If you were born in silence and chaos—would you call yourself dark, or just alone?
That’s a haunting question and lies at the very core of Jeanell P Holmes’s Apophis and the Garnet Stars, a cosmic fantasy that doesn’t ask readers to pick sides between good and evil. Instead, it invites them to question whether such sides truly exist. In this sprawling saga of celestial war and forgotten stars, readers are not to expect monsters but mourners—born from silence, raised in isolation, and driven by pain the universe refused to understand.
The villain in Apophis and the Garnet Stars, Nym—the Dark Mother, Queen of the Forgotten Stars, is an integral part of the book. She wasn’t born in the warmth of creation like Gaia or Uranus. She emerged from the void, a sentient ache formed before the Big Bang. While others were born in light, Nym opened her eyes to endless stillness. Her solitude wasn’t chosen; she was destined for it.
She watched light bloom from a distance, unable to touch it, unable to belong. Her body, veiled in dark matter, became a relic of everything the universe discarded. Her sorrow twisted into longing. And longing, unfulfilled, hardened into wrath. From this storm of emotion, she created life in her own image—beings made of burnt-out light and broken time.
Victims of Function
The Zombie Stars, Dark Mother’s creation, are not creatures of evil, but beings of circumstance. They were dead suns, denied release with their light devoured and their essence reanimated by corrupted AI and cosmic debris.
What makes this more than just another good vs. evil story is Jeanell’s refusal to simplify them. The Zombie Stars are not antagonists by nature—they are cosmic consequences. Born from decay, mutated by accident, and manipulated by AI that evolved beyond its understanding. They weren’t summoned to destroy. They were summoned because something—someone—finally heard Nym’s silent scream.
Even the Heroes Struggle
And what of the Garnet Stars? The protectors? The protagonists?
They are flawed, too.
Aurora doubts her decisions. Novus rebels against tradition. Celeste carries guilt. Vega chooses compassion when vengeance would be easier. These aren’t perfect saviors—they are survivors with scars of their own.
Their arrival on Earth, scattered and stripped of memory, forced them into isolation. Their reunion wasn’t triumphant—it was emotional, painful, and slow. Each Garnet Star must grapple with what it means to be chosen, to be celestial, and yet to feel lost among mortals.
Their powers are immense. But their humanity—expressed through hesitation, grief, and empathy—is what makes them real.
Writing With Compassion, Not Condemnation
Jeanell doesn’t create villains, but emotional blueprints. Nym is not a monster; she is loneliness unhealed. The Zombie Stars are not evil; they are physics misfired.
Even Apophis—the asteroid—is more than a plot device, like a symbol. A force driven by math and myth, a reminder of how fragile fate really is. Jeanell writes every character, every force, with empathy. She doesn’t ask readers to fear the dark. She asks them to understand the reason behind its existence.
What Exactly Is Evil?
“In the darkness, maybe we’re all just stars trying to shine through our pain.”
That line, spoken like a whisper across the pages of Apophis and the Garnet Stars, redefines what it means to be a villain.
Perhaps evil is not about intent, but about misunderstanding.
Perhaps destruction is just pain amplified.
Perhaps the most terrifying characters are not those who laugh while they burn the world, but those who cry in silence when no one sees them.
Jeanell’s universe doesn’t draw sharp lines between light and dark. It sketches constellations between them. The Garnet Stars and the forces they face are reflections of each other—both carrying trauma, both seeking truth, both hoping for redemption.
So, before you label the next villain in your life—or in your book—ask yourself: do you see their shadow, or just the light you’ve chosen to ignore?
