S. W. Raine

The first few days of a new year always feel different.

Not quieter—just charged. Like the moment before the curtain rises, when the audience has settled but the stage is still hidden, and anything could happen next.

This is when the excitement really hits, and I remember I get another year with my characters. Some I’ve known for a long time. Others I haven’t met properly yet.

Either way, we’re about to cause trouble together.

And I can’t wait.

To Captain Keenan

The moment you gave me your name, everything shifted.

There you were, looking at the story like you already knew how the room was supposed to see you. Opinions arrived fast. You took up space. And somehow, the story didn’t feel finished to you yet, even when I insisted it was.

I had to remind you—multiple times—that this wasn’t your story to tell. Not yet. I had to remind you that sometimes survival means waiting for the right opening, not seizing the spotlight the second it appears.

And when your part was done—when you brought Magaliana to the Techno Mage and when your crew got caught by Queen Victoria’s Royal Guard so that Ikarim and Arteus’s story could continue—I surprised myself by grieving. I missed you more than I expected to. I carried you around long after the scene was done and the book was closed, like a tune that wouldn’t quite fade.

You earned your own story with Rise of the Sky Pirate. You took it. And you flew with it.

And now? Now we know better.

You know how much work it takes to build something worth keeping. And that appearances matter… but so does what’s underneath. You didn’t climb this far to hover politely at the edges.

There are skies we haven’t crossed yet. Decisions we haven’t tested. Consequences waiting to be earned.

So straighten your coat and top hat. Check the rigging. We’re heading back out.

Another adventure awaits.

To the Crew Who Won’t Stop Interrupting

Yes, I see you.

You’re loud. Chaotic. And you’re absolutely convinced that rules are optional and plans are merely suggestions. You show up at the worst possible times—mid-task, mid-sentence, usually when I’m trying to focus on something else entirely.

Things get stolen. Arguments break out. Flirting happens at the worst possible times. Messes appear, and somehow everyone looks offended when I ask who’s responsible.

And somehow, you expect me to keep up.

Waiting for your turn is clearly not your strong suit. The itch to get off the airship and into trouble is already obvious. And every one of you is convinced you’re the favorite, while the others are barely holding the operation together without you.

You’re not wrong.

Your stories are coming in smaller bursts—quick dives, daring escapes, glittering moments between bigger journeys. Short adventures, important choices, consequences that ripple.

You don’t need a whole novel to be unforgettable.

Behave yourselves until then. Or don’t. We both know how that usually goes.

And to All of You

The ones who already live on the page.
The ones still half-formed and pacing.
And the ones who only speak up when I least expect it.

Thank you for your patience. For your insistence. For trusting me with your stories, even when I take the long way around.

I’m still listening.

If you’re reading these letters to my characters and smiling a little, it’s probably because you’ve felt this too as a reader.

Because you’ve loved a character who refused to stay quiet. Because you’ve closed a book knowing the story wasn’t really finished—just waiting.

That’s what this moment is.

So stay close.

They’re not done yet.

Drop the name of the character who caused the most delightful trouble in your reading life—I have a feeling they’d get along with mine.

Raine