E.C. Alice

@ecalice.bsky.social

145 Followers 497 Following

Aspiring romantasy author and astrology addict 🔮 I use the power of ADHD and mild-but-diagnosed OCD to write gothy, surreal fairytales.

A mood board for the novel. The top left image is of a full moon against a dark blue sky, framed by dark branches the viewer is looking up through. The top right image features the hands of a fighter wrapping cloth around his hand. The center image is of a Victorian library of black wood and dark red curtains and couches, a fire glowing in the hearth. Superimposed text reads, “I would burn this city if it would keep you with me.” The bottom picture is of the feet of a wolf lowering to rest in snow, the whole image cast in a cerulean gleam. Artwork is not mine, all rights belong to their respective owners. No AI images (as far as I’m aware).
There was someone in the tree. Back slumped against the great trunk, long legs balanced across a sturdy bough, his head nodding towards his shoulder as he dreamt. His black hair was long enough to sway with his hand where it dangled to one side, spidery strands sparsely draped over his sleeping face—a delicate one, almost feminine in the gentle slopes of his features, from soft lips to smooth brows, a contrast to his strong jaw. Serene, and young, draped in blue mage robes splattered in red. It was nightmarish, realizing who I was looking at. How dare he look like that, after all that he’d done. Monsters didn’t have the right to look peaceful against the setting sun. They didn’t get to look beautiful.
Maybe that was why I leaned nearer to him in turn, fighting my own tongue-tied silence. His fingers touched my cheek, the way they had that first night—I felt my pulse rushing. Was this why he’d kept so distant? There was this pull between us, one that demanded the space between narrow, my own hand eventually brave enough to reach to his face as well. His skin was smooth, soft, even along his jaw. The closer I came, the stronger that scent of maple wrapped around me, whispered me closer. A knock on the door. I yelped as Celeste burst into feather, swooping up to the loft as I fell into his pile of garments, wanting to perish. “Coming!!” At least that spell was broken. I sighed, all but kicking myself as I shoved his clothes under the couch and rushed to the door—how could I have forgotten? Ianthe knocked again, her playful triple rap-pat-pat, and I did my best to tell my shaking knees that those last few moments were completely, wholly, inconsequential.
The cold of remembering sealed my lips. I thought of all the angry black sigils I had seen marked up Alkiviadis’ arms, the times he had he rolled up his sleeve to help me with a task. I remembered the offhanded way he had recounted to me of the number of shifters he had killed in his enforcement. I remembered how cruel his dark eyes turned when he spoke of them, the air an impenetrable ice that could not be reasoned with. He would kill my raven. My begging would not move him, my tears could not erode his resolve. I knew that, then. He was exactly as unknowable as those helmeted guards, watching me, always, for signs of sin.
I knew this was only a test. That whatever history Matthaois and I had, he did not intend to hurt Kalliope, and that any inclination I had to the contrary was imagined. Yet, the sight of him standing over her, smug as he was when he threw me to the dirt, it churned something in me. An anger deep under my skin that bubbled, raising the fine hairs down my arms. I wished on him the strain she felt, tightening, constricting around his heart. The praceptor had knelt to check Kalliope, nodding in approval before he raised his hand once more. “Matthaois, release.” But Matthaois couldn’t. The sparks remained as he suddenly clutched at his ribcage, cursing—only when he hunched over did Kalliope shoot up, clearly startled.
"Have you had any more accidents?" This was a question asked sharply. Despite the twist in my stomach, however, I managed to reply with a smile—because I was not entitled to my pain. "No, I've been very conscientious. I only cast the magic Conservator Alkiviadis supervises. He says I have been a model student, even." I’d found myself smiling more, then, proud of the progress I’d been making. I regretted it at once. “I don’t care how you delude yourself on your own time,” he sneered. “Don’t subject me to your cheery little charade.” I stared at the ground to hide the fact some of my smile lingered, forced. Emotions were the gateway to horror. He didn’t understand. My smile was the only thing that kept the gateway closed—I couldn’t let it go, no matter how he scowled.
