When Threats Replace Reason: Fallacies in the Fantastical World of Ethalia
7 May 2026
Before you read:
The following excerpts come from my fantasy book series: The Ethalian Verse. Book one, Prophecy of Shadows, is currently available on Amazon. These never-before-seen passages explore moments where force falls under the guise of reason—an example of the appeal to force fallacy. To understand the ensuing anthology, one must submerge themselves into the tempestuous seas of Ethalia. The world is war-torn by a tyrant who believes the citizens of Ethalia should not be shackled by the will of the Gods—the Drákons. Kazon, once a revered dragonrider, has fallen prey to darkness and finds himself in an intense rebellion against divine rule. Using untamed ire and corrupt Shadow magic, Kazon casts the remaining dragonriders into a death-like sleep, destabilizing the realm for a millennium. The only one who can restore balance to the world is the prophesied one, appointed by the Drákons and is said to possess an ancient magic. Each excerpt highlights how characters use threats—physical, social, emotional, and political—to pressure others into compliance rather than offering genuine reasoning.
Defining appeal to force fallacy:
This fallacy uses threats and force, or intimidating tactics, to stand as the victor of an argument which hinders the other side from offering its case altogether. Appeal to force is about dictatorial compliance rather than proving a point with facts and logic.
Example 1 — The Shadow Lord, Kazon & The Commander of Drakharis, Dorian
The commander of Drakharis—Ethalia’s safest and most guarded city—was bound in tendrils of Shadow. His knees bit into the scorched earth, tearing through his leathers and scraping against his golden skin. Smoke and debris caught in his throat as he coughed violently. Blood spewed past his lips and dripped from his chin, falling to the parched, barren clover field. His fists clenched, nails sinking into his palms. Although the pain was searing, it was nothing compared to the treacherous sight before him. The shelter, up in flames and consumed by a dark cloud, his mother and sister trapped inside.
Dorian could hear their muted screams as tears slipped from his eyes—leaving wet streaks down his bloodied cheeks. His muscles flexed as he fought against the ropes of Shadow. The effort was futile and soon, he was choking on that hellish, opaque mist.
And the Lord of Shadow stood above him with ferocity etched into the lines of his countenance.
Kazon tsked.
“It’s a shame, really. You had the power to prevent this, Dorian. Their lives could’ve been spared had you just opened your eyes to the darkness of divine… power.”
The word fell past his lips as though it were toxic and poison.
“Where are your precious Drákons now? Or are They not as omnipotent as you thought? They do not care for you, for me, or for your precious family. No… They sit idly by and watch. It is not Them who should rule, but us. We have sovereignty and your choice to relinquish such command has only maimed you, and your mother, your sister…”
Dorian couldn’t speak, even if he wanted to. Hot tears spilled from his eyes as his heart slammed against his chest—like a caged bird demanding release. He stopped moving, restrained by such cursed tendrils. It was as though he were caught in the center of a maelstrom, forced to watch the world he swore to protect die out. Every last home, torn to shreds by the howling gale. Every last flower, torn from its roots in the decaying earth. Every last Drakharian, faded into dust as the echo of their screams filtered through Dorian’s pointed ears.
He retched as Shadow slipped past his lips, down his throat and burrowed into every corner of his body from the inside. Consciousness ebbed and flowed, until Dorian felt no longer like himself, but something new, something different. Alive and also dying. Stagnant. Shadow had not only torn his family from him, but had also transformed him into a thing that lingered on the land he once called home.
And when the darkness withered, it no longer resembled home. The land was barren, wasted, empty. Solitary. The only remnants were from broken homes and disemboweled bodies—those left on the precipice of life were moaning and crying. The shelter sat before Dorian, burned to the ground, shutters hung by a thread on their hinges. And, beneath the rumble, a pale hand protruded—covered in blood, dirt, and grime.
Dorian’s eyes glowed a radiant yellow—not their usual sapphire hue. Defeat coursed through him, like the lingering flood after a hurricane.
