Poseidon’s Daughters: Reckoning by Reign Reeves Pearson #SciFi #Thriller

“So I Almost Died, and Then I Wrote a Book”

Every story has a beginning. Mine started in a hospital room, buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, machines softly beeping to my left, and this sort of quiet that shuts in on you when everything you know has been stripped away from you. I was surrounded by uncertainty, fear, and the question that slowly surfaced in the aftermath: What now? That question didn’t just echo in the quiet moments, it consumed them. I was alone, struggling, and full of questions, but that was the one I kept circling back to.

I was being thrust headlong into an existential crisis, the depth of which I couldn’t fully comprehend at the time. My body had betrayed me, or at least that’s how it felt. Everything I thought I knew about my life, my health, my plans, my identity, was suddenly up for negotiation. There was grief. There was fear. But there was also this strange, quiet sense that something was waiting for me on the other side of it all…I just didn’t know what. That moment, as terrifying and disorienting as it was, became the seed of something I never expected: a story. A vision. And eventually, a book.

In 2019, I made a difficult but necessary decision—I finally conceded to have a hysterectomy. It had been a long time coming, a choice I'd wrestled with for years. When I finally agreed to the surgery, I was told it would be “the best decision I’d ever make.” My surgeon said those exact words. I clung to them, hopeful, desperate for relief, for normalcy.

But less than two weeks later, just eleven days after being discharged, I was back in the hospital. This time, it was a crisis that threatened my life: bilateral pulmonary embolisms and a pulmonary infarction. Blood clots had traveled to both lungs, and part of my lung tissue had died. What was initially a step down the path of healing proved to be one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.

I still remember the moment I left the house to go to the emergency room. I couldn’t bring myself to look back. I was terrified—not just of the pain, not just of what was happening to my body, but of the possibility that I might not return. I didn’t want to see my home for the last time under those circumstances. That fear is hard to describe unless you’ve lived it: the sense that your body has turned on you, that every breath is a gamble, and that the future you planned for might not be waiting on the other side of the next test result.

Physically, I was shattered. Emotionally, I was unraveling. Spiritually…I was raw. Confronted with my own mortality in a way I had never been before. Everything I thought I understood about my life, my identity, even my purpose, it all fractured under the weight of that crisis.

The vision that inspired Poseidon’s Daughters didn’t come with thunder or fanfare. It came quietly, like a whisper in the back of my mind, while I was still lying in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, lungs fighting to work, body recovering from the trauma it had just endured. I didn’t realize it was a vision at first. It felt more like an image. A flicker of something that wasn’t fear. Something that felt… important.

In those long hours where the world outside my hospital room seemed impossibly far away, I found myself drifting—not into sleep, but into scenes, characters, a world I didn’t recognize but somehow knew. I started to see them more clearly: their faces, their struggles, the way their pain mirrored mine in ways I couldn’t explain. I didn’t fully understand it yet, but I felt it. A story was forming, and it was reaching for me just as much as I was reaching for it.

In the days and weeks that followed, after I was discharged to begin the long process of healing, that vision deepened. It grew more vivid, more insistent. It became my anchor—something solid to hold onto while everything else in my life seemed to be sliding away from me. The story took root in the dark, in the chaos, in the questioning. And instead of just being a distraction or a daydream, it began to feel like a map. A guide. A message from somewhere deep inside me that hadn’t given up, even when the rest of me wanted to.

It wasn’t just a story—it was survival. At first, I didn’t know what to do with it. I was still healing—physically weak, emotionally unsteady, spiritually raw. But the vision wouldn’t let me go. The characters kept showing up. The world they lived in grew more detailed by the day. It was like they had chosen me, not the other way around. And slowly, I realized: this wasn’t just something to keep me distracted during recovery. This was the beginning of something bigger.

Writing wasn’t easy. I was exhausted. Some days, all I could manage was a few scribbled lines in a notebook, or a quiet moment spent replaying scenes in my mind while I lay on the couch trying to breathe. But every sentence I wrote was an act of taking back my voice, my agency, and my life.