Frozen in my resolve, I was forced to witness his heartbreak. Disbelief became pain, became anger, became sorrow. I saw tears shimmer across those eyes like sunset. Before he shut them, jaw tight, teeth bared. It hurt, to watch as I broke him. But I had to. He couldn’t stay here, with me. He deserved more than this. Finally, Taran turned from me. He went to the window, which was still barred by Alkiviadis’ chains—before I could stop him, he’d grabbed them. I could smell his skin burning, I saw the angry blisters left on his palms as he threw the chains aside, before pushing open the panes. He didn’t look at me again. “If this is what you want.”
All images are royalty free, found on Pixaby. They’re arranged in a montage, featuring: 1. An ominous cloud of blue smoke. 2. A log on fire. 3. Half of a deer skull resting in a tree bough. 4. A shrouded woman with four lines of vertical writing tattooed on her upper back, half a mandala over her spine. 5. A hand slowly drawing a dagger from a sheath. 6. A bloody hand holding a white rose, its petals smeared with red. 7. A murder of crows gazing over a forest bathed in green light. 8. A dark forest with an uncomfortable yellow glow. 9. Closeup on the silhouette of a man and a woman, their foreheads pressed together. It seems intimate, though the contrast with the surrounding horror is stark. 10. A number of shadowy hands pressed against a sheet, as though trapped. The central shadow pressing into the sheet could be a head, or something else. 11. A lone wolf standing against a vivid sunset, the sky almost entirely magenta. Superimposed on the montage is a quote, "Are you one of those who dance for our deaths?"
“I know he isn’t harmless. I can feel the careful blunt of his nails against my forearms, their points carefully filed every day since Lia was born. (I miss them, but I can never tell him that.) He still has that intense, wolfish gaze. I know he would do unspeakable things for me, if only I asked. But I like the quiet of our lives. I can tell he does too. So, I expect the danger in him will lay dormant, docile even, for as long as she and I are safe.”
A screenshot of a short Spotify playlist with a big green play button, set across a black background. Tracks top to bottom: “Curses” by acloudyskye “Complete Collapse - Acoustic” by Sleeping with Sirens “Lighthouse” by Iamthemorning, Mariusz Duda “Null Moon” by Akira Yamaoka “salva nos II” by Yuki Kajiura “L.L.I.B.” by Sal3m, NOVELISTS, Amael Durand “Cascade” by Satron Paint Samuel, Drew Gooden “Follow You” by Bring Me the Horizon “No Mercy” by DeathbyRomy
(Originally sent to me by a beta-reader, ty Chris) Four panels, from top left to right, bottom left to right: 1. A bushy-haired young man speaks to a very cut marshmallow-like man with a pleasant emoji-like smile, asking him, “Wow! How did you get like that?” 2. The cut man gives a look of :D, and says “Every time Kalliope looks at me…” 3. He raises one finger. “I do *one* push-up.” 4. The bushy-haired man stares back with a much more nervous :D. “Jesus Christ.”
Text against a black background, two corners decorated by haunting branches of bluish-gray leaves. From the top, it reads: “An agent’s guide to,” “A Spell for a Raven’s Wing,” “New Adult Gothic Romantasy,” “101k words.”
A dark forest cast in deep blue, superimposed by text: “They came in the night, the elves, in their white robes of retribution.” Creative Commons image by Roman Schurte
Art by my wonderful friend Lily Azith (@sidhekatsoup.bsky.social) The portrait features a pale elven woman with long silvery hair, blue eyes, and dark red lips, against a blue backdrop swirling with shadowy patterns.
A mood board for part one of the novel. The top left image is a cropped picture of a young woman with long silvery-blonde hair, in a peasant top wrapped in red strips, her eyes obscured. The top right image is a photo of a woven basket in a green field, its contents an open book set atop a few colorful apples. The center image is of a woman’s arm surrounded by levitating stones, superimposed by the text, “Sorry would never be enough.” The bottom image features a table strewn with bottles of dried herbs, a large orb of rose quartz set atop a candlestick, and a lone candle among the bottles casting off warm light. Artwork is not mine, all rights belong to their respective owners. No AI images (as far as I’m aware).
A collage of images from across the internet (none owned by me, found from the unfortunately creditless pit that is Pinterest, if you own one of the images and wish it removed or credited, please reach out). From the top moving from left to right: 1) A bright woodland cottage covered in greenery and flowers. 2) A pale young woman curled into herself in a flowery, ethereal field, features obscured 3) A violet raven looks left. 4) A quill is laid across a ripped journal, surrounded by various writing tools, Victorian trinkets, and a low-burning candle. 5) A hand held out over a grimoire, symbols held in the air beneath his palm.