Of Arcs and Ashes, Fire and Hope

Amid being knee-deep in the second book of the Parable Saga Series (name to be released soon, so you won't catch me slipping up here and giving it away 😊 ), I found myself on a journey through the protagonist’s fight against himself, as it echoed and resonated with my person life and walk with God. At the end of the day, he comes to understand that knowing and believing are two very different things. Thank goodness his journey takes place across the pages of a Christian dark fantasy novel.

To some, that’s a contradiction. How can a genre steeped in gloom, blood, and brokenness hold hands with faith, grace, and resurrection? But to me, that tension is the very soul of the story. Dark fantasy doesn’t shy away from rot or ruin. It lingers in the desolate places—the cursed keeps, the haunted woods, the crumbling hearts of kings who’ve lost their way. But that’s where redemption becomes real, right?  Because light doesn’t mean much unless you’ve been in the dark.

In my stories, the dark is never the end. The dark is just what you leave behind when you are no longer scared of the shadow it casts.

The Arc Through Ashes

Every story, like every soul, carries the weight of transformation. In the stories I write—and the ones I love—characters are rarely clean-cut heroes. They’re exiles, hoarders, tyrants, broken priests, and reluctant queens. They carry their sin like scars, and their regrets like relics. They hoard, not just wealth, but pain.

Hoarding—whether literal or spiritual—is a motif I return to again and again. In fantasy, the dragon asleep atop its gold is a powerful image, right? But what if the dragon is a person? What if the treasure is trauma? Many of my characters live surrounded by the artifacts of the past: blood-stained swords, cursed books, old letters they can’t burn, and the allure of dark magic. They cling to these things because they believe they must. Their past defines them, even imprisons them, so that if they last just a little longer than the ones before them, they will ultimately win.

But real change requires a purging—not just of possessions but of false identities, pride, and power. As Christ said, you cannot pour new wine into old wineskins. The soul has to make space. Redemption costs something—and in dark fantasy, that cost can be vividly, painfully portrayed. It's the heart of the Christian story: you cannot carry your cross and your empire at the same time.

Jesus told parables—earthly, mysterious stories full of seeds and storms, feasts and debts. And in a way, that’s what dark fantasy is, too. Mythic. Symbolic. Raw. However, unlike secular fantasy, which often ends in moral ambiguity or nihilism, Christian fantasy points to something deeper. Not easy answers—but eternal hope.

It’s not that my worlds are cleaner—quite the opposite. They are worlds full of ghosts, tyranny, addiction, darkness, and despair. But beneath the wreckage is a pulse, a whisper, a grace that doesn’t erase the past but transforms it. Characters fall. They fail. But they are never beyond restoration.

Sometimes, that looks like a king throwing his crown into the sea. Sometimes it’s a witch breaking her curse. Sometimes it’s simply someone saying, “I was wrong, I'm sorry,” and meaning it. These are the sacred moments in fiction and life, where the heart opens to something greater than itself.

Burn the Old House

There’s a strange sanctity in destruction when it leads to healing. In both fiction and faith, there comes a time to tear down what’s no longer life-giving. That might be a literal stronghold—or an internal one. A castle. A lie. A throne we built in fear.

In my stories, characters often find themselves surrounded by the wreckage of what they thought they needed. But to step into the future, they must let it burn. Because resurrection doesn't happen in well-organized ruins, it happens in empty tombs. And sometimes, the fire that destroys the past is the same fire that sanctifies the soul.

Christian dark fantasy allows me to explore deep spiritual truths without flinching from the real cost of grace. The cross wasn’t pretty, forgiveness isn’t cheap, and becoming new often feels like being unmade.

But I believe this with everything in me: there is a throne beyond the wasteland. A kingdom not built by blood and steel, but by mercy and love. And there is room in that kingdom for the worst of us—if we’ll let go of what’s killing us to receive what will save us.

This is the work I’m called to do. Not just to entertain, but to echo eternity. To write stories where light pierces the murk. Where even the most cursed character is not beyond the reach of grace, where hoarded pain gives way to freedom, and old ruins become places of worship.

Because even in the darkest world, the dawn still comes.