Bit by bit, the fragments of that vision came together in a story. One with themes that mirrored my own journey: loss, survival, transformation, the painful and messy work of becoming something new after your old self has been burned to the ground. There was no grand plan. I didn’t sit down with an outline or a polished pitch. I followed the thread because I had to. Because it was the only thing that made sense when nothing else did. Because in writing it, I was also writing myself back into existence.

It became more than healing. It became purpose. This story matters because it was born out of the worst moment of my life—and it helped me survive it. It came to me when I had nothing left but questions, when my body felt broken and my future uncertain. It reminded me that even in the darkest, most disorienting times, something meaningful can take root. Something beautiful. Something worth following. It matters because it’s more than fiction. It’s a reflection of the raw, painful, and miraculous process of becoming—of choosing to stay, to hope, to create. My characters carry pieces of my grief and my strength. Their journey is not mine exactly, but it’s shaped by everything I felt and everything I feared in those weeks after the hospital. 

And it matters because I know I’m not the only one who’s ever asked What now? Because someone out there might be lying in their own hospital bed, or sitting with their own fear, and they deserve to know that even then, especially then, stories can save us.

This book isn’t just a product of imagination. It’s a monument to survival. A love letter to the part of me that didn't disappear when everything else fell apart. Writing it helped me reclaim my self, rebuild my soul, and rediscover my purpose again, not just as a writer, but as a human being in general. Every word on the page is a step closer, a breath regained, a truth spoken aloud after too long in silence.

So, sure, every story has a beginning. And mine? It began in a hospital bed—around a question, a vision, and the silent, stubborn determination to keep going.

Poseidon’s Daughters: Reckoning

Poseidon’s Daughters

Book 1

Reign Reeves Pearson

Genre: Sci-Fi, Thriller

Date of Publication: March 21, 2025

ISBN: B0DZNZ6QPC

ASIN: B0DZCKJBGX

Number of pages: 262

Word Count: 62,400

Cover Artist: Reign Reeves Pearson

Tagline: They wanted a ghost, she’ll give them a reckoning

Book Description: 

They trained her to be a weapon. Now, she’s turning the blade on them.

Eirianwen was Poseidon’s crowning achievement—until she walked away from everything. She’s evaded them for years, carving out a life in the shadows, leaving behind the bloodstained world they forced her into. Now, the past she’s been running from has finally caught up. A storm-wracked night. A breach in her sanctuary. Someone is watching. Someone is waiting. And this time, they don’t just want her dead—they want her to doubt herself. They want the world to believe she’s lost her mind.

They’ve been watching her. Manipulating her. Preparing for her downfall.

Now, the elite organization that built her is coming to collect. Not to kill—to control. They don’t need to break her. They just need to make sure no one believes her when she starts screaming.They want her to understand that her escape, her freedom, was all an illusion.

Erased. Discredited. Untouchable.

But Eirianwen has spent her whole life surviving. And when the walls start closing in, she doesn’t run. She hunts.

Poseidon wants her desperate. Unraveling. Helpless.

They’re about to learn just how dangerous she can be.

Amazon

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/hpJsOfvRKxI

Excerpt 

Eirianwen ripped out the earpiece and slammed it onto the desk. Panic swirled at the edges of her mind, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. She grabbed a larger bag from under the desk, slung it over her shoulder, and stormed out. In the closet, she set the bag aside, pressing a hidden panel on the side of her bed. A drawer slid open, revealing her arsenal. Her hands shook as she armed herself, snapping a knife into its sheath and loading a handgun with quick, practiced movements. Now, to find them. Moving swiftly, she ran through the house, slipping out the back door and straight into the storm-charged air. Sullivan’s workshop. If she was going to do this right, she’d need a shovel. She yanked open the heavy wooden door, eyes darting over the mess inside.Where the fuck is it? Why is this place always such a goddamn disaster?

