Good news! Since the eARC for To Tread Obsidian Shores is out, we can do snippets! What are snippets, you ask? Well, it’s basically sneak peaks into the book, given away for free, to entice the reader to buy the book later. I’ll be posting snippets 2-3 times per week from here until release day on January 6, 2026.

Let’s go, shall we?

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TO TREAD OBSIDIAN SHORES

Jason Cordova & Melissa Olthoff

BOOK 1 OF THE BRONZE LEGION

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PROLOGUE

The Lost Boy

THE OVERDARK, MYRKYMA

Even the water was poisonous in Overdark. The people hunting him, though, would kill him quicker.

The boy stood outside the small granite building, his hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he struggled to find the courage to step inside. He’d been standing there for ten minutes, watching, wondering. The only course of action that might keep him alive would be to walk through those doors, yet he hesitated. There were two guards in some sort of armor just inside the doors, while a man in a dark uniform was seated behind a desk further in. He was doing something on a notepad and seemed to be deliberately not looking up. Unlike the rest of the Overdark, the man seemed unaware of the boy’s existence.

Which made sense to the boy. Blatant overtures and brashness might scare people away. As he’d learned from watching his mother pull tricks into the brothels when he’d been much younger, it was the coy, almost shy looks which drew in the customers. Why be forward when the customer already knew what they wanted and merely lacked the courage to ask for it?

Yet he hesitated. Was it really better to stand outside in the acidic, poisonous rain?

He needed to do something. Anything, really. Eventually, those looking to murder him for his genetics would track him down. Then they would kill him and burn his body like they had all the others who shared his modified bloodline. After mounting his head like some war trophy for everyone to see. All in the name of revelry and freedom.

With just the slightest smidge of revenge tossed in.

The steady condensation which collected then dripped from the stalactites above gave Overdark its rain. The toxic atmosphere outside the underground hive city gave it the poison. The ruling Tyrants, who had only been cast down and executed the day before, were the very reason he’d been forced to flee, courtesy of his blood. Not because he was afraid of dying, no. It was the manner of his death which gave him pause.

He was pushing the door open before his conscious mind actually realized he had moved.

With that simple action a new life began.

“Good morning,” the man behind the desk greeted him, standing up. He stuck out his hand. After a moment of confusion, the boy simply bowed. The man tapped his chin thoughtfully as he regarded the boy. “Hmm . . . interesting. Are you from Syngaard?”

“Yes, lord.” His use of the official name for Overdark marked the man as an outsider, a farjain, one not to be trusted. The boy had no other choice, though. He had to put his faith in this man. There would be no other options. Those hunting him would track him down soon enough.

“Please. Not a lord at all. My name is Sergeant Hager Buckholz. Not lord, sir, or anything like that. You understand?” the man asked.

“Yes, Sergeant Hager Buckholz.”

The sergeant smiled at him. It was pleasant, not condescending or threatening in the least. The facial expression was almost unfamiliar to the boy. Usually there was a glint of greed or want in the eyes of those who would smile at him.

“You’re going to be a tough nut to crack, aren’t you? Make my life as a recruiter difficult?” Sergeant Buckholz chuckled and shook his head. “I’m assuming the reason you stood outside in the toxic pseudo-rain for ten minutes is because you were unsure about joining the Legion. Not that I blame you. It’s a radical change of life. If accepted, you’ll more than likely never set foot on this world again.”

“I’m fine with that, Sergeant Hager Buckholz,” the boy responded, keeping his eyes down and his features properly schooled. He’d known too many men—and quite a few women—who would beat him for daring to match their gaze. If the boy knew anything, it was subservience.

“Call me ‘Sergeant,’ if you’re going to be that stubborn. Did you mean to walk into my recruiting station, or are you lost?” The boy didn’t know the answer, so he shrugged. The muscular recruiter pursed his lips and nodded. “Who’re you running from, boy? And are you even old enough to register?”

“Running . . .” The boy shivered as unbidden memories less than a day old came to the forefront of his mind. Other kids from Overdark being killed because of who their fathers were, slaughtered simply because they carried the genetic material of the Tyrants. He was one of those cursed spawn, bastards who lived in the Overdark, whose mothers made their livings on their backs. “I’m seventeen, lo—Sergeant. I’m a legal adult.”

“By local law, yes,” Sergeant Buckholz said before blowing out a breath. “We have requirements of those who wish to join the Foreign Legion. You did know that’s what this place is, right? You understand what a recruiting station is?”

The boy knew. When he’d been ten years old, a few others had braved the doors and walked inside. Other kids his age told of how those few had left the world to live on a paradise planet away from the Overdark, where they were fed two whole meals per day and given new clothes to wear. They also never returned.

Or not. Since they never came back, there were whispered stories of horrible things that happened to them. Theories. Myths.

The boy was fairly certain that the amount of food given to them was a lie—after all, who could afford to eat so much? But the other stuff? Not having to sleep under refuse so someone didn’t try to knife you and steal your shirt? Actual shoes? Being allowed to leave and never having to return? A chance at something else? Those parts of the story appealed to him more than anything else. It might be possible, and that was all he had going for him now—the promise of a chance.

“I know what this place is, Sergeant.”

“Do you have a name?” Sergeant Buckholz asked, then held up a palm to forestall an answer. “Actually, let me do you one better. If you’re accepted into the Legion, you can pick your new name, new identity. Martian law. So, what would you like your name to be?”

The boy shrugged. “I have only one name, lo—Sergeant. Diego. My mother named me that when I was born.”

“Ah, so you do have a mother. Is she around still, or did she pass away?”

“She . . . died.” How could he tell the recruiter the truth? How would he respond to knowing his father, a Tyrant, had killed his mother one night because he’d grown bored of her? Would the sergeant reject him as the brothel manager had once his mother’s corpse had been bio-reprocessed? “I have no one else.”

“I figured that part out,” Sergeant Buckholz told him. “So . . . do you want to keep your name as Diego?”

He nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Okay, Diego. It’s very nice to finally meet you. Why don’t you have a seat in the chair there and we can get started.”

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