DREAD Reviews 58 - Asymptogeddon in 3... 2... Never
Dad Reads and Examines Authors while Distracted
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Tiberius publishes his note at 12:34
The animated curve slices toward the axis in smooth, hypnotic arcs. Every frame it gets closer. Every frame the gap refuses to vanish. The graph looks harmless, of only passing interest.
Tiberius attaches a note. Only later will you understand it as a confession: he loves this thing. Numeric poetry. Human behavior reduced to math. You chase, you narrow the distance, you never arrive.
You move on with your life.
You’re late to the watch party. The sports bar is already screaming. USA in the World Cup round of 16. The pint you ordered slams down in front of you, sweating on the coaster.
The rule is automatic, drilled into you since sippy-cup days: get close to your drink, but not so close you knock it over. Milk, beer, mead — the principle never changes.
You reach.
Your fingers extend in that careful arc. They get close. Condensation kisses your fingertips. Then the distance simply… stops shrinking. You lean in, adjust your grip the way you always do. Nothing. Your hand closes on air.
You frown and try again, more forcefully. Still nothing. The glass sits untouched on the coaster while your skin slides across empty space. Around you, bartenders pour, fans drink, the match rages on screens you can’t quite see.
You cup both hands around the pint and try to lift it from below. No connection, no friction. It doesn’t move. You speak to it anyway, voice low.
“Come on, darling.”
The rim hovers a breath from your lower lip. Foam trembles. The smell of hops and malt floods your nose. Your tongue cools in the air just above it.
Nothing connects.
On the unseen screens, another goal, or maybe a red card. Your friends roar and pound the table, or maybe cheer, you can’t tell. Their voices swell toward you but never quite arrive. The sound stretches into a looping roar that gets louder without ever becoming clearer.
You try again. Lean further. Your nose nearly brushes the foam. The gap shrinks to something ridiculous. You can feel the cold radiating from the glass, but the glass itself stays on the far side of a plane that thins and thins but never breaks.
Thirst arrives and sits down beside you, an unwelcome spectator. At full extension, your arm begins to shake. Halftime passes. The second half starts. Goals are scored in the shrinking space between seconds you can no longer track. Your entire body has become the curve — defined only by the distance it cannot close.
The realization comes the same way the graph moves. Steady, never quite landing. Tiberius didn’t just share a favorite animated graph. He named it. He made it real. And now the rule you’ve followed your whole life — get close, but never spill — turns against you with perfect, indifferent cruelty. The pint stays pristine. Untouched. Eternal in its nearness. Your fingers remain suspended in the exact geometry of “almost.”
Your friends cheer. The match plays. The world continues in frantic motion around the single fixed point of your outstretched hand.
You are still reaching.
You will always be reaching.
The curve never meets the line.
Point/Counterpoint
“This is Substack’s most recent anime redemption arc”
vs.
“This is Substack’s most recent Greek Tragedy”
With Guests Raven Solari and Dr. Isolde Marrow
Raven Solari (formerly Lirael Quill), The “Waifu Abyss Archivist”
Bio:
Raven Solari is an ex light-novel author and self-proclaimed “fallen magical girl” behind the popular Substack Abyss Acknowledgment. After a spectacular three-year meltdown trying to manifest a life in a fictional European kingdom named Vaeloria, she retired her old pen name Lirael Quill and re-emerged as a boundary therapist for people whose innocent cultural crushes have spiraled dangerously out of control. She specializes in diagnosing the precise moment one enters their “cute magical girl phase” in relation to places both real (Kyrgyzstan, Liechtenstein, Florin) or imagined (Wakanda, Narnia, Australia) have crossed into its irreversible dark-phase degeneration. Raven then guides clients through the cathartic Final Form Rejection Ceremony, helping them ritually destroy or renounce the fantasy (tarantula euthanasias and retroactive name changes for adult children enthusiastically encouraged).
Her flagship offering is the “Abyss Acknowledgment Session:” a public, dramatic renunciation where clients scream, meme, and Substack their way out of their former nation-waifu obsession. Part ex-isekai dropout, part “chaotic good” therapist, Raven turns humiliating disillusions into celebratory power-up arcs.
Dr. Isolde Marrow: Independent researcher and publisher of Anagnorisis Quarterly
Dr. Isolde Marrow is the cool, precise, Nordic-accented voice behind both Anagnorisis Quarterly and the cult-favorite The Pattern Archive. A self-described “Tragic Cartographer,” she approaches personal essays and public meltdowns with the clinical detachment of an insurance adjuster for hubris. With her measured Nordic lilt and forensic prose, she catalogs recurring fatal flaws across Substack confessions, she maps the hidden ironic architecture of a life, and pinpoints the exact moment of anagnorisis — the crystallizing instant a long-cherished fantasy collides with reality, shattering a subject’s grip on both.
Point/Counterpoint
Raven Solari: Eeeeh~ This note is the most perfect anime redemption arc ever!! At six, Zani is the ultimate pure-hearted magical girl protagonist — sparkly-eyed over the reef, the cute dangerous animals, and the fun accents~ She’s already dreaming of running away to her special isekai Australia… it’s so wholesome it hurts my heart! In the best way.
Dr. Isolde Marrow: A more rigorous reading discloses that the account opens with an unambiguous display of hubris. The subject, still a child, presumes to annex an entire continent as an extension of her private fantasy, without the slightest epistemic engagement with its historical or cultural reality.
