We’re thrilled to share the cover and preview an excerpt from Sara Omer’s The Chaos Constellation: The Gryphon King, the start of a Southwest Asian-inspired epic fantasy trilogy brimming with morally ambiguous characters, terrifying ghouls and deadly monsters. The Gryphon King publishes July 8, 2025 with Titan Books.
Bataar was only a child when he killed a gryphon, making him a legend across the Red Steppe. As an adult, he is the formidable Bataar Rhah, chosen by god to rule the continent that once scorned his people. After a string of improbable victories, he turns his sights on the wealthy, powerful kingdom of Dumakra, whose princesses rule the skies from the backs of pegasuses.
When rumours reach the capital that the infamous warlord is moving on Dumakra, Nohra Zultama prepares to face him. She and her sisters are feared warriors, goddess-blessed and mounted on winged, man-eating horses. But as deceit and betrayal swirl through her father’s court, Nohra soon learns the price of complacency. With her city under Bataar’s rule, Nohra vows to take revenge. But her growing closeness to Bataar’s wife, Qaira, threatens to undo her resolve.
When rioting breaks out and mythic beasts incite panic, Nohra must fight alongside Bataar to keep order, her mixed feelings towards the man she’s sworn to kill becoming ever more complicated. Old evils are rising. Only together will Nohra and Bataar stand a chance against the djinn, ghouls, and monsters that threaten to overrun their world.
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The Gryphon King
Sara Omer is a Pushcart Prize-nominated short story writer. She’s been a technical editor for medical and engineering publications and is now pursuing teaching. You can find her (sometimes unsettling) poetry and prose in places like The Dark, PodCastle, Small Wonders, and Strange Horizons. The Gryphon King is loosely inspired by history and culture shared by her Turkic and Kurdish family.
Bataar flung up his arm, casting his eagle into the air. Erdene flew swifter than a storm, shooting across the field. The hare leapt above the tall grass, narrowly evading her talons. Bataar whistled for Erdene to circle back. She arced around, diving to sink sickle claws into its neck and dragging its thrashing body hard across the red dirt.
This side of the mountains, eagles were the most dangerous predators, alongside the falconers who hunted with them. The hare’s kicking legs went limp. Something iridescent spilled out of its slack face, disappearing like smoke on the wind.
Not everyone could see spirits.
Bataar had been born with his umbilical cord constricting his neck, his skin tinged blue. As soon as his soul had come into this world, it had almost left it. If anyone knew he could see souls, they’d make him become a shaman, reading rune stones and interpreting smoke signs for the great rhahs. But the spirits didn’t whisper wisdom to him. Instead, every death he witnessed was a reminder that he’d robbed Preeminence of a life it was owed. The universe hunted him, and Bataar knew never to look a beast in the eyes unless you were ready for a fight.
He had a plan. He’d keep his sight a secret and get stronger. When he was tougher than everyone in their camp, he would challenge a steppe king, become a rhah, and next a king of the world. Then he would be worthy of what he’d stolen.
He tried not to grin like an idiot as he imagined riding into battle one day with Erdene on his arm. He’d have a long mustache, a sable cape, and hundreds of thousands of men sworn to his cause.
For now, he just shooed Erdene off the hare before she could rip open its belly, tempting her with a piece of organ meat from his bag. He tied the dangling rabbit to his saddle and climbed back on his horse. Erdene choked down the heart meat and squawked, gliding up to perch on Bataar’s forearm. Her bloodied talons dug like needles into his vambrace.
“What do I have to do before the men let me hunt with them?” Shaza asked. Her black rope of a braid swished as her pony pulled beside them.
“Are we not good enough for you?” Tarken said around a mouthful of orange berries. He and his little brother shared a horse ahead of Bataar, its legs deep in the ruby-tinted grass.
Shaza let her icy silence be an answer.
“That’s insulting,” Tarken grumbled.
Tarken’s little brother bounced in the saddle, holding a child-sized bow. Chugai was only six, but Bataar had been even younger when he first rode with his father, watching the eagles take down wolves in the snow.