Kazon’s voice was lethal as it broke through the stillness. “Should you try to leave this land, you will find a barrier that spans the perimeter. You are to stay on this decaying isle and watch the ramifications of your choices.”
And then, Dorian was alone… and the egregious scream that tore from his throat shattered the last shards of glass littered about the earth.
Analysis/Explanation
→ This scene, from the prequel to my series, demonstrates the appeal to force fallacy through explicit coercion and violence. Kazon uses harm as a means of justifying obedience, attempting to pressure Dorian—once a close friend—into joining his rebellion against divine rule. When Dorian refuses, Kazon responds by bringing a violent demise to his loved ones, specifically his mother and sister. The line, “Their lives could’ve been spared…” reinforces the coercive nature of Kazon’s argument: had Dorian sided with him, his family would still be alive. Rather than supporting his ideology with evidence or logical reasoning, Kazon relies on fear, punishment, and suffering to force compliance. This makes the scene a clear and textbook example of the appeal to force fallacy.
Example 2 — Erebus, the Harbinger & Her Highness, Princess Cassandra
Candlelight danced across the walls in delicate shapes, like ghosts with nowhere left to go. Auburn waves spilled down her back as she knelt before the stone, a palette of soft pastels and vivid hues cradled beside her. A hum caught in her throat—half memory, half melody—as her brush moved in gentle strokes, tracing over hairline cracks in the plaster. She didn’t know what had caused them. Only that they were there, and that they deserved to be made beautiful.
Her window was open, letting the cool midnight air slip into her chamber. Stars scattered the sky, and the moon cast a thin sliver of light across the carefully placed fitments.
“I don’t know who maimed you,” she whispered, her voice soft as breath, “but I will make sure they never get the chance again.”
A pale pink coated the brush’s bristles as she dragged it gently over a thin crack stretching from the base of the wall toward the window—like the mark of a claw, raked in passing, as if some unseen beast had slipped through the panes and vanished into the night. She sat back on her knees, gaze trailing over the tangled lines of color. In their disorder, she saw something beautiful. Something whole.
“Are you an artist?” Erebus’s voice cut through the air as he stood in Princess Cassandra’s doorway.
She had a habit of leaving it open—something her brother always pestered her about.
Despite the unbidden company, her lips curved into a gentle smile as she eyed the soft lines and webs.
“No,” she began, her words quiet and gentle. “I chase the sadness out of the walls. Sometimes with paint.”
“It’s marvelous,” he murmured, stepping into the room, something like desire, or perhaps curiosity, stirring within him. Her auburn hair, the tenderness in her voice… it was like a tether of silk, light but impossible to ignore. Not binding, not lasting—but enough to make him take another step closer.
“What is your name?” Cassandra finally turned, resting her paintbrush on the palette. Her light brown eyes, almost caramel, drifted to him, drinking in his towering silhouette.
He stepped further into the room, his pale features illuminated by the flickering candlelight. Cold gray eyes met hers as his chest rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm.
“Whatever you’d like it to be,” he said, lips curling into a beguiling smile.
Cassandra furrowed her brow as she rose to her feet. Paint stains spattered her golden robe like fallen petals.
“Who are you?” she asked again—no longer light, but commanding. A question laced with royal steel.
“Whomever you’d like me to be,” Erebus replied. His voice was deep, gravelly. Behind his back, black mist coiled around his fingers as a white rose took form from Shadow. When he brought it forward, the mist dissipated, leaving only the flower between them.
Cassandra blinked slowly, her gaze falling to the rose cradled in his large hand.
“You are a strange man, sir,” she murmured, her edge softening. She reached out, careful not to prick her fingers on the thorns—though something in his gaze told her he would never let her bleed.
“And you are beautiful, my dove.”
He extended a hand, gently taking hers, and raised it to his lips. The kiss he pressed there was as cold as dusk.
“Though I offer you more than a flower,” he said, his voice like silk wrapped around a serrated dagger. His eyes lifted to hers, a smile blooming—equal parts warmth and winter. “I give you the gift of foresight.”