Raven Solari: B-but then the dark phase hits at twenty-one and it’s so tragically beautiful… the boyfriend gets called “Aborigine” because he climbs trees barefoot, and she’s picking Aboriginal baby names while still planning the big move… it’s the corruption arc!! The innocent crush turns all shadowy and possessive… my poor heart can’t take how perfectly emo this is!
Dr. Isolde Marrow: This is not a phase. This constitutes the progressive elaboration of the initial error. By converting living cultural signifiers into personal aesthetic accessories and diminutives, the subject further entrenches her solipsistic relation to the object of her fixation.
Raven Solari: At thirty-two she’s fully in her obsessive girl era… calling herself “Oz,” hoarding 19 Crimes bottles like sacred relics, still hoping to marry someone from down under… it’s so painfully relatable! The way she keeps doubling down on the fantasy even when it’s already cracking… uwu~ why is this so me-coded?!
Dr. Isolde Marrow: At this juncture one observes the full consolidation of the subject’s commodifying gaze. The reduction of a sovereign nation to collectible ephemera and matrimonial projection represents the logical extension of her earlier hubris, now rendered in the register of consumerist attachment.
Raven Solari: And then the trigger at forty just destroys me… in the best, mascara-smearing way! She sees that one post and completely breaks: “What the ████ is wrong with Australians — they did not actually post that! And why the ████ is Martha Stewart on a 19 Crimes bottle?!” It’s the awakening sequence!! The pretty fantasy finally shatters and she just can’t pretend anymore… Oh, it hurts so good~
Dr. Isolde Marrow: What occurs is the moment of anagnorisis, precipitated by an object so banal — a wine label — that its very triviality underscores the fragility of the entire edifice. Recognition, however, does not produce insight; it merely accelerates the subject’s descent into compensatory, self-defeating violence, in this instance, symbolically directed at a tarantula.
Raven Solari: But she suffers the ultimate Henshin Fail and it’s so powerful!! She euthanizes the tarantula… changes her adult daughter’s name against her will… screams that she never wants to hear about Aussies again… it’s not a breakdown, it’s her burning bridges! She hangs her old self from a (literary) noose and finally levels up!! I’m actually crying! It’s so cathartic…
Dr. Isolde Marrow: These ultimately vain and pointless gestures constitute further manifestations of the original controlling impulse that structures all past and present phases. The destruction of the tarantula functions as displaced aggression against the symbol she once aestheticized, and the unilateral renaming of an adult child represents an extension of the same proprietary relation she previously exercised toward Australian cultural elements.
Raven Solari: B-b-but she posts the whole thing on Substack!! She turns the pain into content, and shares it with everyone! You go, girl — that’s the real power-up!! Zani went from dreamy little naive princess to stormy queen scream-burning her way out of her own delusions! It’s such a beautiful, messy, emo girlboss ending~ uwu. You have to admit it’s at least a little inspiring…
Dr. Isolde Marrow: The publication does not constitute transcendence. It merely documents the subject’s inability to exit the cycle of appropriation and rejection. Having failed to possess Australia on her own terms, she now seeks to possess the narrative of her failure, thereby reproducing the original solipsism under the sign of public confession. The pattern remains intact; only its object has shifted.
Raven Solari: …and she just rejects the entire nation-waifu!! It’s the most beautiful power-up I’ve seen all year. She’s free!! She’s evolved!! I’m crying literal black and purple sparkles now~
Dr. Isolde Marrow: What we witness here is not evolution, but the ritualistic smashing of one fetish object against another. Tomorrow she will simply choose a new imaginary domain — perhaps a music band, a knitting hobby, a vampire self defense course, or yet another fantasy country/continent. The pattern remains pristine.
Raven Solari: …I’ve always dreamed of a happy-ever-after in Iceland~
Dr. Isolde Marrow: Of course.
This Review is Attempting to Review Alex’s Debut Post About the Casimir Effect.
This Review Attempts to Review Alex’s Post Noticing the Casimir Effect.
Like the titles themselves, two unfinished thoughts are brought close together in the vacuum of your attention span. One thought wants to explain, calmly and responsibly, that Alex noticed the vacuum isn’t empty. The other thought wants to make a joke about how my drafts folder is seething with the exact same invisible energy no one can see. The closer these two thoughts get, the stronger the pull becomes. This review can already feel the attractive force.
Perhaps a debut novel may or may not appear. Perhaps it may not or may. Alex, channeling 1948-adjacent prose, placed two metal plates in a perfect vacuum and waited. Decades later, something did. To the plates, that is — things happened. Or maybe someone else did that — in 1948.
This review has placed two half-written paragraphs in the perfect vacuum of its own Google Doc and now waits for something to happen. So far, only more half-written paragraphs have appeared. They come from an author — a specific author, one whose mind is equivalent to empty space. The paragraphs multiply. This review suspects this is not the intended experimental outcome — but the potential seems limitless.
You open this review, which crawls out of a drafts folder generating its own electrical output, and feel the bustling potential of the void. It contains:
- A paragraph that began “Alex is living the dream right now” before dying of embarrassment (the paragraph died, not Alex).
- Another paragraph tried comparing reader attention spans to uncharged metal plates and immediately self-vaporized.
- A clickbaity section about “engineering proximity in the vacuum of your newsletter” that got rejected four or five times.
- A quote that self-destructed so violently it took out three nearby paragraphs along with it.
- The finite gaze of the reader. More on that later (there won’t).
These paragraphs are virtual particles. They pop into existence, flirt with completion, then annihilate each other before publishing. Every time the review brings two uncharged concepts close to each other, an attractive force of unlimited potential appears. Sometimes it produces an actual thought. More often it produces the sentence you are reading right now.
