Character Confessions: The Chosen One’s Assistant by Kimber Grey

Brae Hammett (Interviewer): Hello, and welcome! Thank you so much for coming. Please, introduce yourselves.

 

The Chosen One (The Knight of All Kingdoms, The Bearer of Gods' Blessings, etc...): *Grunts* Surely, I do not require introduction.

 

Tiberius (Assistant of The Chosen One): And I am called Tiberius. I am only here to observe. Please, do not mind me.

 

Brae: Excellent! Well, it is certainly a great honor to meet you, Chosen One! Very few common folk have the opportunity to converse with the Greatest Hero of Men. What brings you to our fine city?

 

Chosen: Well, you had undead beavers. So... you're welcome.

 

Brae: Oh? But you just arrived this morning.

 

Chosen: Yeah. All dead. That's what I do.

 

Tiberius: That's true. We were celebrating in the tavern by noon.

 

Chosen: *belches loudly*

 

Tibeius: *Face-palms*

 

Brae: I see. I did hear about the terrible unpleasantness on the river. I'm so glad that evil has been resolved. Thank you very much.

 

Chosen: Yes, yes.

 

Brae: With so much great evil in the world, how did you learn about our small city?

 

Chosen: The gods direct me.

 

Brae: Of course. But do you receive letters somewhere or perhaps have a council of wizards monitoring for...

 

Chosen: *growls* I've answered this question.

 

Tiberius: He doesn't like to repeat himself. He meant that quite literally, the gods direct him. I've seen it with my own eyes. It can be anything from a feeling of intuition to a bird carrying a message.

 

Chosen: Don't answer for me.

 

Tiberius: Sorry.

 

Brae: Fascinating. The legends say the gods are known to speak directly to you. Is this true?

 

Chosen: When they choose, sure.

 

Brae: What does the voice of a god sound like?

 

Chosen: Like the embodiment of everything they represent and command.

 

Brae: That's hard to imagine. Is there a way you could describe it to a common man such as myself?

 

Chosen: *growls*

 

Tiberius: Allow me. I have heard the voice of Trion.

 

Brae: Truly? The God of Strife and Darkness? That must have been terrifying.

 

Tiberius: Well, yes, but his voice... Nothing about it sounded human. There was a deep, unquestionable understanding that the personification of living power was speaking to me. I couldn't move, couldn't think. His words in that moment were the only reality I knew. Everything I've ever read about him: good, bad, horrific... I felt them all at once, and all so overwhelmingly, I couldn't breathe. It was also the saddest thing I have ever heard.

 

Brae: How so?

Chosen: Enough. This is my interview. What's your next question?

 

Brae: Oh, yes. Of course.

 

Tiberius: Sorry.

 

Brae: It is said you are quite old, though you look young and very hale.

 

Chosen: I am called to defeat the strongest and most cunning creatures that prey upon the innocent. I do all I can to remain equal to that task.

 

Brae: So, you exercise?

Chosen: I rigorously train. Daily.

Tiberius: *snickers*

 

Brae: And how old are you?

 

Chosen: Older than your grandfather. Older than the stories.

Brae: That is incredible. Some of the texts I read in preparation for this interview were hundreds of years old.

 

Chosen: Was that a question?

 

Brae: In several of the stories that are more than a hundred years old, your assistant, Tiberius is referenced or even authored them. Is he also blessed with immortality by the gods?

Chosen: I though you wished to interview a grandmaster hero. If you want to talk about Tiberius, I left two fine wenches wanting at the tavern who I could return to.

 

Brae: I only wish to understand the tools the gods have blessed you with to help you be successful in your great deeds. An immortal assistant—

Chosen: *grunts, stands, and leaves"

 

Brae: I... I didn't mean...

 

Tiberius: I thought you did well. He stayed longer than I expected. Please send me a copy of your article when you write it. I will add it to our library of publications.

 

Brae: Wait! Can you answer the question? Are you also immortal?

 

Tiberius: Um. So long as I serve him, I believe so. I really must go. I'm certain he doesn't remember the way back to the tavern.

  

 

The Chosen One’s Assistant 

Kimber Grey 

Genre: Epic/High Fantasy, Sword and Sorcery

Publisher: GrayWhisper Graphics Productions (

Date of Publication: 7/12/2023

ISBN: 979-8851108464

ASIN: B0C9SNG88J

Number of pages: 359

Word Count: Aprox. 98,000

Cover Artist: Kimber Grey

Tagline: Hilarious, Dark, and Epic! Everything you’d expect in a book with vampire weasels.

Book Description:

Never meet your heroes.

Outcast by every guild, starving, and left beaten and shamed in an alley, he was beyond desperate when the timeliest opportunity presented itself: The Greatest Hero of Men was in need of an assistant.

