The Last Tritan Deluxe Hardcover

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I was eighteen when the capital city of Tritan fell.
With the element of surprise on their side, the fight was relatively bloodless and over within a week. They crushed our communication network, and it was days before we even knew who our attackers were. Once we saw the black-and-gold banners of Caledonia, however, our self-defense attempts were virtually nonexistent—they were known for being ruthless in battle. It was assumed the Caledonians had attacked Tritan for her abundant resources. And it was true, to an extent.

With the government disabled, mass panic quickly followed. Families trying desperately to escape the tattered carcass of Tritan fled north, to the country of Elora. Once our closest allies, now offered only barred doors and shuttered windows, lest they incur the wrath of Caledonia.

They were right to fear.

Our enemy had more than a reputation for blood lust—their elite soldiers could channel energy into the weapons they carried. Blasts hot enough to burn through anything they encountered. They were deadly warriors, utterly unmatched in any known arena.

But the true horror of our invasion had yet to be revealed. Renowned for our genteel natures, slight statures, light hair, and fair complexions, our people were valued for our contributions to medical sciences and bountiful food production. Beloved for our peacekeepers and healers.

And for our priestesses.

Rare Tritan women born to sense the energy of every organic thing around them. Who could manipulate life by reshaping it as something new—trees, plants, animals—anything that held a spark of living energy. Priestesses were famous healers, using their abilities to detect and diagnose ailments in their patients. But the most powerful could direct that energy to heal any injury.

As medics, they might have been invaluable on the battlefield. Might have given our scattered forces a whisper of hope against Caledonia’s elite warriors.

But the temple was the first to fall.
The true target of Caledonia’s attack wasn’t the military, the senate, or our bountiful riches.
It was the priestesses.

By some cruel stroke of fate, the Caledonians could enslave the priestesses in chains of glittering gold. Bound to one of these elite warriors, Tritan’s cherished holy women were nothing more than conduits to the world’s living energy. Taken by the conquerors who came to enslave, to use until there was nothing left but an empty husk. Tritan burned, and from her smoldering corpse, the enemy rose in a cloud of ash.

Invincible.
Limitless power at their disposal.

There was no chance of a rebellion after that.

But it wouldn’t be a story worth telling if it ended there. I escaped the city before the fighting reached us because my father used his position as a senator to get me to safety. Just as he’d done years before, when my modest talents as a potential priestess had begun to manifest. Forbidding me from honing my craft—from wasting my life in selfless worship—was a biased decision that eventually saved my life. Unfortunately, he couldn’t secure the same for himself and my mother.

It was the last time I saw them.

Some of Tritan’s refugees managed to find a temporary haven in the vast forest separating Tritan and Elora. Not rebels—just desperate people trying to avoid the nets of those hunting them. I was among those small clusters of terrified people, and though I never met another priestess, it became obvious the Caledonians wanted even the ordinary citizens of Tritan. Our unusual coloring made us highly sought after in the slaving markets across the world.

It wasn’t long before slavers invaded the woods. Not long before they attacked.

Scavengers drawn in by the ignorance of those who knew nothing of survival in the forest and even less of the stealth needed to escape unnoticed.

It was dark when I awoke to the scent of meat roasting over a fire, serenaded by the merry sounds of popping and crackling flames. One of the men had brought down some type of fowl and had started a fire to cook it. The smell of roasted bird soon woke the remaining sleepers, and although we knew better, it was a temptation none could resist.

There was only enough for each of us to have a few mouthfuls of the succulent meat, but as the hot juices dripped off our fingers, I was sure it was worth it—until the slavers crashed through the brush, weapons drawn. The camp sounds, which moments before had been contented eating, became screams of terror as everyone scrambled for safety.

It was my first good look at the dreaded Caledonians.

Where Tritans were slight and fair, the Caledonians were the opposite. Dark hair and eyes with considerably larger, heavily muscled frames.

I had but a moment to make this observation before my impending enslavement became apparent. I was a Tritan priestess, albeit an untrained one, and I couldn’t allow myself to fall into the clutches of an elite warrior to be used against my people in such a perverse way.

To my everlasting shame, I took the opportunity the chaos offered and slipped away...

This is only the beginning...

Once upon a time, in the lawless ancient internet swamps, The Last Tritan crawled from the muck. That swirling, endlessly spinning shitblizzard of chaos that is... well... my entire fucking life. It started as a way for me to vent when everything I knew was on fire, and the girl I had been died watching the other half of my heart atrophy in a hospital bed.

Mila and Asher clawed their way from my newbie authorling brains, and splash-landed in the swamp that is Literotica. It’s a place where free dirty stories go to flourish or die. My babies climbed the Hall of Fame like they'd always been meant to do it, and in the wake of my rage and pain, I gathered an underground cult of readers who followed The Last Tritan out of the deep and into published-book form.

Very underground. Tres infamous.

The kind of culty where readers remembered scenes years later (and lovingly pestered me about it for neigh-on a decade without breathing).

So if you’re new here: welcome to the cult. We have morally complicated villains pretending to be anti-heroes, questionable decisions, and very pretty books.

And if you’ve been here since the beginning? Babe. You're an absolute legend. This one’s for you.

Babe, I'll friggen tell you why. Aside from the looming book hangover, the morally grey heroes, and the world-building you've spent your whole damn life searching for, the answer is: MONEY!!!

When you buy direct from an author, you give me ultimate power over my book babies. Just by clicking on the link for this store, you helped me tug Bezos' sticky little billionaire fingers outta my pockets, and I am free to spread those savings around to my foolish little heart's content! My accountants think I'm an idiot, but whatever. I do what I want, and I wanna give you more reasons to spend your hard-earned cheddah in the most fun way possible.

It's because of YOU that no one can tell me what I can or cannot say on the home page of my very own store!!! I built this heckin' thang, and I can scare away the pearl-clutchers to my heart's content!

Timmothy in HR has no power here!!!

I can get as weird as I want, and if you're sitting there with a smile twitching upon thine lips, then Bestie, you're in the right place.

Ohhh, hai. I'm Myra Danvers. Resident Chaos Demon, Wrangler of Danger and Mayhem, and Author of the most creative cursing you're ever likely to come across in these fine interwebs we all call home.

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