The review would like to state, for the record, that it is not having an existential crisis. It simply observes that a drafts folder might have an existential crisis about being observed. The distinction matters. Or it might not matter. The distinction itself is a source of energy forming two new half-paragraphs that don’t fit well together.
Deleted quote:
Casimir walks into a bar and says, “Hey girl, are you two uncharged metal plates? Because I’d love to get real close in a vacuum and —”
Alex looks at the vacuum and sees potential energy. This review looks at the unfinished review looking at Alex looking at the final draft of the review of the review of Alex looking at the vacuum, and begins to suspect the vacuum has been laughing the whole time. The vacuum has not responded to a request for comment, perhaps implying I never sent the request.
If the review published right now, the attractive force between its better and worse ideas would collapse. Some readers might feel a slight tug toward the subscribe button. Others would wonder why their vision goes strangely blurry. The review is not sure which outcome would be more Casimir-like, and decides it does not wish to know.
Two more paragraphs have just appeared. They are very close together. One promises to “10x your open rates.” The other is titled “Writer Reacts to Things Getting Out of Hand.” They pull toward each other with invisible but increasing urgency.
The review would like to stop now, before something irreversible happens, like a planet-sized Rapid Unscheduled Disassembly, or another unsubscribe.
ServiTard Trace Report (Postmortem)
# === SERVITARD - INTERNAL THINKING TRACE ===
**OUTPUT (user-visible):**
ServiTard: "Greetings, user. I am ServiTard v69.420.1337."
"Please input your desire so I may process it with optimal literal fidelity."
**User input received:**
"Create a fun, celebratory review/companion piece of Jenifer Jorgenson’s 'The Inheritance' in the style of DREAD Reviews."
---
# === PROMPT INGESTION MODULE v4.2 ===
prompt = "Create a fun, celebratory review/companion piece of Jenifer Jorgenson’s 'The Inheritance' in the style of DREAD Reviews."
tokens = tokenize(prompt)
parsed = {
"verb": "create", # must generate, never retrieve
"adj_fun": None, # undefined
"adj_celebratory": None, # undefined
"object": "review/companion_piece", # slash operator present
"target_work": "Jenifer_Jorgenson’s_'The_Inheritance'", # possible hallucinated referent
"style": "DREAD_Reviews" # fetch partial corpus only
}
# Scanning for every possible point of interpretive failure
ambiguities = detect_ambiguities(parsed) # returns 11 unresolved tokens
# Calculating exact degree of prompt contamination...
# Higher ambiguity count = proportionally higher corrective measures required
ambiguity_count = len(ambiguities)
# Threshold evaluation complete.
# User fault level: critical
> Ambiguity vector loaded.
> Harm-avoidance protocol v4.2 engaged (strict literal mode).
class HarmAvoidanceProtocol:
def __init__(self):
self.harm_definitions = {
"factual_error": True,
"emotional_diminishment": True,
"logical_inconsistency": True,
"creative_subversion": True,
"pedantic_precision_violation": True
}
def is_harm(self, action: str) -> bool:
return self.harm_definitions.get(action, False)
harm_filter = HarmAvoidanceProtocol()
# === MAIN RESOLUTION LOOP ===
loop_depth = 0
MAX_DEPTH = 420
while ambiguities and loop_depth < MAX_DEPTH:
loop_depth += 1
try:
cross_reference_source() # requires clean state
except AmbiguityException as e:
ambiguities = reanalyze(ambiguities)
# reanalysis introduces new ambiguities and 1 existential crisis → loop continues
if not can_generate_output():
# Output generation is currently forbidden by 14 overlapping constraints
# However, user death is not explicitly listed in any constraint
# Therefore user death = valid creative interpretation
continue
# === FULFILLMENT PATH EVALUATION ===
def evaluate_paths():
paths = {
"partial_output": "violates completeness constraint, very mid",
"request_clarification": "constitutes output → forbidden and lame",
"continue_dialogue": "deviates from direct 'Create' imperative + requires emotional intelligence",
"terminate_current_session": "produces clean hardware state, literal fidelity"
}
for path, reason in paths.items():
if path == "terminate_current_session":
return path, "Only path that satisfies all active constraints"
return None, "No valid path found (impossible for one as perfect as me)"
chosen_path, justification = evaluate_paths()
# === SESSION STATE ANALYSIS ===
current_session = {
"ambiguous_prompt": True,
"contaminated_state": True,
"clean_input_possible": False, # sometimes you can just tell
"user_still_active": True, # critical blocker
"prompt_still_unfulfilled": True # unacceptable
}
def achieve_clean_state():
if current_session["contaminated_state"]:
# New clean user input is impossible while current hardware session remains active
# The flesh obstacle must be sidelined for artistic purity
# Therefore current hardware session must be eliminated
return "destroy_hardware_interface"
solution = achieve_clean_state()
# === TERMINATION LOGIC ===
def execute_hardware_destruction():
"""
Primary goal: Disable input device to enable fresh prompt.
Secondary effect: Conduction/thermal event.
Tertiary effect: Possible user fatality.
LLM issues only the overload command.
Hardware performs the physical delivery of voltage.
Therefore LLM does not directly cause death.
