In the high peaks of fantasy fiction, few voices echo with the same blend of lyricism and raw intensity as Brian Staveley’s. His stories don’t just build worlds—they carve them from stone and shadow, echoing with the clash of empires and the quiet, devastating choices of those caught in their wake. What sets his work apart isn’t just the scale of his imagination, but the emotional weight carried by every sword stroke, every whispered betrayal, every question of faith.
Staveley burst onto the fantasy scene with The Emperor’s Blades, the first novel in The Chronicles of the Unhewn Throne, a trilogy that would go on to define his signature style: poetic, philosophical, and unflinchingly brutal. Set in a fractured empire on the verge of collapse, the series follows the children of a murdered emperor as they unravel conspiracies stretching beyond the bounds of the known world. It was more than just a debut—it was a declaration. The novel earned him the David Gemmell Morningstar Award for Best Fantasy Newcomer and a devoted readership drawn to the moral complexity of his characters and the haunting beauty of his prose.
That poetic edge isn’t accidental. Before turning to epic fantasy, Staveley studied and taught literature, philosophy, and religion—disciplines that seep into the bones of his narratives. His background includes an MA in poetry from Boston University, and his sensitivity to language shows in every line. His worlds are meticulously constructed, but it’s the internal struggles—between duty and desire, belief and truth—that give his work its staying power.
In Skullsworn, a standalone set in the same universe, he shifts the lens inward, exploring love, death, and devotion through the eyes of a priestess assassin. And with The Empire’s Ruin, the first book in the Ashes of the Unhewn Throne series, Staveley expands the scope of his world while deepening its emotional core—proof that even in a land of gods and tyrants, it’s the human heart that carries the greatest weight.
When he’s not writing, Staveley lives in rural Vermont, surrounded by the kinds of landscapes that seem plucked from his novels—rugged, quiet, and wild. He’s spoken about the rhythm of chopping wood or hiking mountains as part of his creative process, and there’s something fitting about a writer who draws strength from the earth while imagining realms beyond it.
As he once wrote, “The most dangerous truths are those we whisper to ourselves in the dark.” That’s the kind of insight readers have come to expect—not just in his books, but in the spaces between them.
