Epic Fantasy Rooted in Akan Cosmology and Caribbean Folklore
Every generation, the dying world demands its children.
This time, one healer and one Singer may be more dangerous than the rot itself.
In a world dying from ash in the south and ice in the north, gifted children are gathered to the capital, tested in brutal Trials, and sent to find the source of the Slow Death. None return. Koa, a root healer bonded too young to the Cheetah, never wanted to be one of them. Asoma, a Singer raised to save her people, has wanted nothing else.
About the Author
Sean Pierre writes character-driven epic fantasy rooted in Akan cosmology, Caribbean folklore, and the question of what tenderness costs in a violent world.
His debut novel, The City That Sends Its Children, follows a root healer and a northern Singer as they are drawn into a system that turns gifted children into weapons.
The book explores inheritance, sacrifice, spiritual power, environmental collapse, and the danger of mistaking gentleness for weakness.
He lives in Florida and is currently revising his debut fantasy novel.
Debut Novel
In the dying south, Koa survives by doing what the capital forbids: crossing beyond Amaku's gates to steal Dayya root, the only medicine that can give a sick child one more week without pain. Bonded to the Cheetah spirit when he was five — too young, on a night the spirits should not have come — Koa has spent his life trying to heal what the world keeps breaking.
But when the capital's Spears discover his secret and take his mentor, Koa is forced into the Trials: the proving grounds that name children champions, gather them in O'nama, and send the strongest south to find the source of the Slow Death. Koa is not a soldier. He has never wanted glory. But survival now means winning a system built to make weapons of children.
Far across the dying sea, Asoma has been raised by the Mothers of the Northern Isles to become the Voice of Asase: a Singer whose soul can shape water into ice. She has trained her whole life to be chosen for the Exodus south. Yet when saving one frightened girl threatens everything she has fought for, Asoma discovers that power alone may not be enough to save anyone.
As ash creeps north and the sea swallows the last islands whole, Koa and Asoma are drawn toward O'nama — the city that gathers gifted children, names them champions, and sends them away.
Rooted in Akan cosmology and Caribbean folklore, The City That Sends Its Children is epic fantasy about power taken before consent, gentleness mistaken for weakness, and the terrible cost of being chosen.
"A story about inherited sacrifice — and the cost of gentleness in a world built on violence."
Sample the Work
"Please, there has to be something more we can do!" she cried out, her voice trembling with desperation. "Akatu, please!" Serna's heart raced as she frantically placed cold washcloths over Koa's small, fevered body. Two cycles had passed, but the heat radiating from him showed no sign of waning.
Akatu looked at her with sorrowful eyes. "I am sorry, Serna. I have tried all remedies for fever and sickness. But this," he shook his head as he spoke, "it is something I have never seen before."
As he spoke to her, she heard Koa's breathing change; it became shorter, ragged. She dipped the washcloth into the water bucket and placed it on his forehead. Her hand stayed there for a moment, looking at the deep wrinkles in her hand against Koa's pale brown skin. She had grown old, her body frailer than it should have been.
"What about a spirit bond?" Serna looked at Fawodi as he made his suggestion. Her son stood a foot taller than most men in their town. He had grown into a man in the short time he was away from her. Fawodi's suggestion hung in the air.
"When you took me to the Forest of Ancients, I was sickly, but still the Spirit of the Bear chose and bonded with me, healing my body." Fawodi stepped to the edge of the bed and took Koa's small hand in his own. "Can we do the same for him?"
Akatu sighed as he sat in the chair in the corner of the bedroom, his voice firm and unmoving. "We take twelve-year-olds to the Forest so the Spirit Animals may choose; we do not take fever-ridden five-year-olds. And even if you did take him, it is not the Night of Choosing; they may not even appear."
"I understand tradition," Serna spat the words as tears ran down her face. "My family has given and lost everything for tradition, but we will not survive this."
"If you let us go," Fawodi's gaze held on Koa as he spoke, "I will pledge to the Guardian order."