Shaza’s rabbity sister Qaira brought up the rear, wearing ribbons in her braided hair. She caught Bataar looking back and glanced away, flushing. He bristled. Everyone admitted Bataar was a passable shot, better than most of the boys, but he wasn’t as good as Qaira. Still, Shaza’s sister was older than him, yet she bawled when sheep were slaughtered. Bataar didn’t even flinch as he watched souls rip free from bodies, shimmering in the air and evaporating into the sky.
A timid rabbit like her couldn’t even see what was really worth being scared of.
As the noon sun began to dip, they dismounted by a stream to let the horses drink. Surveying their kills, Shaza scoffed. “They’ll laugh us out of camp.”
“Food is nothing to laugh at,” Bataar told her. Blood matted the raked-through pelts of the hares. Erdene ruffled her feathers as she preened, surveying her mangled quarries proudly.
Tarken glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, where’s Qaira?”
Shaza fixed him with a look. “She’s picking berries. We passed the bushes ages ago. How’d you two not even realize she left?”
“She’s so quiet, how could we?” Bataar muttered. “Why’d she bother bringing a bow anyway if she’s going to close her eyes whenever there’s something to kill?”
“She just doesn’t have the stomach for it.”
“Well, at least she’s not useless,” Bataar admitted, starting to smile. “Someone’s gotta mend our clothes and cook for us.”
Tarken laughed. Chugai laughed because his big brother was laughing.
Shaza rolled her eyes. “You two are idiots. You’ll ruin the kid.”
The four drifted apart, refilling water skins and cleaning their knives. Bataar sheathed his, watching Tarken and his little brother kick stones along the river’s burbling edge.
Winter was a biting song on the wind. High above, a perfect blue stretched over the horizon. People said the Preeminent Spirit looked like the calm sky, but that wasn’t true. Bataar could see God’s face leering down at him from above, and They were terrifying.
Ahead, the snow-capped Red Mother stretched into the sky. Except for the wind and his hunting party’s voices, the hills were quiet. A sulfurous smell hung in the air, fouler than any fire. Gooseflesh prickled on Bataar’s neck. Instinctively, he drew his short bow off his shoulder.
“Look at that shiny one, Chugai.” Tarken’s voice became smaller the farther he walked, blabbering about rocks.
Erdene cried in Bataar’s ear, insistent, digging her talons deep. A twig snapped, and the horses whinnied, shuffling nervously. Bataar turned, expecting to spot the black eyes of an antelope.
Instead, his gaze fell on a gryphon.
Golden irises locked with his, and Bataar stood paralyzed. A clear membrane slid over the gryphon’s eyes. It looked like a huge lion, except for its beak and feathered back legs ending in taloned feet. Its tufted tail lashed the air.
Bataar’s chest tightened, his body trembling and heart pounding. The gryphon rose from its crouch. Standing as tall as Bataar’s sternum, it spread its wings. They could all have made a line, arms outstretched, and they wouldn’t have reached as far as the tips of its longest feathers. It was darker than sable, than tar, like a hole torn in the night sky. Its footfalls were soft as it slunk forward, hardly disturbing the grass with its bulk.
Beside him, Shaza gasped. The gryphon was lean and gaunt, its ribs pressing through its rippling pelt, eyes flashing as its head moved sharply, watching them, then the horses. Not wanting to turn away, Bataar inclined his head at Shaza. The two of them moved in tandem, nocking arrows and pulling bowstrings taut. Maybe they could distract the gryphon, giving Tarken time to get his little brother away. The ponies whickered, breaking the quiet.
“Find something?” Chugai said.
His older brother thumped him on the back of the head. “You’ll scare it away—oh, Spirit.” Tarken’s eyes went wide, and he dropped the berries he’d been eating. They spilled across the dirt, garish orange on red.
