<|im_start|>user
Write me the opening chapter of a 'Grimdark' trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes<|im_end|>
<|im_start|>assistant
<think>

Okay, the user wants the opening chapter of a 'grimdark' trilogy, in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J. Hayes. Let me break that down. First, I need to recall the elements of grimdark fantasy. It's dark, morally ambiguous, gritty, with antiheroes, and often bleak outcomes. Abercrombie's style is known for his snarky, unreliable narrators, and the inevitability of failure and loss. Hayes' style in books like "The Wolf's Call" has visceral violence and a focus on the harshness of life in a brutal world, maybe more visceral and visceral combat.

The user probably wants a chapter that sets up the grim tone right away. Maybe start in media res with action. Abercrombie often starts with a narrator's personal story, so maybe a first-person narrator? Let me think about the key elements: a morally gray protagonist, a bleak setting, violence, and hints at larger conflicts or impending doom.

The opening needs to hook the reader. Maybe a battle scene or a gritty, tense moment. Abercrombie's narrators often have a cynical voice, so the protagonist should have a sarcastic or weary tone. Maybe introduce a scene where the protagonist is facing a tough choice or in the middle of a violent conflict.

Hayes uses detailed, almost brutal descriptions of battles and the human condition. So, the action needs to be visceral, with a sense of the brutality of war. Maybe start with a soldier in the middle of a fight, describing the gruesome details.

I need to establish the world subtly without info-dumping. Perhaps mention the political situation, like a kingdom on the brink of war, or a ruler who is corrupt. The chapter should end on a note that hints at bigger stakes—maybe a betrayal, an approaching enemy, or a personal loss.

The narrator's voice is crucial. Abercrombie's characters often have a dry wit. Let's imagine a protagonist who's been through a lot, maybe a veteran soldier who's seen too much. They could have a cynical take on their situation, which helps convey the grimdark tone. The dialogue should be terse and realistic, not overly dramatic.

Conflict is key. Maybe the protagonist is facing a difficult decision—betrayal, a moral dilemma, or a hopeless battle. Perhaps the protagonist is ordered to do something they're morally against, showing the shades of gray. The setting should be harsh, maybe a battlefield, a cold, desolate place, or a corrupt city.

I need to avoid being too similar to Abercrombie's existing works but capture the essence. Let's think of a title, but the user didn't ask for that. Start with a chapter title that's ominous. The opening line should grab attention. Maybe a line like "I died twice before I hit twenty," but that's been used. Maybe something more original, like "The first time I killed a man, he was screaming before I even drew the blade."

Wait, Abercrombie might use that. Let me think. Alternatively, something like "The stench of decay hit me before I saw the corpses." Maybe set the scene immediately with sensory details—sight, sound, smell.

Introduce the main character's problem quickly. They could be in the middle of a skirmish, surrounded by enemies. Show their thoughts and fears. Maybe a flashback or a memory that contrasts with the current situation.

Ending the chapter with a cliffhanger or a significant event, like the arrival of a larger threat or a betrayal that changes everything.

I should also include some secondary characters—companions, enemies, or authority figures who add to the tension. The protagonist's relationships should show their moral ambiguity. Maybe a comrade who's been loyal but has to be left behind, or an enemy who's sympathetic.

Avoid clichés. Grimdark is all about subverting expectations. The protagonist isn't a hero but someone just trying to survive. Their motivations are selfish or pragmatic.

Need to check for Abercrombie-esque humor. Maybe the protagonist cracks a dark joke in the middle of a dire situation. The prose should be tight, with short sentences during action.

Also, the political backdrop. Maybe a king who's using the protagonist's group as pawns, or a rebellion brewing. The protagonist might be disillusioned with their cause but has to keep fighting anyway.

Alright, putting it all together. Start with a battle scene, a tough choice, visceral descriptions, a cynical narrator, hint at larger political machinations, and end with a twist or impending doom. Make sure the tone is grim and the language matches Abercrombie and Hayes.
</think>

**Chapter One: The Price of Steel**

The world was always a sick joke. You think you’re in on it, and then it kicks you in the teeth.

I’d known better than to trust the man. But by the time the truth bit me, it was too late. He’d promised me a soldier’s death, and he’d delivered. Now I was a corpse with a sword in my guts, watching the world go dark while a pack of laughing dogs tore my face off. Not how I’d imagined it.

Funny that, isn’t it?

They say you see your life flash before your eyes when you die. Not me. I saw mud. Rot and rust and rain. I saw the man I’d followed into a dozen battles, the one who’d called me *brother*, now standing in the mud with my guts in his hand, laughing. “You fought well, old friend,” he’d said. “For a fool.”

Turns out, death’s a slow learner. I woke up three days later.

*Three days*, I kept thinking, staring up at the sagging rafters of the tavern where the witch had sewn me back together. *Three days in whatever hell dogs eat their way into your bones*. The pain had been worse than the dying. I’d bitten through my tongue to keep quiet, but I’d screamed all the same. Screamed so loud I thought my throat might rip out of my neck.

“Quiet, you great blubbering ox,” the witch snapped, and slammed her mortar and pestle onto the table. “I saved your sorry arse. Be grateful.”

“Grateful to a dog-matron with a needle?” I croaked. “I’d sooner lick the wounds of a corpse.”

She stabbed a finger at me. “Watch your tongue, *brother*. Or I’ll take it.”

I’d earned her ire, I suppose. Not everyone could stomach her methods—dripping my wounds with pig’s blood and crushed bones, whispering to her dead familiar, a mangy thing that looked like a rat that’d choked on a fox. But she was the only one in the village who hadn’t fled when the warlords’ banners came clattering over the hills.