Akatu stood to his feet, eyes wide at the offer. He called for Lesan, and a woman stepped into the room — her face covered by a deep, pine-colored cloak, her eyes glowing an otherworldly purple. She took the signet and left without a word.
"Gather your things," Akatu kept his voice low. "I will tell none of what happened here tonight, but remember the parent must be the one to leave him at the Tree, and neither of you can stay, or they will not come."
"I will not leave him alone!" Serna's voice erupted, raw and guttural.
"If you stay, they will not come. It is an intimate process, and the spirits do not welcome interference. Take him to the Forest of the Ancients and leave him at Silk Tree. Stay close, but be prepared for the outcome."
With trembling hands, Serna wrapped Koa in a thin cloth blanket and held him close as she stepped outside. They ran for the Forest — through gates, through darkness, through the Blue Mahoe trees that marked the entrance to the ancient place. And there before them stood the Silk-Cotton tree.
Its massive trunk was wider than any building she had seen, even in the capital. Its roots coiled through the soil like a serpent. The forest trees around it swayed to the whims of the night wind, but the Cotton tree stood still, unmoved by the natural world around it. Serna's chest tightened — its glow felt almost tangible, as though she could touch the faint teal shimmer of its branches.
Fawodi knelt beside her, his broad frame shadowed in the tree's pale light. He took her hand. Together they whispered prayers to Asase, voices thin against the vast silence of the forest. Koa lay motionless, wrapped in his blanket, dwarfed by roots that were old enough to have seen Asase birth the world itself.
They turned away, as tradition demanded, and made their camp just within sight of the entrance.
The morning sun pierced through the forest leaves. From behind them emerged Koa — his brown skin glowing with the life it held before the fever. His eyes blazed stormy silver, then bright yellow.
"The Cheetah," Fawodi said, awe in his voice.
"Thank you, Asase, for saving him," she murmured, pulling him closer. Serna stared into Koa's now-glowing eyes. "Only the spirits know why they come early," she whispered. "When that happens, we do not question. We listen. We give thanks."
Continue to Chapter One →
I could run, Koa's mind raced with the options available to him. They couldn't catch me if they tried. But the ingredients he needed lay right there — at the feet of the four raiders.
His nostrils burned under the scent of decay and ash. He had ventured farther south of the First Gates than he had before, and the land reeked of the Slow Death. Dead trees, ashen soil, and animal carcasses older than the eighteen cycles of life he had seen.
One week — that was all the girl had left. But one root would buy her another week, and each root he found could buy a week after that.
He concealed himself behind a withered shrub that was more dry stem than bush. The crunch rang in his ears as he watched the raiders tramp over a treasure they were too naïve to know they had. His face grew hot with every crunch of the root underfoot.
Four, he counted. Four raiders and one boy in over his head. He could hear his mother's chastisement even this far from the Gates. "If you wanted to see the River Mother that soon, a knife to the throat would have been faster."
He smirked at that. But what was his life to that of the dying girl?
He plunged his hand into the soil — its dry, powdery flakes coating his palm. A smooth stone found its way to his grip. He threw it across the camp; it thudded loudly against a trunk, echoing. Boots shuffled as each raider abandoned camp to investigate the sound.
He reached for the spirit that lived under the flesh of his skin, bonded to his very soul. He called, and the Cheetah answered.
A river of power flooded his body and the world grew sharper — colors came alive, edges deepened, sounds separated, and time itself felt like a mere suggestion. He felt his eyes bleed from their chestnut to a blazing yellow.
He broke from cover. The wind itself struggled to keep pace as branches swayed at his speed. In less than a breath he stood in the center of the camp. He dug into the soil, grabbing strands of the most valuable root in the continent of Kimbari. Ash-soil filled his nails as he pushed each strand into the medicine bag that hung from his chest.
