenant,” I greet him, forcing a smile I hope comes across as soft. Sweet. Shy. I shove the nightmare deeper, pack it down tight beneath layers of composure. It puts up a fight, curling like smoke, clawing to be free. Liam’s gaze flicks past me, toward the still-propped door of my bedroom. He leans in, just slightly, close enough that his golden curls slip forward, brushing over his amber eyes. Sometimes they remind me of cognac. Deep and warm. Like when he’s contemplating something important. Other times, they’re honey. Like the butterscotch he used to steal for me from the kitchen when we were children. Now, they darken to whiskey. A slow burn, flickering with mischief… and something else. His broad hands settle on my shoulders, firm yet unhurried, and he gently pushes me backward. Into my room. My midnight eyes widen, my stomach clenching—not in fear of Liam. Never of Liam. He is the only light in this grey world, a golden beacon against cold steel. A breathy laugh escapes me. Too sharp, too uncertain. I want it to sound like anticipation, not the creeping panic of stepping back into my prison. The small, suffocating box where I am trapped from curfew at sundown until sunrise, left alone with my thoughts. My fears. I cross the threshold first. Then Liam. He doesn’t break my gaze as he shifts his weight, lifts a freshly shined black boot behind him, and nudges the door closed. The noise I make this time is different. Unmistakable anticipation, swallowed by the quiet click of the door sealing us in. His lips brush over mine, barely a whisper. He smells like Liam. Sunshine and the ashen embers of a dying bonfire. Warm and familiar. Where that scent once wrapped around me like a comfort, now it tightens, suffocating, as if the fire is stealing the very oxygen from my lungs. He pulls back, searching my face. “You’ve been avoiding me.” “I haven’t.” I have. His brows pull together, concern flickering in his amber eyes. “Why?” I don’t know. And I don’t. Not really. I love Liam. At least, I think I do. He’s been my best friend since I was a child. Somewhere in between adolescence and adulthood, he became something more. But now… now I’m not sure. How can I be sure? I was never given a choice in our union. Our arranged match. It was sanctioned by the Commanders. Liam is too good. Too kind. The darkness inside me grows stronger every day. But I can’t tell him this. I can’t burden him with this. I can’t trust him with this. "I told you,” I whisper, leaning into him, rising onto my toes until my body brushes against his. My lips graze his, soft, coaxing. Diverting. “I haven’t.”