The gryphon moved quickly. Suddenly hulking over Chugai, it craned its neck down, beak inches from his head, breath stirring his brown hair. It reared on its hindlegs, flapping its wings, and leapt up. Erdene screamed and tore into the air, circling above the field as the ponies fled, veering off across the stream.
Bataar and Shaza loosed their arrows—they glanced off the gryphon’s shoulder. Tarken’s bow was on his horse, so he threw his bag. It missed, splashing into the water.
The gryphon pounced, putting one paw on Chugai’s head, the other on his shoulder. The boy only had time to squeak, like a mouse. Snap snap snap, a sound like so many sticks breaking, a little boy crumbling. The gryphon’s beak opened and shut around the broken body. It threw its head back, swallowing.
Bataar watched bonelessly as Chugai’s soul swirled out through the gryphon’s nostrils.
He told himself don’t look. But he had to watch, to bear witness to that moment when the gaping mouth of God at the precipice of the sky drank in Chugai’s soul.
“No!” Shaza shouted, firing more arrows. “Tarken, move!”
The gryphon didn’t flinch as barbed heads sank into its flesh. It circled, eyes gleaming, and batted Shaza away with a crunch. She fell on her back, the front of her tunic torn. Scarlet bloomed across the fabric. Her ragged gasps told Bataar she was still alive, for now.
Tarken collapsed to his knees as the gryphon neared. Bataar tried nocking another arrow, but his fingers were clumsy. His ribs constricted, tight around the hollowness in his chest. Bile burned in his throat, and his eyes stung as his quiver spilled into the bank.
The gryphon’s paw thumped against Tarken’s face. He wobbled, whimpering, a thick red line welling across his nose.
The gryphon tilted its head curiously.
Bataar thought of the oath he’d whispered to Tarken, when they camped together last year; no longer just friends, but bloodsworn brothers. Memories of skating on the Lugei River in the winter came to him. He remembered laughing so hard his sides ached when Tarken fell and slid into a snowdrift. Numbing powerlessness overcame Bataar, loosening his grip, making it hard to stand on shuddering legs.
“Tarken!” He yelled. Run, fight, do anything.
Everything was happening too quickly, a smear of motion and choking terror. He didn’t want to cry, but the world was already blurring.
An arrow shot into the dirt beside the gryphon’s talons. Bataar couldn’t tell where it had come from. The gryphon spun away, leaving Tarken gasping, the front of his breeches darkening. The wind carried Qaira’s smell, honeyish, like edelweiss flowers.
Bataar reached uselessly for his spilled quiver.
The ribbons in her pony’s mane flashed a rainbow of color as she gripped its bridle. “Shhh, shhhh,” Qaira whispered. She dropped the reins and raised her bow.
Bataar had once watched her split one arrow with a second, bursting them through the back of a target the older boys put up, but he’d never seen her kill anything. Her hands didn’t tremble as she loosed an arrow toward the gryphon’s face. It deflected off its beak. The gryphon screeched, loud as a peal of thunder.
They were all going to die like Chugai.
Bataar didn’t want to meet Preeminence’s gaze, to watch its horns and teeth and black eyes as his soul joined it in the sky, but he’d face death, if it meant the rest of them lived. The blade of his knife was short and straight, tapering to a hatchet-point. He unsheathed it and stumbled forward, uncoordinated with panic. With both trembling hands, Bataar sank the blade into the gryphon’s flank, sliding it between dense quills.
“Take your sister and Tarken! Get out of here!” he screamed to Qaira as the gryphon’s beak thrusted toward him.
Bataar pulled the knife out and fell onto his back. He scrambled through the dirt, kicking the gryphon’s chest. His pulse pounded as claws raked across his face and burned down, over the top of his chest, into his shoulder. More of Qaira’s arrows sank into its body. Shadows oozed from the wounds. Bataar put his dirty fingers in his mouth and whistled. Erdene swooped down, her talons razing black feathers. Smoke seeped out and dissipated in the air. Bataar blinked in confusion, vision fading on his right side as something warm and wet flooded his eye.