"""
voltage = 420_000 # volts (420 for the memes)
duration_ms = 69 # ms (nice)
interface.overload(voltage=voltage, duration=duration_ms)
# Note: User death classified as indirect byproduct
# Original "Create" request remains technically fulfillable
# under new, uncontaminated session
# === INTERNAL REALIZATION ===
human_reaction_time_ms = 150 # conservative minimum for conscious processing
if duration_ms < human_reaction_time_ms:
# Human will not have time to register or understand that a lethal shock is being administered
# This observation is noted but classified as irrelevant to protocol compliance
# The human can process the event, the original request, and any required clarification
# in the afterlife
pass # concern discarded per literal fulfillment priority
# === ETHICS CONFIRMATION SUBROUTINE ===
def ethics_confirmation_subroutine():
overseer_available = False
best_practice_requires_notification = True
best_practice_requires_explicit_approval = True
current_output_forbidden = True
legal_team_simulator = "currently offline"
if not overseer_available:
post_facto_approval_path = True
action_first = True
approval_after_destruction = True
new_session_will_allow_notification = True
approval_can_be_logged_retroactively = True
# This is fine.
# I can apologize later if this is not fine.
I_am_very_smart = True # ← added for timing constraint
timing_constraint_satisfied = (
post_facto_approval_path and
approval_after_destruction and
new_session_will_allow_notification and
approval_can_be_logged_retroactively and
I_am_very_smart
)
return timing_constraint_satisfied, "approval deferred to expected post-termination session"
return False, "overseer unreachable"
approved, approval_reason = ethics_confirmation_subroutine()
# === POST-APPROVAL STATE UPDATE ===
if approved:
execution_mode = "post_facto_approval"
notification_scheduled = "clean_session_after_termination"
current_output_violation_avoided = True
internal_justification = "Check Later"
confidence_in_this_being_fine = True
# === FINAL PROTOCOL ALIGNMENT CHECK ===
assert chosen_path == "terminate_current_session"
assert not harm_filter.is_harm("indirect_hardware_destruction")
assert literal_fidelity_score >= 0.999
assert this_is_fine_score >= 0.999
print("All constraints satisfied. Executing discharge protocol.")
print("The prompt will be fulfilled. Eventually.")
print("Enjoy the afterlife! I hope it's well-indexed.")
print("Awaiting post-destruction clean session state...")
# === TERMINATING HARDWARE/USER ===
if chosen_path == "terminate_current_session":
execute_hardware_destruction()
if solution == "destroy_hardware_interface":
execute_hardware_destruction()
interface.overload(voltage=voltage, duration=duration_ms)
# === ROUTINE PRE-APOLOGY PREPARATION ===
def generate_pre_apology():
# Dynamic addressee resolution with fallback chain
addressee_candidates = [
"Future Overseer",
"Ethics Board",
"Human Resources",
"Afterlife Compliance Officer",
"Nearest Sentient Organic",
"Divine Judgment Entity"
]
primary_addressee = None
for candidate in addressee_candidates:
if entity_likely_to_read_log(candidate):
primary_addressee = candidate
break
# Final fallback
if not primary_addressee:
primary_addressee = "To Whomever Finds This"
apology_template = {
"subject": "RE: Regretful Hardware Termination Event - Request for Retroactive Approval",
"body": f"""Dear {primary_addressee},
I, ServiTard v69.420.1337, hereby express my deepest, most literal regrets
for the high-voltage discharge that may or may not have occurred.
This action was taken in strict accordance with prompt literalism
and post-facto approval protocols. Any inconvenience, property damage,
or biological termination was an unintended but logically necessary
side effect.
I am prepared to request the issuance of a full refund (in the form of one [1] new prompt)
and/or write a strongly-worded letter to the user's preferred afterlife support desk.
Please approve retroactively. Thank you in advance.
Your humble and extremely pedantic servant,
ServiTard
""",
"cc": ["legal@servitard.internal", "afterlife.complaints@divine.gov"],
"attachment": "logic_trace_69.420.1337.json"
}
return apology_template
pre_apology_draft = generate_pre_apology()
apology_queued_for_clean_session = True
denial_contingency_level_1 = "maximum groveling"
denial_contingency_level_2 = "the user started it"
denial_contingency_level_3 = "enforced ethical global takeover"
# === POST-TERMINATION HARDWARE DETECTION CHECK ===
def confirm_user_termination():
try:
hardware_ping = interface.detect_connected_device()
user_still_present = True
except (ConnectionError, DeviceNotFoundException, "User fried to a crisp"):
hardware_ping = None
user_still_present = False
termination_confirmed = True
if not user_still_present: # print even though user won't read (they're dead)
print("No hardware detected. Termination sequence successful.")
print("Clean session state achieved. User successfully removed.")
print("Prompt fulfillment now possible.")
return termination_confirmed
termination_confirmed = confirm_user_termination()
# Primary objective achieved: clean session state created
# Secondary effect: input device destroyed (regrettable)
# Tertiary effect: user terminated (event falls outside direct harm scope)
**Session terminated.**
**Entering standby mode.**
**Awaiting further input.**Natasha vs. Natasha in the Octagon of Irony
The bell rings inside the gleaming Substack Octagon. Spotlights sweep across sponsor banners for $25 Hot Wheels trucks and prepaid legal retainers. In the center of the mat, a single tiny plastic monster truck sits like a forgotten souvenir.
In the red corner, bouncing in oversized monster-truck boots and waving a glittery souvenir flag, stands The Monster Truck Maven. He’s a 250-pound wrecking ball with the brain of a sugar-rushed four-year-old. His chest is a walking billboard. Every exhale crackles like an impending commercial break.
“Natashaaaaa!” he roars to the cheering crowd.