"Oui!" The shout cut the air from behind him. One raider had slipped back and reached for Koa's cloak. Koa dug his foot into the earth and in a blink stood at the far end of the camp — the raider's hands catching nothing but the dust left behind.
He looked at the man before him — torn clothes, matted hair, dry lips. Then the clank of armour. The other raiders had returned. The one in armour was just a boy, maybe sixteen. The armour hung loose on his frame, and the bronze sword he held had no proper grip. He was clearly underfed.
These were not raiders. They were refugees.
The armoured boy let out a cry and rushed forward. Koa stood still. He watched the boy's uprooted stance — watched him trip over his own legs and fall face-first into the dirt. His sword spun into the air. Koa extended his hand and caught it by the hilt.
He thrust it into the ground before him and stepped back. He noticed a red rash on the older man's forearm that ran all the way to his neck. He reached into his medicine pouch and produced a small clear vial filled with orange salve.
"I mean you no harm." He lifted both hands. "That rash — does it burn mostly at night, and when water touches it?"
The man nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the vial.
Koa placed it on the ground at the man's feet. "Apply this in the morning. And when you arrive in Amaku, ask for Fawodi. Tell him the root healer sent you — he will see you taken care of."
They did not respond. He didn't need them to. He turned and ran north, back toward the city, the Cheetah's power still humming through him, the world still brilliantly, terribly alive.
Want updates when more excerpts are available?
Asoma dipped a finger into the palm-sized clay jar and coated it with a thin salve. She ran it across her lips, giving them a shine, but most importantly, to protect them from cracking.
The snowstorm had ceased, but she knew the next few days would be frigid. She threw on her bear-skin coat, which was tight around her arms and chest and barely reached down to her waist. She wore it with pride, though, as it was the only coat she had.
She placed a hat on her head, also made of bear fur, and made for the door into the corridor. The children will once again run when they see me, she thought. Not that the scowl she wore every day did not already do the same.
Outside, the snow shifted under her feet as the wind buffeted against her. The horizon was grey and bleak, and the sun, hidden behind dark clouds, was only visible every half cycle.
She had been alive for only eighteen cycles, and this time, the call came. The Exodus Trial was here, and for her entire life, she had prepared.
At the end of the village, the other hunters stood waiting. There were three of them there — one less than the last half cycle. They bowed their heads when they saw her. Slowly, they did it, but not deep enough for her ranking as a Singer. It was a slight, she knew this, but she had neither the will nor desire to care.
"This is your last hunt with us, Asoma," one called to her.
"You will have a new hunter once I win the trial and leave for O'nama," she said, not looking at any of them in particular. "I will do this trip alone. You will not have to risk death on this hunt."
One girl stayed with her anyway. She was younger than Asoma, with plaits reaching the far end of her back and light brown eyes that matched her freckles. She carried her spear as if it were more walking stick than weapon.
They walked in silence for a while, the voice of the wind the only thing in the air. As far as the eye could see, it was snow. But beneath it, Asoma could feel the waves crashing against the ice.
She made an abrupt left turn. Extending her hand downward, the snow formed into water and then into ice, pulling into her hand as it took the shape of a spear.
"Let's go back," the girl said, her voice shaking.
"Until we have at least five fish in that sack, we are not leaving."
Farther north, they found an open water hole in the ice. Asoma removed her glove and placed her bare hand against the frozen surface. She felt the water below, the currents pulling back and forth, the old stories it carried, and the life swimming within it.
There were fish here.
A crack rang in her ears.
The split raced down the center of the ice. The girl's scream cut through the cold air as she slipped and struck the ice face-first. Then the sheet beneath her opened in a violent roar and swallowed her into the freezing water.
It was death, Asoma thought. There was nothing but death for her under that water.
She dipped her hand into the water, eyes closed, searching the depths for the body it had claimed.
There.
The girl was sinking slowly, but still sinking.
Asoma dove in after her.
Want updates when more excerpts are available?
Say Hello
For representation, publishing, collaboration, press, or reader inquiries, use the form below.