This Savage Song: Summary & Key Insights

Verity was born of violence—literally. Every murder, every assault, every deliberate act of cruelty births a creature from the darkness. These creatures are called Corsai, Malchai, and Sunai, and they embody the weight of human sin. The Corsai crave flesh, the Malchai thirst for blood, and the Sunai—rarer, stranger—feed on the souls of the wicked through song. This idea was my way of externalizing moral consequence. In Verity, there is no escaping your actions; they leave behind physical echoes that demand to be reckoned with.

The city itself mirrors this dichotomy. North Verity is ruled by Callum Harker, a man who has weaponized fear and control. He has found a way to harness the monsters, turning chaos into commerce. The citizens pay him for protection, believing he alone can keep the horrors at bay—though it is he who commands them. South Verity, in contrast, stands under the governance of the Flynns, who fight for order through integrity and sacrifice. They do not control monsters; they battle them, often at great cost. Between these two forces lies a fragile truce, a brittle peace that depends on careful restraint.

For me, Verity was more than a setting—it was an allegory. The city is a living consequence of its people, shaped by their violence as much as their desperation. Every corner whispers of guilt, every shadow is alive with the memory of harm. Into this landscape, I wanted to place two characters who would challenge its logic, and perhaps, each other.

Kate Harker has grown up believing that power is safety and cruelty is control. Her father, Callum Harker, has built an empire on fear, and Kate, in her longing to be recognized by him, learns early that tenderness is weakness. She burns schools to the ground, assaults authority, and carves her mark into the world because she believes violence is the only way to be seen. When she returns to Verity, she’s not only coming home—she’s stepping into her father’s shadow to prove that she belongs there.

Yet beneath Kate’s hard exterior lies a different truth. Her rebellion isn’t born of malice but of need. She wants her father’s approval because he is all she’s ever had, the only constant in a fractured world. In writing Kate, I wanted to explore what happens when strength becomes armor and identity becomes a mask. Her greatest fear isn’t dying—it’s being powerless, invisible, or seen as human in a world that rewards monsters.

Kate’s story unfolds as she tries to assert herself within her father’s inner circle, proving that she can hold her own among men who trade in death. But she soon realizes that power built on fear exacts a price. When she encounters the monsters her father commands, and witnesses the cost of his control, she begins to question the morality of inheriting his world. Her strength, I wanted to show, was never in her ruthlessness—it was in her capacity to open her eyes to the truth, even when it broke her heart.