Building the Daemon Realm: Crafting the World of The Obsidian Throne

World-building and I were not always on speaking terms. For years, I wrote stories tucked safely inside modern-day Earth, where the biggest challenge was remembering whether Starbucks still sold that seasonal drink I’d mentioned in Chapter Two. But then The Obsidian Throne came knocking—dramatic, magical, “surprise, we’re doing a whole new universe now”—and suddenly I had to build Nyverna from scratch.

This was my first true leap into the unknown. And honestly? It was terrifying. Also delicious. Like stepping into a forest at twilight: the shadows whisper, the trees lean close, and some part of you knows you’re about to find something you didn’t even know you were looking for.

Characters First, Always

Every world I’ve ever created starts with a person who won’t leave me alone. A heroine pacing in the back of my mind. A stubborn prince glaring at me because he knows I haven’t written his best line yet. Someone knocking on the mental door going, “Hey. Hey. HEY. I have things to do—build me somewhere to do them.”

That’s exactly how it began for The Obsidian Throne. The leads arrived first—loud, insistent, vividly themselves—and the world had no choice but to grow around them. Their paths needed a collision course, so I built the kind of place where they could clash, spark, argue, kiss, yell at destiny, and occasionally flee for their lives.

Before I could craft an entire realm, I had to see them. I used to patch together faces from celebrities, but at some point my art skills leveled up enough for me to draw them myself. Sketch by sketch, line by line, they emerged. Pinterest still plays fairy godmother, tossing inspiration at me like glitter, and whenever possible I track down original artists for credit.

Once I know my characters—how they dress, what trinkets they hoard, what colors cling to their energy like a mood-ring aura—their world starts whispering its shape.

Building Nyverna: A Place with Teeth

Nyverna came to me as a land of wild magic, ancient grudges, and beautiful danger. A place where cultures hum with history, creatures coexist with “I tolerate you but only barely,” and the air itself feels like it remembers things. I mapped it piece by piece: cities teetering at the edge of disaster, forests that don’t want to be entered, mountains that brood more than my broodiest character.

Geography became a chessboard. Every cliff, river, rival faction, and half-forgotten ruin formed the push-and-pull of the story. I didn’t want Nyverna to just host the plot—I wanted it to scheme with it.

One thing I discovered quickly: generic world-building advice is like a starter recipe. Helpful. Inspiring. But the final dish? That’s all you. Every world has its own flavors, and no two writers season the same.

Magic, Power, and the Unholy Joy of Political Drama

Once the land itself was breathing, I dove straight into magic. Not sparkles-for-the-aesthetic magic, but ecosystem magic—how it shapes daily life, society, and the ever-shifting hierarchies among daemonkind. I stole bits from folklore, myths, old stories whispered by people who swear the woods look back at you—and then I bent everything until it felt fresh.

Then came my guilty pleasure: political chaos.

Noble houses. Territory disputes. Centuries-old grudges written in the margins of history books. Alliances as fragile as spun sugar. The kind of power games where someone smiles politely while plotting twelve moves ahead.

Building these systems wasn’t just for flavor—it gave my characters something to rebel against, escape from, or manipulate with alarming charm.

The Details That Make a World Breathe

Big-picture world-building is great, but the real magic? The tiny things.

The way Phogbourne Castle smells like old stone and forbidden spells.

The hush that falls over the capital at twilight, thick enough to feel on your skin.

The crunch of gravel under boots when a character knows they’re being followed.

I hoard these details in Notion like a dragon with very organized treasure piles—geography, politics, sensory notes, magic rules, random chaotic scribbles that Future Me will be delighted or horrified by.

These small moments don’t just decorate the world—they unlock it. They reveal who my characters are by how they move through it.

What Nyverna Taught Me

Building this world taught me that world-building isn’t about naming continents or deciding whether dragons pay taxes (they do not). It’s about history layered like old paint, cultures shaped by triumph and grief, magic tangled with belief systems, and politics that echo through your cast’s decisions.

It’s messy. It’s exhilarating. It is absolutely fueled by equal parts intuition and “let me Google medieval water systems at three a.m.”

And as Nyverna grows, so do the people inside it.

For Fellow World-Builders

If you’re crafting a world of your own, start with the thing that sparks joy—or chaos—in your chest. A character. A city. A magic rule. A single vivid image. Build outward like ripples from a stone tossed into a pond.

Let curiosity pull you deeper. Let weird ideas stay weird. And never underestimate the power of small details—they’re what turn a map into a world.

Until next time,

Indigo Winter