He was so eager to leave his old life behind, he didn't hesitate to accept the role of Tiberius, personal assistant to The Chosen One. The magically binding contract was signed, and the previous servant was out the door before the blood on the quill was dry. Tiberius quickly learned he was responsible for all of the hero's needs from mundane to absurdly ridiculous, and the hero himself was the most ridiculous of all. Woefully inexperienced as a quester, thrown into the hero's world of danger and debauchery, he could never have guessed how harrowing and frustrating this new position would be. Then he learned the God of Pestilence was holding a well-justified, 100-year-old grudge. Death, disease, and evil beyond any Tiberius could imagine awaited them on the path ahead, and The Chosen One had been called to stand against it.

How could Tiberius hope to survive his first campaign with the gods' champion against Trion, God of Darkness?

Amazon      Hardcover      Books2Read

Excerpt:

I returned to the room and knocked, entering at the direction of The Chosen One... who stood in front of the mirror wearing nothing but his Chosen underwear and the tyrian purple cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His chest was puffed out, and his enormous, muscular limbs flexed this way and that as he posed himself in dramatic battle postures with his famous great sword. Every inch of visible skin was hairless and glistening. He had worked up a sweat admiring himself, and I could still smell the liquor on him.

"Um..." I mumbled, wondering if I should return at a more convenient—and less embarrassing—time. Much to my chagrin, he didn't stop flexing on my account.

"Go ahead and pack," he grunted as he clenched his stomach to make all of his tightly bound abdomen muscles pop. "I'll wait for the pressed clothes." He turned to the side and threw the cloak over his shoulder so he could admire his hips and backside, casting daring glances at his tiny embroidered face on the seat of his underpinnings through the polished brass.

I was certain my own face was scarlet as I skirted past him to gather up everything and return the items to the trunks that seemed the most appropriate. The entire time I worked, he didn't break from his posturing, and I wondered if it was a form of exercise for him, or if it merely exercised his ego. My work was hastened by embarrassment, and when I was done, I silently took up the first Tome of Tiberius. I turned my back, ignoring his grunting and wheezing, and flipped to chapter 3, skimming for the most pertinent pieces of information. I needed to know how to handle The Chosen One's finances.

I quickly learned it was my duty to draw up contracts when The Chosen One agreed to take a deal, enforce the contracts, and collect the fees. It was my duty to arrange for appraisers, auctioneers, and moneychangers to convert any "spoils" of The Chosen One's labors—those that he did not keep for his personal collection—to coin. It was my duty to ensure there was sufficient coin for The Chosen One to live whatever lifestyle he chose and to fund any campaign. Incidentals incurred as a direct result of a campaign—such as bribing furious husbands—came from funds before they were deposited into a bank and Tiberius' percentage was calculated. There was a list of "lifestyle" actions that came from the bank and were not considered incidentals; "donations and women" were on that list. Thus, I assumed him throwing coins into the crowd was not an incidental, either, but came from The Chosen One's own bank holdings.

"You need to plot a course for Vevesk," The Chosen One said between poses. "They have vampire stoats."

"What," I asked, slightly startled by the break in silence. "What is a stoat?"

"I think they said it was like a long rat." He glanced over at me. "Find out. And find out how to kill it."

I stared at him until his self-admiration embarrassed me enough to look away. "You don't know how to kill them?"

"I assume I cut them up enough, they'll die," he quipped. "You need to figure out how it happened so I can stop it. Evil wizard, ancient curse, typical vampirism, that sort of thing."

"I have to learn what caused this outbreak of blood-sucking long rats?" I asked, incredulously. Surely he was jesting. That was his job.

"Chapter 2," he said, stripping off the cloak so he could better admire his shoulders.

I grimaced and turned to the second chapter in the Tome of Tiberius. This detailed how I was to conduct necessary research for a campaign and successfully translate it to The Chosen One, for him to then implement that knowledge to complete his feats of heroism. I sighed deeply. "There is no university here to hold historical works, and many of the larger temples do not have any books in them at all. I will need to visit the Wizards' Guild, the Questers' Guild, and the Scriveners' Guild," I explained.

"Go quickly," he ordered without sympathy. "We leave soon."

I gritted my teeth and rose from my chair, throwing Tiberius' quill and a stack of paper sheets into my shoulder bag. It was all but impossible to do the kind of research this would require in only a handful of hours. So, I ran.

About the Author:

Kimber was born in the arid and alien land known as southern California. She began consuming fiction from an early age, and has ever been eager to emulate the works that dramatically shaped her heart and mind as a child. She began creating short fiction and poetry in grade school, and wrote her first (laughably bad) novel in jr. high. With a grandmother who is a writer and an editor, English teachers who encouraged her budding potential, and a husband with an even greater appreciation of the written word, Kimber has never lacked support in the pursuit of her bliss.