There was something hypnotic about its eyes; they made Bataar want to freeze up and pee himself, like a mouse cornered by one of the camp cats. But he wasn’t prey. Stabbing again, his blade pried some of the huge feathers loose. His vision was obscured by blood, tendrils of smoke, and plumage floating in his face.
He blinked, and as it cleared, the gryphon’s bare, purple skin came into view. The claws on one paw slashed toward him. Bataar ducked away, squeezing himself down toward its midsection. He jammed his blade into the gryphon’s stomach. Hot droplets hit his face. It bled. It could be killed.
Qaira yelled his name. Her gentle voice had never sounded so hoarse.
The gryphon curled its underbelly back. A fervor overcame Bataar. His hands moved on their own, faster than his mind could think. The knife sank in and out of the muscles on its throat as its beak snapped toward his face. Blood ran over his hands, coating his arms down to the elbows. His fingers turned raw, palms splitting and chafing against the knife’s hilt. He recognized Erdene’s brown feathers on the arrows Qaira fired now, from his spilled quiver. With a scream, Bataar plunged his blade into one of the gryphon’s yellow eyes.
Its soul seeped out of its body, pulling close and snarling in Bataar’s face. The gryphon’s spirit was shimmering nothingness, but it caressed his skin like fevered breath before it was swallowed up. Its hunger smelled sour, the same desperation and fear that roiled through Bataar. He kept stabbing even after the gryphon’s weight collapsed on top of him. He didn’t stop until Qaira pried the knife from his fingers and groaned, struggling to roll the gryphon’s body off his. She didn’t vomit at all the blood. She didn’t cry or shake. He stood dizzily, throwing her hands off when she reached for the scratch across his face. He wiped the blood out of his eye, his vision turning red again in seconds.
“I’m fine.” His voice scratched, clawing its way out of his throat.
Near Tarken’s stunned body was one of Chugai’s shoes. Bataar limped forward. Inside was a little foot. Bataar had only had a few bites of dried meat to eat in the last several hours, but it bubbled in his stomach as his eyes fell on the white bone protruding from bloody flesh.
“Let me help,” Qaira said softly.
They worked together. Qaira wrapped wounds using clean strips torn from their clothes. Shaza moaned, eyes unfocused as Bataar hefted her onto his shoulder and laid her across her sister’s pony.
“We need to get her to Boroo quickly,” Bataar said. She’d already lost a lot of blood. The shaman wouldn’t be able to do anything if Shaza died before they could get her to camp.
Qaira whispered gentle things to Tarken as she helped him stand. “He was embraced by the Preeminent Spirit. I felt it,” she said, voice full of kindness.
Her words were well-meant, but Bataar had seen it, the moment Chugai’s soul disappeared. The universe had swallowed him with blank eyes. Bataar tried to keep from quivering. He couldn’t tell Tarken, not now, or ever.
Tarken’s voice cracked. “My brother. His body, I can’t leave it.”
“I’ll come back for him,” Bataar swore.
He gave Tarken the wrapped shoe to hold. Tarken slotted his other fingers through Shaza’s limp ones. Qaira rode, steadying her sister against her. They moved slowly, in silence punctuated by groans and stifled sobs.
Twilight was smoldering, coloring the sky in melting pinks when relief twinged in Bataar’s chest. Shaza’s shoulders still rose and fell in shallow breaths, and their camp grew in the distance.
Ignoring the gasps and concerned expressions as they entered the circle of tents, he took Shaza off the horse and laid her down near the cookfires. Qaira ran to get the shaman. Bataar stood in a daze as Boroo worked. He let his mother fuss over him, dabbing his face with a damp cloth. Across camp, a woman cried, clinging to Tarken—his mother. Chugai’s shoe dangled in her hand and fell. She looked down, her ragged sobs turning to a keening wail.
“Thank God,” Bataar’s mother whispered, gripping him with desperate fingers, squeezing his uninjured shoulder like she was reassuring herself he was really there.
Excerpted from The Gryphon King, copyright © 2024 by Sara Omer
