<|im_start|>user
This is an opening chapter of a Grimdark trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes. It is written in third person personal and features internal monologues of the characters. The POV character for chapter 1 is a cultist who has just escaped his cult. He is dressed in dirty yellow robes and his only possession is a mysterious small (magical!?) mirror he stole from the cult. The story starts with him arriving at an apparently deserted ghost town on the edge of a desert. He has an arrow lodged in his shoulder and is losing his mind due to infection and thirst.

# Extra Directions to Avoid Common AI Writing Issues:

- Avoid generic phrasing or filler sentences.
- Use fresh, specific language instead of clichés or idioms.
- Keep internal monologue voice-consistent and emotionally grounded.
- Do not summarize emotions—show them through body language, sensory detail, and subtext.
- Let characters interrupt, pause, or misread each other. Real dialogue over exposition.
- Avoid perfect or overly articulate conversations—lean into awkwardness or hesitation.
- Limit adjectives and adverbs—prioritize strong nouns and verbs.
- No "telling" exposition—fold backstory naturally into setting, memory, or dialogue.
- Avoid AI tropes like “they didn’t know what to say” or “something in their eyes.” Be precise.
- Ground every paragraph in physical space—use the five senses, especially sound and touch.
- Don’t resolve tension too quickly—allow discomfort or ambiguity to linger.
- No sudden shifts in tone or style—keep it consistent with previous chapters.
- Avoid making all characters sound the same—differentiate with rhythm, slang, and tone.
- Minimize redundant restating of emotions already shown.
- No exposition-heavy first lines—start in motion or with a specific, vivid detail.
<|im_end|>
<|im_start|>assistant
<think>

Okay, so the user wants me to start the first chapter of a Grimdark trilogy in the style of Joe Abercrombie and Rob J Hayes. The point-of-view character is a cultist who just escaped his cult, dressed in dirty yellow robes with a magical mirror stolen from the cult. He arrives in a ghost town on the edge of a desert, has an arrow in his shoulder, and is losing his mind from infection and thirst. Alright, Grimdark, so I need to go with gritty, grim tone, maybe some brutal violence and moral ambiguity. Abercrombie and Hayes are known for their harsh realities and deep internal monologues.

First, I need to establish the main character's internal struggle. Since he just escaped, he's probably scared, maybe a bit unhinged from his ordeal, infection, and thirst. The ghost town should be deserted but not completely lifeless. It should feel creepy with some haunting elements. I want to show his physical pain and mental deterioration through his thoughts and actions instead of telling.

The user wants avoidance of filler, clichés, and generic phrases. So I need to be specific. Use fresh language, maybe describe the desert in an unorthodox way. For internal monologue, he should be consistent in his voice, maybe a bit sarcastic or cynical. Need to show emotions through body language, sensory details, so maybe focus on the taste of blood, pain in the shoulder, dryness of throat, gritty feel of sand.

Dialogue has to be natural, not too articulate. Maybe he talks to himself. No exposition-heavy lines. Start in motion, so maybe start with him walking in the desert. Need to show the infection is worse because of the arrow. He is hallucinating. Let characters have awkward moments. Let the tension linger, maybe end the chapter with him having an encounter or being lost. Ground every paragraph in the five senses, like feel of the mirror, the smell of his own blood, sound of the wind, touch of sand, maybe vision of dead people around him.

No perfect conversations, so his dialogue with himself might be broken, he might be confused. Let the setting show backstory; the ghost town and the arrow in him allude to why he left. Avoid clichés like "something in his eyes." Need to make him unique with rhythm and slang.

Wait, his only possession is a small mirror that may be magical. So I need to describe the mirror, its significance. Maybe it shows his past, or possible future, or is cursed. Show how he feels about it, maybe some memories linked to it.

Need to avoid resolving the tension too fast, so maybe he finds no one, his infection gets worse, he hallucinates, mirror breaks, or something happens to increase the stakes. Internal monologue is important, he's alone so I can dig deep into his psyche. His thirst and pain make him short-tempered. Let his thoughts and actions reveal his desperation. Maybe he hallucinates a friend to talk to, but the friend is actually dead.

Be precise, no vagueness. Use strong nouns and verbs. Like "crunch" under his feet, "grit" in the mirror. Show his mental state through actions like stumbling, clutching his arrow-wound. Show his memory of the cult through sensory details, like smell, sound of screams.

Start in motion, so opening sentences should show movement: walking towards the town, his struggle as he walks. Ground every paragraph in the setting, and have a gradual release of information. His hallucinations show his break from reality. End on a cliffhanger, unresolved tension.
</think>

He moved like an old man. Each step left him panting. Sun-scorched robes ground dust beneath his feet with a dry crunch that seemed too loud, too present. A thousand little grits and specs glued to every hem and seam, as though the very earth hated him.

He was an accident. A mistake. All he had left were bones. And this mirror.

The town was abandoned. Stank of dead things, of grief and dust. A rusted sign leaned against a crumbling mill. Letters and numbers corroded into futility, but he could read it anyway: *Vermouth*.

