When I first began writing The Betrayer’s Daughter, I didn’t plan to include religion or spirituality. I wanted a grounded, human story—one about survival, love, and the weight of legacy.
But as the world of Sylvandria unfolded, that approach no longer made sense.
Set in a culture inspired by the Bronze and Iron Ages, it quickly became clear that ritual, reverence, and spirit were not optional—they were essential. In ancient societies, spirituality wasn’t something practised once a week. It was part of every step, every breath, every decision. The people of Sylvandria live in a world where the land is alive, where spirits are not myths but presences, and where balance must be maintained—not just through strength, but through listening.
This spiritual thread grew into something deeper than I expected. It became a second heart beating beneath the story—a contrast between connection and disconnection, between those who honour what cannot be seen and those who try to dominate it.
The Anarwyn, a deeply rooted people in the West, live in harmony with the spirits. In the East, centuries of war and corruption—led by figures like King Morath—nearly erased that connection. What remains is a fractured world, struggling to remember how to listen again.
This is not a story about religion in the modern sense.
It’s about spiritual presence, about land and memory, about voices that speak not in commands but in wind, fire, and silence.
It’s about what happens when we stop hearing them—and what it takes to hear them again.