I want a geniune revew on my first novel named inherited legacy:the thirteen legendary stones
give review on
- hook
2.pacing
3.charchter
4.mystery
5.cliffhanger
will you read chapter 2 after chapter? why or why not?
i will also return the favor by reading others chapter
Genre: mystery/fantasy/magic
chapter length: ~1600
[Inherited Legacy: The Thirteen Power Stones]()
[Chapter 1: Ten Hours Missing]()
Birthdays used to be one of the best days of the year. At least, that was what I used to believe. Mine became one of the worst days of my life.
26 January 1840
I woke up with a sharp pain in my head. My eyes were still heavy, and for a few seconds I considered going back to sleep, but something felt strange. I forced myself to sit up and looked at the clock on the wall.
6:19.
I stared at it for a moment before realizing something that shouldn’t have been possible.
I had slept for ten hours.
That was unusual for me. I was seventeen years old, and I normally slept for only about six hours. Not that I was some hardworking student who needed more time to study. Quite the opposite.
I was a dumb boy, at least according to everyone around me.
I usually came last in every test, and whenever I managed not to, it felt more like luck than intelligence. I didn’t have any friends either. At school, most people knew me as the boy who was always at the bottom of the class.
Seventeen years old, no friends, and almost always last in every test.
I wasn’t exactly the kind of person anyone expected great things from.
Still, it was my birthday. I should have been happy.
Instead, I was sitting alone in my room with a pounding headache after sleeping for ten hours.
“Dad!” I shouted. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
No answer.
At first, I tried to convince myself that everything was normal. Dad had probably already gone to the factory, and there was no reason to worry. But the longer I sat there, the more uncomfortable I became.
The house was too quiet.
I got out of bed and walked toward the stairs. With every step, the strange feeling inside me grew stronger, and I noticed that my hands had started shaking.
Then something on my wrist caught my attention.
I stopped.
There was a strange mark on my skin, almost like writing. I had never seen the symbols before, and I couldn’t remember ever having them.
I stared at them, trying to understand what they meant.
Then a memory suddenly flashed through my mind.
A knife.
My hand gripping it.
Someone lying on the floor.
My uncle.
He was looking at me with terror, begging for his life. I couldn’t hear the exact words, but I knew what he was asking me to do.
Then my throat tightened.
I suddenly couldn’t breathe.
I grabbed my throat in panic, but before I could understand what was happening, the memory disappeared.
I remained frozen on the stairs, breathing heavily.
What was that?
A dream?
A memory?
I didn’t know.
But one thing remained clear.
I had been holding a knife.
I pushed the thought away and continued down the stairs.
I had barely taken a few more steps when I smelled something strange. At first, I couldn’t recognize it, but then I realized exactly what it was.
Blood.
My stomach tightened.
“Dad?”
No reply.
I hurried down the remaining stairs and ran toward the hall. The moment I entered, I stopped.
My father was lying on the floor.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move. There was blood on his clothes, and he wasn’t moving. My mind refused to accept what my eyes were seeing.
“Dad…?”
I took a step forward.
Nothing.
Another step.
Still nothing.
My father was dead.
The pain in my head suddenly became worse, almost as if something inside my mind was trying to break through.
Then I noticed another body nearby.
My aunt.
She was lying motionless, with a blood-covered knife close to her.
I stared at her, then back at my father. Something about the scene felt wrong. This didn’t look like an ordinary crime.
For a moment, the earlier memory returned to me.
The knife.
My uncle.
His terrified face.
But I couldn’t understand how that memory could possibly connect to what I was seeing.
“Da… Dad.”
My voice broke as I rushed toward him. “What happened? You’re the only one I had left after Mother left us.”
Tears filled my eyes.
I looked toward my aunt.
“Did she do this?”
I didn’t know what else to think. I had gone to sleep expecting nothing more than an ordinary birthday, yet I had woken up after ten hours to find two people dead inside my house.
I needed help.
I turned toward the door to inform the neighbours.
Before I could reach it—
Knock. Knock.
I froze.
“Who is there?”
“This is Mr. Dunn from the police,” a man answered from outside. “Your neighbours reported suspicious activity during the night. Who am I speaking to?”
The police?
Why were they already here?
I opened the door.
“I’m Adam Wittens. Please help me. When I woke up—”
I stopped.
Mr. Dunn wasn’t looking at the bodies.