He paused. The smell of rotting wood, the taste of iron salt on his tongue, the feel of hot glass in his chest. And voices. Laughter, and shuddering whispers, and wet breaths. Half-dreaming, he knew what they were saying, knew why. They were calling for him. That was what cultists did.

That’s what he had done to his brothers.

Fuck them.

He couldn’t stay, couldn’t hope for hospitality. He would have to pass through Vermouth.

The arrow in his shoulder burned. Wound fever. He could have died for this. Instead of her, maybe. Maybe that was what this was about. Maybe that’s what it had always been.

He leaned against the mill’s sagging wall. Sun-bleached planks pressed into his hip, hot with yesterday’s heat. He let his breath slow. When it did, he could hear the wind in the hills. The mournful keening of a solitary buzzard.

But then there was another sound. A shout in the distance. A child’s voice.

The boy’s name. He had forgotten, but the memory of it rose again as clearly as the sun: *Iona*.

Fuck them.

There was no time now. Not for him. Not for Iona. The cultists wouldn’t be far behind. He had left them more confused than hurt, but they weren’t stupid. No one could live as long as he had without learning something.

He moved quicker now, coughing blood into his fists and swiping it at his robe’s knee.

No one here, no one alive. He could tell by the way the light was hitting the windowsills, by the smell, by the way his own heartbeat could out-pace his breath. No one had breathed in this place for a long while. It wasn’t right, though, because he heard things. Voices. His own, and others, calling his name.

Fuck them.

*The mirror is important*, he told himself. *It’s all that matters*. It wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t. Something about the glass, something about the way it glittered in the sun. It had told him his name when they’d given him the robe. A child’s name. He’d forgotten. Iona had forgotten, too.

*This isn’t a weapon, and you don’t want to kill them*.

Fuck them.

A house collapsed behind him. He stopped to look at its timbers. Time had left its teeth marks like claw marks. A large hole where a window should be. A frayed rope swinging gently. A broken child’s doll lying in the rubble.

It might have happened an hour ago, or a month ago, or a year. He thought it smelled like a month. That wasn’t important either. It wouldn’t make them come any quicker.

Vermouth had a center. A church, and a cross, and a patchy cobblestone town square. There were bodies in the square, still sitting. Mummified to stillness, locked in the same thoughts they’d had when they’d fallen. Someone was trying to hide them.

He reached into his robes and withdrew the mirror, his reflection warped and discolored by cracks in the glass.

A face he didn’t remember stared back.

*This isn’t a weapon, and you don’t want to kill them*.

“Get. The fuck out of my head,” he snapped.

The face’s smile widened.

*We are the same*.

“Go to hell, too.”

The face grinned wider, a twisted and twisted reflection of his own rage, his own fear, his own thirst.

“You don’t matter.”

*But they do*, said the smile.

The bodies in the square moved. A child’s hand scratched at the ground. A woman’s hair billowed in the wind. A man’s cheek twitched.

The mirror said nothing.

His throat burned as though he hadn’t drank since he was Iona’s father. His shoulder throbbed so hard he couldn’t feel the rest of his body. He wanted to scream. It was too much, and he was too much, and he wanted to punch the sky. He wanted to kick dirt and shit, because that was how this had started, and how it was ending.

Vermouth’s bell tower rose behind him. He could see bodies in its window, too. They reached to him. The tower leaned to one side like a man in a fight.

Fuck them.

He had to move quicker now, to make up for lost time. The cultists would be close. He could hear their footsteps in the cracks of the mirror.

The bodies stood up.

“I’m not your friend.”

*I still don’t understand you*.

“You don’t want to,” he snapped.

The bodies stopped moving. The church bell rang.

*Is that because you’ve forgotten?*

The mirror cracked along his hand.

“I’ve forgotten everything.”

*Then take the mirror and forget*.

“Fuck you.”

The mirror burned. His shoulder throbbed so hard he could scarcely stand. He heard footsteps behind him. It might be the cultists, and it might be the bones of Vermouth’s dead.

Either way, he could be quicker, if he forgot.

Either way, he knew he should forget.

*Does it mean I forget your brothers, too?*

“Fuck the brothers.”

*Does it mean I forget the knife?*

“They tried to save me. I was useless. They deserved better.”

*Does it mean I forget Iona?*

The cultist paused. He could hear the wind in the tower. Could see Vermouth’s bodies standing so still, and so close, in their windowless houses, and broken-down wagons, and collapsed garages. Could hear the cultists in the valley behind him.

Could feel his shoulder breaking into the ground.

She’d only wanted him to live.

*I think you will die with us*.

He laughed. The joke tasted like bile. “I didn’t come to be a hero, you stupid fucker.”

The cultist threw the mirror into Vermouth’s town square.

The church bell rang again.

A child’s face appeared in the glass.

*Then, brother, you might regret your decision*.

His own face. His own words.

*Is that because you’ve forgotten?*

But the glass had shattered.

And somewhere in the desert, behind him, he heard the arrows singing.

And he ran, toward the tower, and away from the bodies.

And he ran, but they ran quicker.

And he ran, but he was already dead.