The Rorschach Test With Teeth

Someone this morning on X/Twitter replied to a post I’d made about the themes in my Dark Dominion sequence.

May I confess, this all sounds intriguing but there is a part of me that wishes authors could be mystical again. I like the idea of writing a story and watching people Rorschach test themselves in what they see in it.

I might have gone too far into literary analysis in my original post and given the impression I’m writing fiction with a Very Important Message. I’m not. I don’t preach, and I don’t lecture.

In a way, my novels are indeed elaborate Rorschach tests—but the inkblot has teeth. They have explicit moral architecture, deliberate thematic construction, and intentional political arguments, and how readers respond to that architecture reveals everything about what they brought with them. So the Rorschach element is in operation, just not the way this person means.

Someone who reads my portrayal of the god-emperor’s system as fundamentally illegitimate and thinks “but what about the stability he provided” has told me something. Someone who reads my examination of a woman’s body weaponized as political property and feels uncomfortable with the protagonist rather than the system has revealed their priors. Someone who finishes the books wanting the “good guys” to have remained morally pure while wielding authority has demonstrated they missed the entire point—and that’s diagnostic, not accidental.

I may be misreading, but I fear “mystical author” this person wants is really the luxury of plausible deniability. The ability to write about fascism without anyone being able to say you wrote about fascism. To explore oppression while maintaining you were “just telling a story.” To benefit from political resonance while dodging political accountability.

That’s not mysticism. That’s cowardice dressed in artistic pretension.

I’m being explicit about my moral architecture precisely because I want the Rorschach effect this person describes. I’m just honest enough to acknowledge that the test isn’t “what do you see in this neutral space” but rather “how do you react when confronted with this deliberately constructed argument.” When someone reads my work and sees “anti-fascist propaganda,” that’s diagnostic. When someone reads it and sees “uncomfortable but necessary examination of power,” that’s also diagnostic.

When someone reads my Twitter thread and feels alienated before even starting the books, that’s the Rorschach test working exactly as intended—they’ve revealed that my moral architecture threatens something they need to protect.

The mystical author gets to watch readers project their own meanings onto ambiguous work. I’ve created something more ruthless instead. A structured argument that forces readers to reveal their relationship to that argument.

They can’t hide behind “it’s just a story” because I’ve explicitly refused them that shelter.

My books are Rorschach tests. The inkblot just happens to be shaped like a deliberate moral claim, and what readers see when they look at it tells me everything about whether they’re capable of engaging with that claim honestly.

There is nothing meaningless in duty, Khalin. We served what we believed to be truth. There is no shame in that. But now that the lie has been exposed, we have a choice to make: continue to serve the lie, which would be meaningless, or reject it and seek a meaningful path.

Oqal-Nine, Godsbane

In Born in Battle, my protagonist faces an impossible choice during a climactic ritual. Sacrifice his friend’s literal soul to prevent a dark god from escaping imprisonment and consuming their world, or refuse and doom everyone. The friend is possessed, unable to consent. There are no loopholes, no cavalry coming, no magical third option.

The protagonist wrestles with it:

“Sacrificing him was the logical choice. But part of me argued Pierce ethically had an inalienable right to live, and while the extinction of his soul served the greater good, it didn’t justify sacrificing him. Especially considering he didn’t have choice in the matter. I couldn’t even present him with a choice, because he wasn’t operating as a free agent. He couldn’t make the choice.”

He tries to rationalize it: “So I tried to convince myself if he could make the choice, he’d choose to save the rest of us. But in the end that didn’t matter. I was making the choice for him.”

Then he makes it:

“He would give his soul so a world might live, and if that made me a murderer, if that made me evil, so be it. It was by far the lesser of two evils in a no-win situation. I’ve already said I’m not the hero you’re looking for.”

This is a Rorschach test with deliberate architecture. Reader responses reveal their actual ethical framework.

The reader who thinks “obviously sacrifice him, it’s one life for millions” has revealed they’ll rationalize stripping away individual autonomy for utilitarian calculus. They’ve demonstrated they believe the math of lives justifies any action.

The reader who thinks “never, principles matter more” has revealed they’d let the world burn rather than compromise their moral purity.

The reader who agonizes over the choice at 3am without finding a clear answer? They’ve demonstrated they understand the actual weight of command—and the reality that sometimes there are no good choices, only choices you can live with and choices you can’t.

But what makes this ruthless rather than neutral is that the protagonist doesn’t pretend his choice is actually good. He doesn’t justify it. He doesn’t claim it becomes morally acceptable because the stakes are high. He calls it what it is—murder, evil—and does it anyway because the alternative is worse.

Any reader who argues the choice wasn’t evil, who tries to rationalize it into moral acceptability, has revealed they need their heroes sanitized. They can’t process a protagonist who makes genuinely wrong choices for defensible reasons and lives with what that makes him.