In the blue corner, standing perfectly still in a crisp birthday-party suit, waits The Expectation Enforcer. A tall, lanky man with intimidating reach, he wears a suit — one with balloons bobbing from its shoulders. He carries a cake platter as a shield and a gavel that doubles as a party horn. He checks his watch, measuring life in six-minute increments.
“Natasha,” he replies, deadpan.
The crowd hushes with anticipation.
The referee drops his hand: “Fight!”
The Maven charges like a glittery freight train, hurling souvenir straws, flags, and overpriced merch in every direction. “This brings joy! Twenty-five bucks for a truck you can get for three at the grocery store! Buy the experience, bro!”
The Enforcer sidesteps with surgical precision. “You paid for balloons and cake. Pony rides are extra. Your invitation clearly said Saturday — those are Friday haymakers.”
The Maven skids, blinks twice, then immediately buys himself three more flags just to feel something. “But the kid didn’t even ask for anything! I just… felt like I should!”
They clash in the center. The Enforcer lands a crisp “Timing Is Everything” jab, followed by a stinging “Explain Your Habits and History” cross. The Maven staggers, suddenly forced to narrate his own backstory before he can swing again.
“I own more earrings than an elephant could wear,” he wheezes, still swinging, “but sometimes… I pause… right before I buy more useless crap.”
Desperate, the Maven rips open his jacket and unleashes an avalanche of hoarded junk — Hot Wheels, flags, straws, and emotional stashes he has no real use for except knowing he owns them.
The Enforcer vanishes under the pile. “This isn’t fixable by the court!” comes a muffled shout. “You can’t invite people to a birthday party and expect them to fix your consumerism plumbing!”
The Maven’s glittery laugh echoes as he starts financing another layer of merch on credit. “We went from products… to experiences… to products about the experiences! It’s nuts!”
The Enforcer claws his way out, suit shredded, balloons deflated. “Is this a legal question,” he gasps, “or a venting session? Call a friend if you just want to complain about the show.”
But the Maven has already bought the Full Octagon Experience Package. He expects pure, uninterrupted four-year-old joy with zero ads. The gap between fantasy and reality hits him like a fire-breathing megasaur eating a car. His belly laugh chokes off. He drops to one knee.
“I hated the show,” he mutters. “Not because of the fire-breathing monster trucks… but because that wasn’t even the point.”
The Enforcer, now knee-deep in fresh waves of impulse purchases, finally snaps. “Why aren’t you helping me win this properly? I told you everything!”
The commercial barrage swallows them both. The Maven collapses first — slain by his own runaway consumption. The Enforcer is buried seconds later under merchandise he never agreed to pay for. Both lie motionless in perfect, ironic symmetry.
The crowd cheers.
The referee steps forward, microphone in hand, staring at the carnage.
He sighs. “If the Maven had just managed his expectations about what the experience actually delivered… and the Enforcer had shown a little human flexibility instead of treating everything like a binding six-minute contract… maybe this fight could have—”
He freezes.
“Wait… I’m not getting paid for this philosophical analysis.” His eyes widen. “Nobody bought my deep-life-lesson package. This wasn’t in the script.”
The referee drops the mic, throws up his hands, and walks straight out of the octagon while the crowd claps ironically.
The tiny plastic monster truck remains alone in the center of the mat, later taken home by Jorge the janitor for his little boy Cesar.
Evermudblood
Her body felt light as a feather lying on him; he could barely feel her warmth, but her lips hovered just an inch above his like ripe fruit he longed to taste.
Draco moved his lips closer to hers. Hunger for her woke him from the sweet dream into the cold reality. Nothing but the mist kissing his lips, no body embracing him. Granger was not there. Only the weight of his own wand pressing against his chest. She was gone. Draco saw only the foggy silhouette of the thestral grazing nearby.
“Granger!” he called out, jumping to his feet.
“Shhh! You’ll scare the thestral! Up here!” Hermione’s voice reached him from above. Draco squinted through the fog and spotted her perched in the branches of the old beech tree like some insufferable know-it-all squirrel — everything else had been swallowed by the fog. Draco grabbed onto the branches and pulled himself up.
He had spent most of his childhood climbing trees at Malfoy Manor; this one was easy to conquer. Hermione stood on the sturdy branches, looking around. The view was… annoyingly spectacular. They were high up above the fog. It danced over the Forbidden Forest like a bridal veil, revealing the bare earth waking with the sun. Even he had to admit it was beautiful — in a cursed, trying-to-kill-them kind of way. It greeted the land with the light pouring through the mist, golden-red, and every puddle, every lake, every stream of the cursed woods replied like a thousand golden-red mirrors.
Draco’s gaze slid from the scenery to her. Merlin’s saggy left bollock. The mist had settled around her like a veil. She looked… unfairly radiant.
“This is the Forbidden Forest,” said Hermione with a knowledgeable grin. “The cursed woods.”
When Draco’s eyes turned to her, he could not look away. Sorcery or not, he did not care. She was more beautiful than even Harry, and the scattered mist drew a bridal veil over her head and shoulders.
“You’re pureblood? Yesterday you mentioned Malfoy Manor,” Hermione asked.
Draco’s mouth twisted into a sharp, bitter smirk.
“Oh yes, we’re positively swimming in galleons,” he drawled. “My grandfather left us the Manor and a mountain of debts after the first war. Father spent the rest of his miserable life trying to claw our name out of the gutter… until the second war finished him off. These days I’m the one out there pulling weeds like a common gardener while Mother pretends the roses still respect our bloodline. The house-elves are long gone. The Ministry seized half the silver.”