And warlords they were. A dozen of them, their colors splashed with the blood of the villages they’d already gutted. They’d ridden in at dawn, their helms like twisted masks, their horses painted with the sigils of forgotten gods. The headman’s wife had offered them wine; they’d slit her throat and fed the bottle to the dogs.

Now the village was burning, and I was supposed to *lead* their rebellion.

Funny thing, that.

The headman’s son, a boy with a knife and a death wish, had cornered me in the tavern that morning. “You’re the captain!” he’d hissed, as if it were my fault. “You’ve led men before!”

“Once,” I muttered. “They were all dead by the end of the day.”

But he’d been right, in his stupid, desperate way. I was the only soldier left. The last remnant of the King’s Guard in this wretched backwater. The rest of us had been butchered, starved, or betrayed—usually all three. And here I was, still breathing, with a witch stitching my guts like she’d hem a hem.

The boy was waiting outside, along with what passed for a militia in this place. Six farmers clutching pitchforks. A blind old man with a crossbow. A woman who’d smuggled her toddler under her shawl.

And me, still clutching the sword that hadn’t killed me. The sword that *hadn’t killed me*.

“Get up,” I told the witch. “I need that damned dog.”

She’d gone off with it first thing—sent the little corpse-mongrel to sniff out the warlords’ camp. She’d left me with a vial of her “healing” juice and a warning: “Drink it, or you’ll stay dead.” I’d thrown it against the wall instead. Let it splatter against the mudbrick like the poison it was.

“Are you mad?” the boy gasped when I staggered into the yard. “You can’t fight like that!”

I laughed, the sound cracking my ribs. “Like that? *Like that?* Boy, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m never *not* like that.”

They followed me anyway. The blind man’s crossbow groaned when I took it from him. The woman clutched her child closer, as if I’d try to slit its throat. I let them think what they wanted. It wasn’t their job to understand.

The warlords had camped on the edge of the forest, their fires lighting the dusk like a warning. I’d counted ten tents, maybe twenty horses. Not much, by any army’s reckoning. But then, I’d learned early that armies weren’t about numbers. They were about noise and stink and the weight of a blade you couldn’t take back.

The witch’s dog—its name was *Nix*, though I couldn’t see why she’d bother—paddled ahead, a shadow in the gloom. Its paws left no mark on the earth. I didn’t ask why.

We circled wide, staying to the cover of the trees. The farmers held their pitchforks like they were going to stab a pig. The blind man’s hands shook. The child wailed, and the woman’s eyes burned with the fire of someone who’s already decided they’ll die but won’t let their child go first.

“Quiet!” I barked. The sound startled even me. “All of you, shut your mouths!”

The boy didn’t flinch. “You’ll get us killed,” he said.

“Everyone’s getting killed,” I told him. “The trick is figuring out *who* to take with you.”

We reached the treeline. The dogs had gathered at the edge of the warlord’s camp, yapping at Nix. A sentry’s voice rang out: “What in the nine hells is that?”

I stepped forward.

The witch had left me a dagger. I’d hidden it under my belt, where the dogs couldn’t smell the blood. It wasn’t much, but I’d made due with less.

The first sentry went down quick. I didn’t think. I didn’t care. I just drove the dagger into his eye and twisted until I heard the wet crunch of bone.

The second one laughed. “A ghost!”

“A ghost!” the others chorused, until they saw the blood on my teeth and realized ghosts don’t bite.

I was roaring by then, the kind of sound you make when you’ve forgotten how to breathe. The blade I’d stolen from the first man’s belt found the second’s throat, and the third’s guts, and the fourth’s knee. The blind man’s crossbow found its way into my hands somehow, and I shot a warlord through the hand just as he drew his sword.

The camp erupted into chaos. Farmers screaming, dogs snarling, warlords shouting orders. A horse reared up and kicked a tent pole.

The woman’s child began to cry in earnest.

And then I saw her.

The woman. The blind man’s widow, I suppose. She’d slipped behind a wagon while I’d been distracted, and now she was nocking an arrow to a stolen bow. Her eyes were steady as she took aim.

I lunged for her, but she was faster.

*Thwip*.

The quarrel pierced the warlord’s eye.

The dog—Nix, the little corpse-thing—leapt onto his chest and began to tear his throat out.

The camp froze.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

And then, as the dog’s jaws found the warlord’s carotid, I knew.

It was a mistake to trust the woman.

She’d known Nix would lead me here.

She’d known the witch would save my life.

She’d known I’d come running, all teeth and rage and stupid loyalty.

The woman was no farmer.

She was a witch’s apprentice, or a spy, or worse.

She was the one who’d killed me.

The blade in my guts had been hers, and her eyes were her mentor’s eyes, sharp and black and full of *laughter*.

“Idiot,” she said, as the camp erupted in screams again, this time for real. “You thought you’d lead us to victory?”

I smiled, blood dripping from my teeth. “You think this is over?”

Her bowstring twanged.

The arrow tore through my shoulder.

“Just the beginning,” she said.

And then the world went dark.

Again.

*Better luck next time*, I thought.

But the witch was there, already. Her fingers dug into my ribs, and her teeth clamped down on my wrist.

And I screamed.

Again.

Always again.

---

The chapter introduces a cynical, battle-hardened protagonist with a history of betrayal, sets up political intrigue, and layers visceral violence with dark humor, while ending with a twist that hints at deeper conspiracies and the cyclical nature of suffering. The prose style mimics Abercrombie's gritty narrative voice and Hayes' emphasis on brutal, intimate combat.