The inkblot isn’t neutral. It’s shaped like a trolley problem with no good track. How you respond tells me what you actually believe about agency, autonomy, and the limits of utilitarian ethics when confronted with impossible stakes.

Means and ends are a dark path, and once you go down it, you become lost in the very evils you’ve rationalized.

Sarai, Godsbane

In Godsbane, Oqal-Nine, an agent of the Dominion, shows Avigayela horrific visions of what revolution will cost. Galactic civil war. Children burning. Nanoplagues decimating billions. Mass crucifixions. Worlds reduced to slag.

“Can you comprehend the chaos that would erupt in the vacuum left by His absence should The Name be deposed? It would be a galactic civil war on a scale never seen before, far worse than the War of the Princes.”

Avigayela’s response comes from the gut: “Our people are slaves. Better to die fighting for freedom than live in chains.”

“Is it? I ask you honestly. And what freedom is there for an emancipated people in a shattered empire? The freedom to watch their children starve? The freedom to live under the boots of oppressive warlords?”

Then he offers the alternative. The Name extends his hand, inviting our heroine, Sarai, to join his side as a Celestial Mother. “With her speaking mercy into his ear, our people can be freed. Their bondage can end. With her daughter on the Divine Council, our people will have a voice in the Dominion. Sarai’s destiny is not to lead a revolution of violence, but rather one of patience and enlightened guidance.”

This is the most vicious test in the series, because Oqal isn’t wrong about the costs. Revolution will be horrifically bloody. Peaceful reform through proximity to power could theoretically work. He’s not presenting a straw man argument—he’s offering the hardest possible version of the opposing position.

How readers respond tells you everything.

The reader who thinks “well, maybe she should consider his offer for the sake of avoiding bloodshed” has just revealed they’ll rationalize women’s bodies as negotiable political assets. They’ve told you their instinct is to blame the enslaved woman for not being more accommodating to her enslaver. They’ve demonstrated they value order over justice, that they’ll accept oppression as long as it’s dressed in the language of pragmatism.

The reader who thinks “obviously refuse, revolution is the only answer” might seem to have the right response, but watch what happens next. Because Sarai does refuse. She tells Avigayela: “He was planting seeds of doubt—and they’ve taken root. Right now you’re thinking that even if peaceful reform’s no longer possible, maintaining the status quo is better than the alternative of revolution and the horrors he showed you. I can taste the conflict in your mind.”

Avigayela protests: “I would never betray you. How can you accuse me of that after everything I’ve sacrificed for you?”

“I’m not accusing you,” Sarai says softly. “But you are filled with doubts. Best to acknowledge the conflict you’re feeling. Best to embrace it. If we ignore your doubts, they’ll continue to grow, like cancer. They’ll consume you.”

The reader who wanted a simple “revolution good, compromise bad” answer just got told that’s not how humans actually work. Doubt isn’t betrayal. Moral conflict isn’t weakness. The person who hears Oqal’s arguments and doesn’t feel any pull toward avoiding catastrophic bloodshed might be the one who shouldn’t be trusted with power, because they’ve lost their capacity to weigh costs.

Sarai herself admits: “That’s one path, absolutely. But it’s not the path I intend to take. I won’t become a devil to win this war. I’ll have to make sacrifices, but I refuse to accomplish good with evil.”

Avigayela frowns. “Purity of intentions won’t win this war.”

“I’m not naïve, Avvi. I know I’ll have to compromise some ideals. But I’m committed to not becoming who we’re fighting. That I can promise you.”

The reader who wanted their protagonist to maintain perfect moral purity just got told that’s impossible. The reader who wanted their protagonist to embrace “by any means necessary” just got told that’s a betrayal of everything they’re fighting for. The reader who can hold the tension between those two positions—understanding you’ll have to compromise and refusing to become the thing you’re fighting—has demonstrated they understand what resistance actually costs.

I fear I face an impossible choice.

Sarai, Godsbane

Later in Godsbane, Sarai’s daughter is kidnapped by a death cult. At the same time, a crucial operation is about to launch—one that might only succeed once, with perfect timing. Dariush, one of her advisors, presents the situation.

“You face a choice, and it isn’t mine to make for you.”

“A choice…” Sarai understands immediately. “To call off Operation Silent Veil and go after my daughter.”

“The Revered One would of course be sacrificing the men and women of her regiment. And we may not have another opportunity like this again. Everything fell into place for the operation far too perfectly for it to be a coincidence. It’s an act of Kušma. It is written.”

He continues: “And it is also written that the True Heir will ascend to the throne and restore the dynasty. What is not written is the path she’ll take to get there.”

“You’re advising that I abandon my daughter and proceed with Operation Silent Veil.”

“The full resources of the Firqa Nâzhûrânî will be deployed to recover the True Heir. Our purpose is to see that she becomes queen and restores the dynasty.”