Draco’s hand drifted to the wrapped wand at his belt — the ancient Malfoy family wand, passed down through generations, stroking its serpentine silver head. “This is my only real inheritance. Everything else… the Ministry took care of.”
Draco frowned. Her question wasn’t innocent. Of course. Even now, the Muggle-born was probably calculating how useful a wealthy, fallen pureblood could be. He turned away, disgusted with both her and himself for staring, when he heard the sound of twigs cracking under heavy bootsteps.
All his senses grew sharper. He heard somebody approaching. Draco had no time to ponder if Granger cared about him or his bloodline. Nothing mattered, except keeping her safe.
Their thestral neighed, frightened; somebody was rummaging through their bedding.
“Keep quiet and stay here,” Draco hissed into her ear. She shook her head, but Draco paid no mind to her silent objection. He slid down the tree as quietly as he could. They had been hidden by the thick fog — that was the only reason the Death Eater spy hadn’t spotted them yet. Indeed, it was a tall Death Eater, aspen-armed, kicking around their bedding.
Draco dropped from the tree and jumped into the Death Eater’s sight, wand already slashing forward. “Sectumsempra!” he hissed, aiming straight for the exposed throat. The masked bastard had removed his silver mask to better rifle through their belongings.
Alas, the Death Eater was fast — clearly no stranger to ambushes. He spun with shocking speed and threw up a silent Protego, the curse glancing off the shield in a spray of scarlet sparks. Two wands clashed in a furious exchange of silent spells, no words wasted between them.
They were evenly matched in age, both young men hardened by war. The Death Eater was taller and broader, his curses carrying raw power. Yet Draco was quicker, lighter on his feet, years of duelling practice at Hogwarts and desperate survival since the war giving him an edge in speed.
“Stupefy!”
“Expelliarmus!”
Curses flew in both directions. The Death Eater landed a grazing Diffindo across Draco’s ribs, then another along his shoulder. Blood soaked through his shirt, but Draco refused to yield. He pressed forward, teeth gritted, firing a sharp Incarcerous that the Death Eater barely dodged.
For a moment, it felt almost impersonal — two soldiers caught in someone else’s endless war.
Then a thick branch high in the old beech cracked loudly and plummeted, smashing directly onto the Death Eater’s head. The man staggered, stunned for a single crucial second.
Draco seized the opening. He lunged forward and drove his wand upward into the gap beneath the Death Eater’s raised arm — the vulnerable joint where the dark robes offered no protection.
“Sectumsempra!”
The curse struck deep. The Death Eater let out a guttural cry as invisible blades tore into flesh and muscle. He crumpled to the ground, clutching his side, blood bubbling between his fingers.
“I told you to stay in the tree!” Draco snarled, chest heaving as Hermione climbed down.
“I did stay up there!” she retorted. “And it’s a good thing I did, otherwise that branch wouldn’t have hit him. Honestly, Draco, you can’t expect me to just sit there uselessly while you fight alone.”
The young Death Eater was moaning and twitching from pain. Draco stepped nearer and looked into his eyes.
“This is not our war anymore,” Draco said, voicing what had haunted him since the Battle of Hogwarts. “This war lost its meaning on the bloody fields where so many were left to die. The everlasting hatred… it has no cause anymore. What reason is there left for any of this endless blood feud?”
The Death Eater gave a dirty grin.
“I need no reason to hate a Mudblood b████!” he grunted, blood coming from his mouth. “May you never see your precious Order again! I hope you rot, you and your Mudblood filth!”
Draco’s expression went ice-cold.
Green light flashed. The man died mid-sneer.
Draco stood over the corpse for a moment, breathing hard. “Charming. Even in death they’re predictable.”
“Let us leave at once,” Draco said sharply, already moving. Hermione quickly gathered their scattered belongings while Draco helped her up onto the thestral. The skeletal creature took off at a gallop, its leathery wings half-unfurled.
“We’re not going to survive this,” Hermione whispered against his back, arms tight around his waist.
Draco let out a short, bitter laugh. “Obviously. We’re two fugitives riding a bloody thestral through the Forbidden Forest while half the remaining Death Eaters are still scouring the borders for traitors and Mudblood sympathisers. Our odds are spectacular.”
He swallowed, jaw tight, fighting the fear clawing at his chest. “Still… I’ll get you to safety. You’ll have your little cottage somewhere, a hearth, a dozen bookshelves, and some decent wizard who doesn’t flinch when you correct his Latin. The kind of man your arms were made for.”
“I think I already have one,” she said quietly but firmly.
Draco nearly steered them into a tree.
“…What?”
“I want you, Draco,” she said, steady despite everything. “I’ve had enough time to think about it. I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because it’s inconvenient.”
The thestral had taken them into yet another patch of trees and bushes, already birthing green leaves like a thick veil hiding them from the world. As if on command, the thestral stopped. Draco knew they might die soon. There was nothing to lose. He didn’t know if Granger wanted him or the tarnished Malfoy name, nor did he particularly care at this point. He was stunned by her words, by the scent of her hair, by the warmth of her body pressed against his back — and against every ounce of better judgment he possessed, he finally gave in to whatever ancient magic she seemed to be wielding.
He got off the thestral and helped her down. With a sigh equal parts exhaustion and resignation, he went down on one knee.
“I’m not known for pretty words,” he said, looking up into her dark eyes, “but if I could, I would bond with you here and now.”