She published her first fantasy novel Quietus in 2009, and her second Seeking Destiny in 2012. The first three books of Faiden Reborn, Kingdoms Lost, Fallen Heroes, and History Forgotten were published in 2017. She has published two anthologies and four novellas, and her work has appeared in anthologies such as Missing Pieces IV, V, and VI; The Hapless Cenloryan-The Troubadour's Inn Book I (2017 Ed.), and On Wings of Steam: Ears and Gears. The Chosen One's Assistant, published in 2023 is her most popular yet, with it's heavy fantasy tropes and sharp wit.

http://www.Patreon.com/KimberGrey 

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Kimber-Grey/author/B00BU84D7W 

Spooktastic Haunted Book Fair Brings Dark Delights to Flint This October

Book lovers with a taste for the eerie and otherworldly are invited to step into the shadows at the Spooktastic Haunted Book Fair, happening Saturday, October 18, from 12–3 p.m. at Creative Cafe, 3318 Corunna Rd, Flint, MI 48503.

The event promises an afternoon filled with dark and paranormal romance, spine-tingling horror, haunting histories, and fantastical tales—the perfect mix for readers who like their stories on the spooky side. In addition to a wide selection of books, attendees will also find bookmarks, stickers, and other macabre merchandise to complete their haunted haul.

“Do you enjoy dark romances, haunted houses, and stories that send shivers down your spine?” asks event organizer Roxanne Rhoads. “The Spooktastic Haunted Book Fair is designed for readers who love to wander into the shadows of imagination.”

Whether you’re seeking your next paranormal love story, a chilling ghost tale, or simply a spooky souvenir, the fair will offer something for every fan of the macabre.

Event Details:

 Spooktastic Haunted Book Fair
 Saturday, October 18, 12–3 p.m.
 Creative Cafe, 3318 Corunna Rd, Flint, MI 48503
 Event Page on Facebook

Character Confessions: Shades of Night by Floy Owens

Violet Speaks

People think they know me because they have read the pages.

They know nothing.

Floy Owens calls herself my author. She decides where a scene begins and ends, how long I stand in silence, when a heartbeat quickens. She believes the story is hers to shape.

I let her believe it.

What she cannot write into existence is the stillness inside me. The place where time slows and thought sharpens until it feels like steel. She gives you dialogue and description. I keep the rest for myself.

Sometimes I watch her adjust a single sentence again and again. She wants everything precise. She does not realize that control is my language, not hers. I would rather leave a breath unmeasured than let her decide what it means.

Readers ask where I came from. They want tidy origins and clear motives. I could answer, but some truths hold more power when they stay unspoken.

She thinks she built me. Perhaps she drew the first outline. But I wrote the spaces between the words. I am the pause that makes a room colder. I am the thought that flickers after the light goes out.

Floy writes endings. I do not. Stories may close, but I continue. Every silence, every dark corner, every quiet street at night is another page waiting.

I am not a character who lives only where ink dries.

I am the part you cannot stop thinking about when the book is back on the shelf.

Shades of Night

Floy Owens 

Genre: Thriller

Date of Publication: 8/24/25

ISBN: 979-8262133963 

ASIN: B0FNN9D558

Number of pages: 222 

Word Count: 48,726 words

Cover Artist: Bryan Lauer 

Tagline: A Dark Psychological Serial Killer Thriller with Shocking Twists, Dark Secrets, and a Fearless Female Lead 

Book Description: 

When a successful bookstore owner is abducted by a meticulous serial killer, she finds herself in a sterile cage designed for torture. 

But as the captor attempts to break his victim, the roles of predator and prey begin to blur. 

In a deadly psychological game where survival means becoming the greater monster, she must confront her own dark history to not only escape, but to take everything from the man who trapped her.

Amazon

Excerpt:

The room is dim, shadows casting sinister shapes as Violet hangs suspended from the ceiling beam. The air is sharp, metallic. Her upper back is pierced by two thick, curved steel hooks, twisting cruelly into her flesh, skin stretched unnaturally taut. The thick rope threaded through the hooks connects her to the beam. Blood seeps in thin rivulets down her sides, creating jagged streaks that pool at her underwear’s waistband, before dropping to the cold concrete below.

Her legs are submerged in a steel basin, the stool beneath it unsteady. The water, tainted with rust and streaks of her blood, ripples faintly. Her arms dangle, hands still bound together. Her head tilts slightly forward, chin resting against her chest. She forces each breath to remain slow, even.

Erik crouches beside a car battery, his clean, collared flannel shirt tucked into dark jeans, sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tightens the clamps on the terminals, sparks leaping at the contact.