A glint of metal under the workbench caught her eye. She crouched, snatched up a spade, and bolted back outside. The rain had started in earnest, cold drops slicing through the thick humidity. She sprinted to where the trackers last pinged, her boots sinking slightly into the softening earth, almost tripping thanks to a low spot. Looking back at the spot, it was all wrong. She knew something was buried there.

Gripping the shovel tightly, she drove it into the ground. The soil gave easily...far too easily. The clay should have been a nightmare to dig through. Someone had already done the work for her. Within moments, her blade hit something solid, and dread curled in her stomach. She dropped to her knees, clawing at the loose earth with bare hands until the objects were free. Her breath hitched. Six trackers. All of them. Cold, useless, and buried like a mockery of her own paranoia. Eirianwen sat back on her heels, mud caking her fingers as she stared at the pile in her hands. Someone knew.

Her cheeks burned hot, but the rest of her body felt frozen. Tears welled, spilling silently down her face as the questions flooded in. Why? Why would Sullivan do this? Had he done this? He wouldn’t put the kids in danger—would he? Where were they? How long had he planned this? Her stomach twisted. Then, her phone buzzed—a single notification. Hands trembling,  she wiped her palms on her pants and yanked it from her pocket. Wi-Fi restored—a new alert. Someone had just crossed the perimeter.

“It better be Sullivan and the kids.”

Eirianwen exhaled sharply, swiping at the sweat and tears streaking her face. Standing, she brushed the dirt from her clothes as best she could, shoving the useless trackers deep into her pocket. She locked her phone and steadied herself. If the kids were with Sullivan, she needed to stay calm. Normal. They couldn’t see the weapons strapped under her clothing. At least the incoming storm gave her an excuse to rush them inside. She’d get them safe first—then she’d deal with Sullivan. She turned toward the tree line, heart pounding in her throat. The property was massive, and she had built the house at its farthest edge. Finally, headlights cut through the gloom. A vehicle emerged. Not Sullivan’s truck. A cold, electric jolt shot down her spine. Every instinct screamed at her.

No one came out here. No one. She had made sure of it. For years, she had meticulously crafted the illusion of a perfectly ordinary life. She knew everyone in town—just enough to avoid suspicion, but never enough to invite curiosity. A delicate balance of friendly but distant. She never gave anyone a reason to visit. She didn't even use their real address! She picked up all of their mail and deliveries in town. So who the hell thought they had the right to pull up to her house? The SUV slowed to a stop, tires crunching against the gravel. The doors swung open in near unison, and two men stepped out. Sheriff Ford. Deputy Pines. Ford adjusted his jacket, his gaze steady, unreadable. Pines lingered a step behind, eyes sharp, scanning. Ford closed the gap between them, and gave Eirianwen a curt nod.

 

About the Author:

Reign Reeves Pearson is a writer, storyteller, and chaos enthusiast based in Houston, where she lives with her husband, four kids, and three cats who may or may not be plotting world domination. She thrives on Kopiko, rainy days, and an endless love for Final Fantasy VII and Dungeons & Dragons.

 

She’s been writing for as long as she can remember. But in 2019, a health scare forced her to take a hard look at her life, and the answer was clear: writing wasn’t just something she did. It was what she was meant to do.

 

Her debut novel and series, Poseidon’s Daughters: Reckoning, is her first and only planned adventure into sci-fi. Going forward, expect Southern Gothic chills, cosmic nightmares, and nostalgic ‘90s horror—all infused with her signature mix of heart, humor, and a touch of the macabre.

 

When she’s not writing, she’s probably dreaming up elaborate D&D campaigns, getting emotionally wrecked by Final Fantasy VII (again), or staring dramatically out a window while it rains.

 

Follow her chaotic creative journey at:

 

https://reignvox.com/

 

https://x.com/notorious_rrp

 

https://www.twitch.tv/ReignVox

 

https://www.youtube.com/@notorious_rrp

 

https://www.instagram.com/notorious_rrp/

 

https://www.instagram.com/reignreevespearson/

 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/48135392.Reign_Reeves_Pearson

 

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Reign-Reeves-Pearson/author/B0DZDDF88T