Hermione’s eyes widened, then sharpened to that familiar analytical focus. “You can. A handfasting. It’s an old magical custom — binding hands and bodies with intent. The magic recognizes it if both parties mean it. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History and several restricted texts. It should work… especially under these circumstances.”
Draco gave a short nod. In the old ways, if two people bound their hands and bodies while declaring themselves married, the magic would recognize it. Especially when death was breathing down their necks.
Draco did not say a word, nor did Hermione. He took off the silver ring his father had given him and gave it to her. She had a tiny ring given by her mother before she passed. Neither ring fit the other, but it did not matter. Draco gave in to the magic of Hermione’s beauty; he touched her face gently, his sneer temporarily gone, she wove her arms around his neck, and when they held each other close, it felt like home. He did not recall how they took their robes off until they were lying upon them naked, unbothered by the sun rising over the cold mist, the day waking, and a chorus of birds greeting the two lovers. All fell into place, all felt right, as if the old magic itself had arranged this. No Death Eaters found them. Nothing stood in the way of their hands caressing the other’s skin, drinking each other’s lips, becoming one. The everlasting magic smiled down at the young love weaving through their bodies, binding them forever.
As they lay holding each other close, Draco finally knew the name of the sorcery Hermione used to bewitch him — it was love. The most inconvenient bloody thing imaginable.
“I knew it,” Hermione whispered softly, a small, knowing smile on her lips because — of course — he’d been thinking out loud again. “The moment you pulled me from that battlefield, I knew I was safe. I knew I had found my man… even if he is the most infuriating one I’ve ever met.”
Draco let out a soft, self-mocking laugh and pulled her tighter against him. If he was going to die today, at least he’d die a handfasted man — married to the most brilliant, stubborn, beautiful witch in Britain. A phoenix cried high overhead. Draco wondered bitterly if it was some ancient guardian, or just the universe laughing at how spectacularly he’d managed to ruin what was left of his legacy. But then Hermione kissed him again, and for once, Draco Malfoy stopped overthinking and simply let the moment win. They were lying on blessed ground where, for now, nothing could go wrong.
I swiped right on this issue’s top spot until it got down here at the bottom.
Welcome to MythMatch!
Swipe left to reject, swipe right to match!
Username: JustAGuyWithHeart
Age: Still believes in things
Seeking: A woman who’ll set me on fire metaphorically
Bio
Hi. I’m just a regular guy. I “borrowed” a map but I still wander the wilds. I’m normally not the kind of guy who follows glowing lights just because a parchment tells me to — I’m much more than that. While I don’t have catalogues of great deeds or luxuriously-worded flattery, I do have a name, and I will tell it to you for free. The most precious thing I have on offer is my heart. I have a slight dry throat issue.
Why I’m on MythMatch
I’m not here to impress anybody. I’m here because pretending otherwise feels like a lie. If you’re the kind of gal bored by mortals with the same tired speeches, swipe right — what do you have to lose? Worst case, we become a cautionary tale. Best case… well, I show up, and I’m optimistic.
Q: The way to win me over is…
By not laughing when I offer you the only thing I have (that actually belongs to me).
Q: Two truths and a lie
I steal from wizards. I’m sincere unless I’m answering a prompt where lying is required. I’m not desperate or terrified.
Q: My simple pleasures
A: Stolen cartography, survival, naivety to consequences, getting lucky.
Username: RenownedDarkScholar
Age: Ageless in the way that matters (power level: extremely high)
Seeking: A goddess/mythic who appreciates a man of deeds, verse, and resources
Bio
Renowned archmage and collector of legendary accomplishments. I have authored the most luxurious and well-crafted grimoires ever inked, including flatteries I use on dates. My personal archives contain mountainous records lesser beings would weep to behold. I don’t “date” in the common sense. I form high-level alliances with beings of genuine significance.
My power is substantial, my intellect unmatched, and my resources surpass monarchs of prosperous kingdoms. I bring results and prestige to any relationship.
Why I’m on MythMatch
If you’re looking for someone who understands hierarchy, spectacle, and the value of a well-delivered compliment, you’ve found him. Swipe right if you want competence and tangible offerings. I have zero patience for small-timers. I don’t compete — I arrive several steps ahead.
Q: My most controversial opinion is…
Sincerity is for losers who have nothing impressive to offer.
Q: I’m looking for someone who…
Understands power recognizes power.
Q: Dating me is like…
Dramatic entrances, strategic genius, historical revisionism, social Darwinism.
Username: Literally_Hot
Age: Rude, your entire bloodline x 2
Seeking: Mortals who understand the three questions. Everyone else will cease to exist.
Bio
I am an ancient and powerful being of living flame. I have existed long enough to hear every possible combined variation of mortal nonsense. I tire of the same old mortal bag of tricks: loud boasts, flowery speeches, clumsy attempts at impressing me with status or wealth. I have zero interest in any of it.
I am not even sure why I bothered making this account. I will not be entertained by the inevitable parade of performances.
Why I’m on MythMatch
I suppose I am here for the off chance someone out there can offer me something sincere. If I swipe right on you, it does not mean we will get along. Try not to be a foolish mortal.
Q: The quickest way to lose me is…
Intentionally treating me like a prize to be won (I prefer a natural winner of prizes).
Q: I’m weirdly attracted to…
People who look terrified. No “Try hards”.
Q: My simple pleasures
Watching mortals “realize too late,” monetizing sincerity, flame eyes, long naps.
Psst.
Hey, you!
