QSFer T. L. Tyner has a new queer epic dark fantasy out (bi, demi, lesbian, non-binary): Dawn of the Raven.
Magic is forbidden. Druids are hunted. And a fractured kingdom is beginning to wake.
Sorcha is a gifted seamstress content with a quiet life—and the safety of invisibility—until rebellion threads its way into her world. Fiona, a palace cook and farmer’s daughter, has learned to endure duty and expectation, until an unexpected offer of marriage threatens to decide her future for her. Nemain, known only as the Reaper, is Ríocht na Meon’s most effective weapon—and its most carefully guarded secret.
As ancient powers stir and resistance takes root, the lives of these three women collide. In a realm built to fear what it cannot control, they must navigate loyalty, desire, and the weight of legacy—while magic long thought dormant begins to remember itself.
Dark, atmospheric, and rich with Celtic-inspired folklore, Dawn of the Raven is a character-driven sapphic fantasy about resilience, sacrifice, and the quiet defiance of women pushed to the margins. Hopeful yet brutal, it is the beginning of a sweeping queer epic where power awakens slowly—and nothing remains buried forever.
Warnings: SA (not explict on page); violence; “police” brutality; torture; thoughts of suicide; death of a parent(s).
Get It At Amazon | Publisher | Bookshop.org
Excerpt
A string of carriages raced past, stirring up clouds of dust. Sorcha and Fiona gagged as their eyes watered, and they dropped their toys and hurried to the roadside where people gathered to watch the carriages race toward the keep.
The rage of a shopkeeper’s bellowing voice drew the crowd’s attention. “Stop them!”
A wall of First Order guards appeared on the cobblestone road as the dust settled. Merchants plastered on false smiles, children scurried away, and the townsfolk gave a wide berth, afraid to give the guards an excuse to ruin their day. But Sorcha’s attention wasn’t on the guards. Instead, she watched two frightened girls sneaking behind a stall selling jewelry directly across the street.
“They have the same face,” Fiona whispered, also noticing.
The two girls had eyes of onyx, and their dark brown skin was riddled with cuts and thick with grime. One eyed the market frantically and noticed them staring. The girl’s eyes watered in fear, silently begging Sorcha for help. They were most likely orphans, runaways, or dearmad, the forgotten children of druids.
Rumors of the dearmad ran rampant through the Meon. When authorities captured people for practicing arcane magic, their children had nowhere to go and wandered the streets, ignored or forgotten. People feared taking them in, worried they’d manifest one of the four eilimintí, putting them and their families in danger.
No child should live without their parents, and the urge to help those two cowering girls made Sorcha’s eyes burn with unshed tears.
“You!” the shopkeeper shouted, then yanked the arm of the girl with cropped black hair. She dropped the apple in her hand. “I have a thief for you, guards!”
Some people fled the scene, rushing into the safety of their homes and shops. The First Order were on the hunt for a druid and held the rest of the townsfolk spellbound, freezing them in place and making it impossible to turn away. The girl with cropped hair fought the shopkeeper’s grasp, kicking and screaming. Then a guard threw her over his shoulder, while another guard shoved the other girl with long locs to the ground, wrenched her arm behind her back, and pressed her face into the road.
Her cries of pain made Sorcha’s tears spill over.
The dearmad girl with cropped hair went still, and the guard’s grip slipped. She pushed off his shoulder and charged the guard crushing the other girl to the ground. With a battle cry that made Sorcha’s blood run cold, the girl with the cropped hair pushed with inhuman strength to knock the guard down. His head hit the cobblestones with a nauseating thump.
The guards halted, mouths agape, at the dearmad’s violence. Red seeped from the guard’s head as the light disappeared from his eyes.
Fiona shivered and wept from the violence they witnessed by the men who had sworn to protect everyone, but it enraged Sorcha. Anger simmered in her chest and the fleeting desire to throw rocks at them blurred her vision. A single rock would land her in the stocks for the day—or, worse, lead her to receive a lashing.
“Imogen?” The dearmad with cropped hair crawled to the unconscious girl lying beside the dead guard. She cried out the name repeatedly, like a prayer, her voice echoing in the silent street.
The townsfolk could not pull their judging gazes away as the young girl crawled past the dead guard to reach her sister’s limp body, her hair and face covered in dust and blood.
Sorcha gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth. The guards seized the girl, but she kicked out as an Otherworldly scream wrenched from her soul, calling out her sister’s name. Imogen didn’t move from beside the dead guard, his blood now pooling around the two bodies.
Even if she was a dearmad, she should have been too young to display any magic. Still, the guards forced her to the ground, while one retrieved chains to secure her tiny wrists. As the girl pulled at the guard’s arm, he suddenly lurched forward and fell face-first onto the ground. The townsfolk scattered at first in confusion, then in fear as the dearmad revealed herself as a druid, confirming her suspicion. The surviving guards put a safe distance between them and the dearmad, her touch having caused the guards’ deaths.
She curled her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth, repeating, “Imogen. Imogen. Imogen.”
“What’s going on here?” A deep baritone voice interrupted the chaos, and silence descended upon the people.
A man well into his third decade of life, with a dark brown complexion and haunting eyes, sauntered past the frightened guards who hovered around the crying child. He stole a glance at the dead guard, at the sallow face with veins of black spiderwebbing down his neck and disappearing beneath his armor, weaving inky knots. His attention flickered to the dearmad, then to Imogen, and his eyes softened.
“What’s your name, child?” he asked.
Tears ran down her face as she curled into herself, struggling to speak through her shock. “I d-didn’t mean t-t-to do i-it,” she finally stuttered, wiping snot from her face.
“Of course not. We all make unforgivable mistakes,” he said, his voice softening, and then pointed behind her. “Your sister?”
“Sea, sir,” she cried.
Her sorrow was palpable, and Sorcha turned away, shielding Fiona from the view.
Fiona’s hands clenched at her chest. “It hurts,” she breathed. “Make it stop.” Tears streamed down her face.
Sorcha panicked. “What hurts?”
“Everything. Make it stop.” Fiona whimpered.
Unsure how to help, Sorcha led her away from the tragic scene but failed to push the death and violence from her mind. She’d never seen one so young with arcane magic, or with that kind of power.
Author Bio
T. L. Tyner is a queer fantasy author who blends myth, magic, and emotional depth into character-driven stories. When not writing, she explores folklore, crafts new worlds, and connects with readers who love immersive, inclusive fantasy adventures. She grew up in Washington State, where misty forests, stormy coastlines, and moss-covered trees shaped the way she saw the world. Whether she was camping deep in the Ho Rainforest or wandering the slopes of Mount Rainier, Tyner was dreaming up tales of ancient magic, lost worlds, and the quiet strength of unlikely heroes. Tyner’s love for storytelling led her to study the Humanities, and later earn a Master’s in Library and Information Science. She spends her days surrounded by books, helping others find the stories they need, and by night, she writes her own.
| Author Website | www.tltyner.com |
|---|