“You know, I’ve read every page of your life.” He lifts the jumper cables, taps them together, causing a spark to ignite. “Medical files, police reports, case manager notes. Every sad word.” He shakes his head, disgust feigned, setting the cables aside momentarily. “When you have money, nothing’s off limits, it’s sick really.” He moves to the basin, adjusting it beneath her feet. “I know exactly where you’ve been, what was done to you, who did it.” Leaning in, his voice drops, almost intimate. “Nothing about you is hidden from me.”

Violet’s lips curl in a half-smile, eyes sharp despite the pain. “Then you must know how all this will end.”

Erik holds her gaze for a beat, then lowers both jumper cables into the basin. Violet’s body seizes violently, legs kicking, sending ripples through the bloody water. The jolt rips through her, every nerve set on fire. Her jaw snaps shut, teeth grinding. There’s a rush of static in her ears, then nothing but blinding white. She bites her tongue to keep from crying out. In the haze, she thinks she hears Erik counting under his breath. Her back arches against the hooks, fresh blood weeping from the wounds. The water bubbles and hisses as the current surges.

As smoke fills the Cage and the pain recedes, Violet’s awareness drifts. For Erik, each session in the Cage is a key, unlocking a different memory he has constructed from her files. He pictures another house, another set of wounds, another day when everything was already broken.

He sees it as clearly as the files he read. She would have been younger then, thinner, eyes already trained on disaster. He pictures her entering a silent house, feeling the weight of what waits inside. It is not guesswork anymore. The details are always the same.

 

***

 

Twenty-One Years Ago

 

The house door creaks open. Violet steps inside, fifteen and all sharp angles, her backpack slipping from one shoulder. She doesn’t bother fixing it. The air inside is heavy with stillness, as if the house knew what it held and decided to stop breathing.

She does not call out. The house would not answer.

Dust drapes the furniture like snow. The living room is quiet, dark in places it never used to be. A coffee mug lies on its side beside the couch, cracked and forgotten. The blinds are crooked. No breeze. No motion.

Nothing waits to greet her.

Fifteen years old. She walks into a nightmare.

She steps further in, sneakers whispering across the worn floorboards. Her eyes scan the room like she’s been here before and expects what’s coming. Maybe she does. Girls like Violet don’t walk through life with surprises. They walk through patterns.

In the center of the room, her mother hangs.

The ceiling fan turns slowly, each rotation jerking her body just enough to keep the sound going.

Creak.

Creak.

Her legs are stiff, toes pointed downward. A bruise rings her throat, buried beneath the cord. Her dress has slipped from one shoulder. Her mouth is open.

The smell is subtle: sweet rot, sour perfume.

Her mother, tangled in her own mess.

Violet doesn’t cry. She doesn’t cover her mouth or run. She just watches the sway of the body. The way the fan keeps spinning, mechanical and obedient. Then, without a word, she walks past it. No glance back.

The kitchen has its own secrets.

Her father slouches in a chair by the table, neck limp, jaw slack. A bullet hole marks the center of his forehead like a forgotten dot on a test paper. The blood beneath him has dried into maroon shadows, seeping into the wood grain.

The table is chaos. A burned spoon. A twisted tourniquet. A cheap yellow lighter.

He never cleaned up. Never thought she’d come home early.

Her mother finally snapped. Maybe she couldn’t take the guilt anymore.

Violet crouches beside the body. She looks at his hands, still dirty beneath the nails. At the way one boot stayed on while the other sits overturned by the fridge. At the stubble that never grew evenly.

She doesn’t touch him.

Maybe Daddy spent too much money on junk.

She rises again.

Moves down the hall, light as breath, like she doesn’t want to wake whatever still lives in the walls. At the end of the hallway, she lowers herself to the floor. Her back presses against the floral wallpaper, now peeling. Knees drawn tight. Arms locked around them.

She doesn’t shake.

She doesn’t blink.

Or maybe she realized her main source of income was drying up.

The older the girl got, the less she was worth. Mommy shot Daddy dead, then strung herself up.

The house is still now, except for the soft tick of a clock and the distant, endless turn of the fan.

Violet breathes evenly. Her face is blank. Not numb. Blank. Numbness implies a feeling that once existed.

This is not grief. It is recognition.

A girl walks into a house and finds herself orphaned. And somewhere inside her, she knew it was coming.

Some part of her always knew.

 

 

 

About the Author:

Floy Owens writes stories about survival, obsession, and the ways people change when pushed past their limits. The debut novel, Shades of Night, is a dark psychological thriller that dives into the mind of both captor and captive. When not writing, Owens is usually plotting the next story, fueled by strong tea and a curiosity about what makes people tick.

https://subscribepage.io/floy_owens

https://www.facebook.com/floy.owens.author/