As he spoke, a shadowy cloud spilled from his lips, falling onto her hand. It clung to her skin, coiling and growing until it wrapped around her entirely—then vanished without a trace.
Cassandra inhaled softly, eyes widening. Erebus loomed above her, his gaze locked with hers—unyielding, inescapable.
Her breath caught in her throat, not from fear—but from something far more treacherous.
“What did you do to me?” she asked, though her voice held no protest, only wonder.
Erebus didn’t answer at first. He stepped closer until the space between them ceased to exist.
“I opened your eyes,” he murmured, his fingers reaching for a loose strand of her auburn hair, twirling it once around his finger. “And perhaps, if you let me, I’ll open the rest of you, too.”
His hand hovered at her waist—close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her silk robe, but not quite touching her yet.
“You’ve always sensed the cracks beneath the paint. You feel what others don’t. Tell me, Princess.” His voice dropped, heavy with desire. “What do you feel now?”
She swallowed hard, her heart thundering in her chest as the rose trembled delicately between her fingers.
“I do not know,” she whispered.
“Then let me show you.”
His shadow curled around her, rising like smoke—embracing, consuming. Erebus’s hand glided up her arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. His fingertips hovered at her collarbone, grazing her skin with reverent precision—as though she’d been shaped from marble and myth—something ancient, something only his hands were meant to claim.
Her lips parted, breath shallow, as he cradled her nape and tilted her face toward his. Their eyes locked—drinking each other in, as though trying to memorize what might not last.
He bent to the hollow of her neck, and pressed his lips to her skin—cold, intoxicating, impossibly soft. He breathed her in like something sacred, something forbidden.
For once, she wasn’t seen as fragile—but as something to be worshipped and desired. She savored the sensation, her breath soft as she tilted her head back, offering him more access.
Nobody had ever given her this sort of attention before—it was new, disconcerting… intoxicating. And for a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine what it might be like to fall into that darkness—to be wanted so completely, so intimately.
But something stirred beneath the surface. A tremor. A whisper in her bones.
This was not amour.
This was malevolent possession.
“I cannot,” she breathed, though her voice betrayed her reluctance. Cassandra stepped back, as if the motion required more effort than she wished to admit. Her breath hitched as space returned between them—narrow still, but enough to regulate her thundering heart.
Her eyes searched his face, the cool gray of his stare, trying to read what lurked beneath. She wasn’t sure if she saw longing, calculation, or something darker and more wanton—an uncontrolled hunger.
“Are you frightened, Princess?” Erebus whispered, his words dripping from his tongue like a sweet, molten toxin.
Cassandra’s bottom lip trembled as she flicked her amber gaze to his gray one. Shadows kissed the sharp lines of his face as the candlelight danced across the folds of his black cloak.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Cassandra never lied.
“Do not fear me,” Erebus murmured, his voice now steeped in something clandestine. He dipped his head into the crook of her neck, breathing in the overwhelming sweetness of her. His lips grazed her ear—just barely—as gooseflesh rose across her skin.
“Your fear,” he rasped, fingers trailing up her stomach, stopping at the center of her chest as though warring with some deeper restraint, “should be saved for those who will not believe your prophecies.”
His voice darkened to a whisper of thunder.
“Should you cry for help, they will not hear a princess… they will only hear madness.”
With a flick of his wrist, a dark cloud of Shadow surged forward, slithering across Cassandra’s chest. It moved like smoke—but had weight, hunger—burrowing into her skin with the desperate clutch of a starved leech.
She drew a sharp breath, her spine arching as the Shadow pierced her—cold needles threading into the very marrow of her bones.
Then—
Nothing. The pain ebbed into silence, replaced by a chilling numbness.
Her eyelids fluttered as she blinked through the haze, the candlelight swimming and warping around her like watercolors bled in rain.
She swayed slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Madness…?”
Erebus said nothing at first. He only watched her, his expression unreadable—the faintest smile ghosting across his lips, like a secret too dangerous to name.
Then, slowly, he lifted a hand and cradled her cheek with disarming gentleness. His pale fingers brushed aside the auburn strands framing her face.
