Writing Experiment

No, it's not another fanfic. Yes, today's chapter is coming. This is just a new writing style I tried for a university sci-fi and fantasy project that I thought was worth sharing to get some thoughts. Might make it a whole novel, I dunno.

What do you guys think of it compared to my usual style?

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The sun dips low as he rides the ridge path, hooves striking stone like flint on steel. Six hours from town to nowhere, and he’s already halfway. If he pushes, he’ll make it before dark. Ma would like that.

He yawns, rubs grit from his eyes. Should’ve said no to the meat pie. Or the second one.

The trail bends around a crooked pine and—

His mare stops short.

A man lies in the dirt.

No—sprawled. Arms twisted wrong. One boot half-off, soaked through with black at the ankle.

For a long second, the boy doesn’t move.

Dead.

Dead. No one dies out here. No one lives out here. The man wears a dark cuirass—hooded, metal-tipped. Flies buzz near his mouth, swollen and gaping. Crows circle in the trees.

The boy swallows deeply before he dismounts. He should turn around. Ride home. Say nothing.

Instead, he kneels beside the pack. Already pulling at the straps. If Ma were here, she’d slap his hand and call it grave-robbing. But she’s not. And right now, it’s just curiosity. The bag’s torn at the bottom—big enough for most things to have slipped free, but not this: something heavy, wrapped in red cloth, wedged in the lining. He pushes past a dry wedge of bread, a flask that stinks of steel and mint, and draws the bundle free.

A hilt. Scorched. Broken. The blade barely longer than a finger, jagged and blackened like bone left too long in fire. But it's cold to touch. Damp, as if pulled from a grave. He frowns and turns it in his hand. The leather grip is stitched with something too smooth, the pattern off, somehow. Not animal. Not right. He sets it down and rubs his palms against his sleeves for warmth, but the chill lingers. The skin along his hands begins to prickle.

And then—

Bootsteps crunch.

He spins. Nothing behind him. Just pines. Wind. Silence.

But for one breathless moment, he was sure—

He turns back. The hilt lies where he dropped it. He should kick it into the brush. Leave it. Never speak of it again.

Instead, he picks it up.

His fingers close around it like they remember something.

A way to move. A way to kill.

He doesn’t know the stance, but his body shifts anyway. Front heel down. Shoulder forward. No blade—but the weight of one strains his forearms. Timing. Target. Swing. Like a dream he forgot he’d dreamed.

He drops it. Or maybe it falls from his hand on its own.

Either way, the broken blade lies quiet in the dirt, and he doesn’t realise he let it go until he looks down.