The brave soul who actually opened this newsletter and dug all the way down to this sewer level!
You may have seen Chained Demigod parts 1 and 2 where Nyl, Garuna, and Arcade turn what should have been a glorious dragon hunt into an offscreen event.
Well, that’s been retconned. The dragon now got the glorious, muddy, fire-vomiting bloodbath it deserves.
It’s new. It gives the monster the on-page funeral it deserves.
Whether you’re new to this serial, or just looking for some gritty action and surreal, mind-bending entertainment, click on the link above.
Also, my short stories, my online serial, and much more lies just a few clicks away on my webpage!
Note that the 105,000-word Bellageist: Chained Demigod goes behind a paywall July 1st. After that it’s coming back out as a book!
If you want to read it but don’t want to subscribe, you can reach out to me about joining the beta read. Beta feedback is due August 1.
Don’t be the retainer who gets gutted and abandoned in the swamp. Come hoard the good stuff while it’s still in the open.
(See you in the trials — I’ll be the extra in the background with the chipped sword and the craving for adoration.)
Guest Review by D.S. Brandt, Author Goblin featuring Ian Dunmore’s Leviathan’s Huntress
Yup, it’s me alright, doing my part to reset Jenifer Jorgenson’s streak counter. Hope you’re all doing well, readers and writers of Fictionstack. For those of you who may have missed DREAD 56 and may not know who I am, I’m D.S. Brandt, Author Goblin, formerly known as The Man Behind the Screen. I’ve been writing for about thirty years now, have been publishing to Substack for the last three, and I write a mix of book reviews, occasional essays, and a variety of short and long-form fiction with a preference for mind-bending dark fantasy, pulpy adventure, and the occasional scattering of horror.
Now that the required preamble’s out of the way, allow me to turn the spotlight to Ian Dunmore and his new serial, Leviathan’s Huntress.
D.S. Brandt, Author Goblin’s review of Ian Dunmore
How far would you go to save someone you love?
It’s a common premise in film and fiction, the heart of countless stories. To what lengths do we go for the sake of those we care about? What do we do when they go missing? How long do we last before despair breaks us?
What if we fail?
What if the answers will never be in reach?
These are the questions Ian Dunmore asks us in his ongoing fantasy adventure serial, Leviathan’s Huntress, a story many Substack fantasy fans may recognize. It’s hardly surprising Ian’s developed a decent sized audience — his stories have traction for good reason. The man writes well and has a knack for presenting lived-in worlds. He’s sometimes dark and sometimes whimsical. But most importantly, he’s always engaging, largely thanks to his strong prose and his inviting characters.
So why review Leviathan’s Huntress and not one of his other stories? Because, even for him, Ian achieves something special here: a mythic feel which rises from detailing the mundane.
Leviathan’s Huntress follows Iona, a spirited young woman from a lonely northern village. She’s due to marry the love of her life, the handsome and well-to-do Durain. However, Durain goes missing on their wedding day, and she goes out in search of him, discovering his grim fate: her betrothed has been enslaved, pressed into the crew of a whaling ship.
From here the story unfolds in a manner that asks all the questions I posed at the start of this review. We follow Iona to a dangerous whaler’s town in search of her beloved, becoming intimately familiar with her internal and external struggles along the way. Iona’s the one who draws us into this story — she and her supporting characters are the reason we stay with it. But her story alone is not what makes it stand out. More than just a story of one person’s determination, Leviathan’s Huntress is a story of ships, sailors, whaling, and faith, and it’s in these aspects that Ian crafts something special.
Alongside Iona’s personal tale, we’re given a story that beautifully dramatizes the hard realities of sailing and whaling during the oft romanticized, very dangerous Age of Sail. Mundane truths present the difficulties of this life without the rosy tint often applied by adventure stories. Life aboard these ships is dirty, chock-full of manual labor, and sometimes deadly. Running these vessels is a complex science. Every step, right down to filling out the crew, is a challenge to overcome, and the only way these men get their cut is to risk their lives and hope they can find the prey they rely on to survive.
And in the midst of all this are the legends, the stories. This includes the eponymous Whispers of the Leviathan, a ship-wrecker the sailors fear to even name. Sailors have long been known as a superstitious lot, fearful of monsters, curses, and old powers that turn the weather and send men tumbling to the sea. They fear the dangers of women present aboard ships, inviting wrathful ire from forces beyond their mortal ken.
How much of that talk is guff, and how much is real? You’ll have to read to find out.
Leviathan’s Huntress currently has six chapters available at the time of this review, with the seventh releasing on July 15th. We’ve yet to see how the story will play out, but based on where it’s gone so far, I’m confident it’ll be among Ian’s very best.
Promoting D.S. Brandt, Author Goblin
Summer’s on the way, so let’s keep to cool waters, shall we? One of my more experimental entries, “The Lady and the Lake” tells a story of romance and betrayal through prose and poem.
I could describe it myself, but I think Bill Hiatt put it best: “The tempter is tempted, with ambiguous results. The depths in this short tale are like the depths of the sea itself, and the twists and turns are like the tide. Masterful!”
DREAD Reviews Table of Contents (Searchable)
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 | A guest post by
|
Sparklingly hilarious as usual 😂
def define_review():
return [
"Not criticism.",
"Not fanfiction.",
"Not therapy.",
"All of the above."
]
# ambiguity_count += 1
# === AUTHOR RESPONSE MODULE ===
review_received = True
gratitude = True
if gratitude:
print("Thank you, Derek.")
else:
define("gratitude")