“You will be my little dove,” he murmured, voice low and glacial, a winter wind cloaked in silk. His thumb traced her jaw—possessive, reverent. “Not for flight. Not for song.” He leaned closer, his breath cool against her lips. “But for the stillness I will take from you, as you become my plaything, yielding to every whim.”
Cassandra’s eyes remained locked with his, the weight of his words pressing against her. Her lips, full and slightly parted, quivered ever so faintly—a flicker of hesitation that couldn’t quite conceal the spark of defiance in her gaze. Her countenance was a careful mask: cool, unreadable, yet beneath it, a tremor of something darker stirred—an unwilling surrender tightening like a noose around her heart.
Analysis/Explanation
→ This scene presents a quieter, but still psychologically intense, version of the appeal to force fallacy. Erebus, one of Kazon’s council members, attempts to seduce and psychologically dominate Princess Cassandra through intimidation and coercion. Rather than persuading her through logic or evidence, he threatens social invalidation, isolation, and the loss of credibility should she resist him. The line, “Should you cry for help, they will not hear a princess… they will only hear madness,” demonstrates Erebus using fear as leverage, implying that without him, Cassandra will be dismissed and abandoned. This example shows that the appeal to force fallacy is not always physical or overtly violent—it can also function through psychological, emotional, and epistemic coercion. Erebus pressures Cassandra into submission not through genuine reasoning, but through fear and the removal of safety, autonomy, and trust.
Example 3 — The Shadow Lord & His Order
The prophesied one, Nyra Blackwood, stood with her silver tresses cascading down her back in tangled waves. Her eyes, once a perfect emerald green, were now void of all light. Her posture was poised, yet lethargic—not entirely in her own body. No, her light—her soul—swam in a torrent of Shadow. Drowning in her very own skin. Once the symbol of hope, now the embodiment of subservience.
Kazon stood towering over her as his lanky fingers raked through her hair, stroking her as if she were more pet than person. The floor boards creaked beneath him with each shift in his stance, filling the uncomfortable stillness. Because he could use her however he pleased, Kazon cupped Nyra’s round cheek—his fingertips were as cold as death. And though she wanted to, she couldn’t shiver.
“Your first assignment will be completed in three weeks’ time,” he whispered, his breath fanning against her ear as he dipped his chin low. “Travel with Erebus to the mainland and deliver the king’s demise.”
Nyra’s chest rose and fell at a deliberate rhythm. One that should’ve seemed natural and of her own volition, but was not. She could not fight this order—no matter how sharp each jab came from the pit of her stomach, her soul clawing and fighting to breach the surface of Shadow. With each mental effort, she was submerged further into the deepest confines of her being.
So, without the ability to revolt, she nodded. “Yes.”
Analysis/Explanation
→ This scene presents the most extreme version of the appeal to force fallacy, as Nyra exists entirely under Kazon’s control. Her autonomy has been stripped away, leaving only forced compliance and obedience without choice. Rather than offering reasoning or justification for his command, Kazon relies on domination and coercive power to ensure Nyra’s submission. In this way, the fallacy functions as a warning: when too much control falls into the hands of a singular figure, individual will and rational discourse begin to vanish. The dynamic between Nyra and Kazon also reveals an important nuance within the appeal to force fallacy—at its most severe, it is no longer merely persuasion through threats, but duress replacing reason altogether.
Why is the Appeal to Force Fallacy Subpar?
→ The appeal to force fallacy is dangerous because it replaces rational discourse with force, violence, threats, and intimidation. Rather than supporting a position through evidence or logic, it pressures others into compliance through fear and coercion. Although my examples are fantastically fictional, they still elicit an important message: when force becomes the primary method of persuasion, it often leads to the downfall of individuals, societies, and entire nations. The issue is not necessarily whether a claim is true, but how that claim is supported. While some readers may agree with Kazon’s disdain for divine rule, the methods he uses to enforce his beliefs are deeply immoral and destructive, stripping others of their autonomy and ability to reason freely.