Any reader who has a quick, confident answer to this dilemma has revealed they don’t actually understand the weight of either choice.

The reader who says “obviously save your daughter, she’s your child” has revealed they’d sacrifice the movement for personal attachment. Which is deeply human and completely understandable—but it means billions of other mothers lose their children to maintain the empire. It means the revolution fails and slavery continues for generations. It means choosing the life you can see and touch over the lives rendered abstract by distance.

The reader who says “obviously continue the mission, she’s the revolution’s daughter too” has revealed they’re willing to sacrifice a child for abstract principles. Which is strategically sound and politically necessary—but it’s also morally monstrous. It means becoming exactly the kind of leader who calculates human lives as acceptable losses. It means valuing the cause over the people the cause is supposed to save.

The reader who says “there must be another way” has revealed they need their fiction to provide escape hatches that reality doesn’t offer. They want the protagonist to be clever enough or powerful enough to avoid the choice entirely. They need the story to save them from confronting what they’d actually do.

The reader who recognizes both choices are legitimate and neither is acceptable? They’ve demonstrated they understand what revolution actually costs. They’ve shown they can sit with moral horror without needing it resolved into comfortable certainty.

I’m not going to tell you what Sarai chooses. That would defeat the purpose. The point isn’t the answer—the point is how you respond to being forced to consider the question.

I’ve already said I’m not the hero you’re looking for.

Bennett, Born in Battle

Every example I’ve given follows the same structure:

Present an impossible choice with real moral weight on both sides. Remove easy outs—no magical solutions, no cavalry coming, no loopholes. Force characters to act, because inaction is also a choice with consequences. Make them live with those consequences without narrative absolution.

Then watch readers reveal themselves through their reactions.

Your response tells me what you sacrifice when forced to choose. It tells me which evil you accept when no good options exist. It tells me what breaks first when principles collide with survival, with love, with duty.

Because it’s easy to say you’d never compromise your principles when you’re comfortable. My books remove the comfort and ask: now what?

Most fiction signals the “correct” answer. The protagonist makes the hard choice and the narrative rewards them for it, or they refuse to compromise and circumstances shift to validate their principles. The story does the moral work for you. You get to feel righteous without actually having to choose.

I refuse that comfort.

My books present genuinely hard choices where both options have legitimate moral weight and real costs. I give the strongest possible version of opposing arguments. I make sure there are no escape hatches, no clever solutions that let you avoid the real dilemma. Then I force you to sit with your response and consider what it reveals about you.

To win this war, we all must become devils.

Lušana, Godsbane

Lloyd Alexander did this same thing with his Westmark trilogy, though he could fly under the radar in a different era. His books about revolution, political violence, and the moral costs of resistance were published as young adult fiction and largely ignored by adult critics who dismissed them as adventure stories. But readers who actually engaged with the text found themselves interrogating their own beliefs about justified violence, political change, and whether civilizations can be redeemed or must be torn down.

The mystical author fantasy is really the fantasy of avoiding accountability. Write about big ideas without defending them. Explore moral complexity without taking a stance. Benefit from political resonance while claiming you were “just telling a story.”

That’s not craft. That’s hiding.

I’m explicit about my moral architecture not despite wanting to interrogate readers but because of it. The interrogation only works if you can’t pretend you didn’t understand the question. When you finish my books feeling uncomfortable, when you find yourself arguing with the choices characters made, when you wake up at 3 AM still wrestling with whether the protagonist did the right thing—that’s not a bug. That’s the whole point.

The “mystical author” this person wanted gets to maintain plausible deniability. They can write about fascism and oppression and revolution without having to examine whether they’d actually oppose the first, resist the second, or support the third. They wanted the luxury of consuming carefully constructed moral arguments while pretending they’re just decoration.

My books don’t allow that luxury.

The readers who hate that are often the ones most threatened by it. Because they came looking for comfortable fantasy where their hierarchies get validated and their prejudices go unchallenged. They wanted space opera that uses galactic empires as set dressing without examining what empire actually means. They wanted chosen one narratives without interrogating whether anyone should have that much power. They wanted “good guys” who stay pure while wielding authority, because that fantasy lets them avoid confronting how power actually works.

The readers who engage honestly with the moral architecture, who sit with the discomfort and interrogate their own responses, who recognize they’re being tested and lean into it—those are my readers. Those are the people I’m writing for. Not because they agree with every position I take, but because they’re willing to actually grapple with the questions rather than demanding easy answers.

Fiction that interrogates you isn’t “mystical.” It’s honest. It’s demanding. It requires both writer and reader to do the hard work of moral reasoning without the safety net of ambiguity.

The inkblot has teeth. And when it bites, you learn something about yourself you might not have wanted to know.

That’s not mysticism. That’s craft.