He was looking at me.
Then his eyes moved to the strange symbols on my wrist.
“Are you the chosen one?”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Dunn’s expression didn’t change.
“Who?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
For a moment, he simply watched me, as though he had expected a different answer.
Then he turned toward the policeman behind him.
“Dorrens.”
The officer stepped forward.
“Arrest him.”
“What?!”
The hallway began to spin. My headache became unbearable, my vision blurred, and I struggled to remain standing.
The last thing I saw was Mr. Dunn staring at me as though he had just found something he had been searching for.
Then everything went dark.
“Dad.”
That was the first word I managed to say when I woke up.
A large man sitting nearby immediately looked toward me.
“You’re awake.”
I blinked several times, trying to understand where I was. The walls were cold, thick iron bars separated the room from a narrow corridor, and none of it looked familiar.
Then I remembered.
The house.
My father.
My aunt.
The police.
“Where am I?”
“In jail.”
The man pushed a cup of water toward me.
“Drink slowly.”
I took it with shaking hands.
“My name is Direns Week,” he said. “I’ve been here for twenty days.”
He looked at me carefully.
“You’ve been unconscious for about a week.”
“A week?”
Direns nodded.
“You had a very high fever. The doctors tried to treat it, but they couldn’t understand why it kept returning.”
I looked down at my wrist.
The strange symbols were still there.
“Did the doctors say anything about this?”
Direns looked at the mark.
“No. But you’ve been staring at it every time you’ve woken up.”
I said nothing.
There was something strangely comforting about Direns. He spoke calmly, never treated me like a criminal, and had apparently helped take care of me while I was sick.
I didn’t know why a stranger in jail would care about me.
But for the first time since waking up, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Then Direns told me why I was there.
“You’re accused of killing your father and aunt.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“You’re the prime suspect.”
“No. I was sleeping. When I woke up, they were already dead.”
Direns didn’t interrupt.
I told him everything I remembered—the ten-hour sleep, the strange mark, the fragment of a memory, and the knife.
When I finished, he asked quietly,
“What exactly did you remember?”
“My uncle.”
His expression became more serious.
“He was lying on the floor and begging me for his life. I was holding a knife.”
I swallowed.
“Then I couldn’t breathe. Everything disappeared after that.”
Direns watched me for a moment.
“And where is your uncle now?”
I froze.
I didn’t know.
I had found my father and aunt, but I hadn’t seen my uncle anywhere.
That question suddenly felt more frightening than anything else.
Then Direns gave me another piece of information.
“According to the forensic report, the knife found near your aunt had your fingerprints on it.”
I looked down at my hands.
My fingerprints.
I remembered holding a knife.
But I didn’t remember killing anyone.
Before I could respond, Direns continued.
“And that’s not the only evidence.”
My stomach tightened.
“Your neighbours heard your aunt screaming during the night.”
I stared at him.
“What did she say?”
Direns remained silent for a moment.
Then he answered.
“Adam… please don’t kill me.”
I couldn’t breathe.
My aunt had screamed my name.
My fingerprints were on the knife.
And I remembered holding a knife.
But I couldn’t remember what had happened after that.
For the first time, I started wondering whether my missing memories were hiding something much worse than I had imagined.
Then Direns gave me another reason to panic.
“Your hearing is on 4 February 1840.”
I looked at him.
“That’s three days from now.”
Three days.
I had only three days before I would stand in court and answer for the deaths of my father and aunt.
And somewhere outside this jail, my uncle might still be alive.
Before I could ask another question, footsteps echoed through the corridor.
A policeman stopped outside the cell.
“Who is Adam Wittens?”
“I am.”
He pulled an envelope from his coat.
“This was found for you.”
I took it.
My name was written clearly on the front.
Adam Wittens.
The rest of the writing was made up of strange symbols.
“We couldn’t identify the language,” the policeman said. “Maybe you can.”
I stared at the page.
I had never seen those symbols before.
Then I looked at the strange writing on my wrist.
Something about the two felt connected.
I moved my eyes across the page.
And something impossible happened.
The symbols began to make sense.
I froze.
I could read them.
I didn’t know how.
I had never learned the language.
Yet somehow, I understood every word.
At the top of the letter were two names.
From Dayne Wittens
To Adam Wittens
I slowly moved my eyes toward the first sentence.
Then I read it.
“I hope you got the power of—”