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Fantasy mood illustration

Fantasy

A world with rules,
and a cost for breaking them

Fantasy is one Genre card with four contracts: Cozy (gentle magic, belonging), Epic (world-scale cost), Urban (a real city plus a hidden world with a bill coming due), and Gaslamp (period order colliding with impossible invention). Cozy is the default; the others are explicit subgenres — not extra top-level tiles.

Magic that has rules and consequences — intimate and warm, world-scale and costly, hidden in a contemporary city you still have to pay rent in, or a long nineteenth century that is being invented in real time.

Pipeline

How we write Fantasy

Cozy default

Wonder without the world ending — belonging is the real magic.

Epic subgenre

World-scale stakes resolved through the story's own systems, with earned cost.

Urban subgenre

A recognizable city plus a hidden system the protagonist works.

Gaslamp subgenre

Period order plus uncanny invention when you pick Gaslamp / Steampunk.


The contract

What readers expect

Reader promise

  • A protagonist between worlds who needs a place — or a job in both
  • Magic that is a gift, a weapon, a municipal problem, or an impossible machine
  • A community, a kingdom, a hidden Chicago, or a long nineteenth century
  • Stakes you can hold: a garden, a throne, a debt, a discovery

Engine enforcement

  • cozy_fantasy default — intimate wonder
  • epic_fantasy — world-scale reckoning
  • urban_fantasy — two-worlds competence
  • gaslamp_adventure — competent agency, uncanny invention

From the manuscript

Sample prose

Heirloom of the Ironwood Grove · Chapter 1

The repotting had been going well until the lavender decided to have opinions.

Rowan had her hands deep in a fresh clay pot, working a sprig of rosemary into position — fingers spreading the roots apart with the patient pressure she'd learned from years of kitchen-garden work. The rosemary accepted this without complaint. Most of the herbs did.

She reached past it to collect the trowel from the worktable's far edge, and the whole plant — every stem, every spent flower head — turned toward her hand. Not a draft. The window was latched. Rowan held very still.

Her thumb pressed the surface flat, and the resinous smell that lifted had nothing sweet about it — the kind that cleared the back of the throat and made the eyes water slightly if you breathed it too close.

Read more from this book →

Write your fantasy
today

Pick Cozy, Epic, Urban, or Gaslamp in The Composer — one Genre, four different reader contracts.

Start writing →

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