Features
The models are the commodity — you can use any of them, and they get better every month without us doing anything. What matters is what sits around them.
01 / 17
Prompt, stream, revise, accept. The loop is deliberately small, because a novel is not written in one shot — it is written a scene at a time, with a judgement call after each one.
Drafts stay drafts until you accept them. Revise in plain language as many times as you want, or open the text and rewrite a line yourself. Nothing is locked and nothing is thrown away without you asking.
02 / 17
Accept a chapter and a small model reads it back, then proposes three ways the next one could go: one that follows through on what you just set up, one that complicates it — same direction, harder road — and one that swerves. Left to right is how hard you are turning the wheel.
Each is a movement rather than a moment: what it opens, how it turns, where it lands. A swerve still has to be seeded in something you have already written, because a surprise nobody set up is just a different book starting.
Nothing is written until you pick one, and picking one only fills the box — you edit it before anything runs. The empty box is the hardest part of a serial, and this is the smallest possible answer to it.
03 / 17
Every chapter is written with the previous ones in hand — the real text, not a paraphrase. Once that history outgrows a 60,000-token budget, the oldest chapters collapse into dense summaries written at the moment you accepted them, exactly the way a coding agent compacts a long session.
The full text never disappears. When the model is unsure who someone was or what was agreed in chapter four, it searches your earlier chapters mid-draft and reads the passage before continuing — and you can watch it happen.
04 / 17
Write what an arc is about — a few lines is enough — and it comes back sharpened and broken into beats, with every beat marked yours or added so you can see at a glance which of the thinking is actually yours. Then it plans the chapters, ten at a time, arriving one by one.
Each planned chapter is a real chapter's worth of material: what it opens on, what turns in the middle, where it lands. Not a topic — "Rennick investigates the ledger" is a label, and a label is exactly what hands you back the hard part of the job.
An arc owns a range of chapters, and the range is elastic. Start one behind you if you are already forty chapters in; run past the end and it says so rather than blocking you. The story will leave the plan behind — that is normal, and re-planning the rest is a button, not a rewrite.
05 / 17
Every time you accept a chapter, a small model reads it and files what it established: characters, factions, locations, items, weapons, creatures, techniques, concepts and events. Every fact carries the chapter it came from, so you can always see the working.
An index of it rides in every chapter prompt and the writer fetches the full entry only for the people and places actually in the scene. That distinction is the whole feature — pasting an entire bible into every prompt is how a bible starts costing more than the novel it is supposed to be helping.
You can edit any entry, and your edit is authoritative until a later chapter genuinely contradicts it. Turn it on late and it will read back through what you have written to catch up; stop it halfway and everything it has already worked out is kept.
06 / 17
Progression fiction lives or dies on its ladder. Write it ad hoc and chapter sixty quietly contradicts chapter five: a rank means one thing in an early fight and something else in a later one, and the reader stops believing the stakes long before they can say why.
So the ladder gets a home of its own. Ranks in order, weakest first, each carrying what it lets someone do — and, just as usefully, what it does not. How you climb from one rung to the next. How rare each level is. Which professions branch off it, which techniques and weapons grow with it, and how strong a given country typically is. The writing reads all of it as canon.
Build it rung by rung if the system is the reason you are writing the book. If it is not — if your story is really about the people and you just need the magic to behave — answer eight questions and let it design one for you, then change anything you disagree with. Both roads end in the same editor.
07 / 17
The story bible records who someone turned out to be. A character design records who you meant them to be: role and voice, what they want, what they actually need, what they are afraid of, and the lie they believe about themselves — plus the arc you want them to walk, in stages a chapter can act on.
Mark an arc as current and steer it, and that nudge goes into every chapter prompt. The writer is told to express all of it through action and subtext and never to state it, because a character who announces their own wound is not a character.
Later you can ask whether the story kept to any of it. The answer comes back as what you planned against what the story did, chapter by chapter, with two ways out: steer it back, or accept the drift and update the sheet. The story always outranks the design.
08 / 17
The places your chapters establish, drawn as a map. You can also simply say where things are — “the Empire spans the south, Border Town sits on its northern border” — or sketch it: blobs for realms and seas, a tap for each city, rough on purpose.
Solid lines are confirmed by your canon; dashed ones are the renderer's best guess, and they firm up as chapters say more. Drag a place and it pins exactly there for good; click one to rename it, or to open its bible entry. Anything you draw or dictate outranks anything read out of a chapter.
It is a picture of your story and never an input to it. A map that quietly steered the prose would have started writing the book, which is not what you asked it for.
09 / 17
Names here are built, not imagined: a generator assembles them from a sound you choose for your world — eight sound worlds, from Northern & Hard to Cloud-Sea — and checks every candidate against everything the novel has already named. A model steps in only to read your story and choose, returning each pick with an in-world etymology.
The chapter writer carries the same generator as a tool, so a border fort that turns up mid-scene gets a name that fits — for free, with no waiting, because it is ordinary code. And when you change your mind forty chapters in, rename everywhere changes a name across prose, bible, designs and the map in one previewed pass.
10 / 17
Style here means the prose register, not the genre: web novel, literary, cinematic, pulp, mythic, and dry comic. Genre belongs in your premise — a cultivation story can be told in plain serial prose or in an elevated mythic voice, and those are genuinely different books.
Each register is a set of concrete mechanics — sentence length, paragraph shape, how much interiority, how figurative — rather than adjectives about tone. Set once per novel and held for its whole length, so chapter 90 sounds like chapter 1.
11 / 17
Once your first chapter is accepted, publish the novel to Serials and hand anyone the link — no account needed to read, and it reads properly on a phone. Release each chapter the moment you accept it, or hold an arc back and publish it in one go; readers see chapters one to wherever you have published, and your drafts stay yours.
Readers leave comments chapter by chapter, you can remove any of them, mature stories carry a warning gate, and unpublishing takes the link dark the moment you press it.
12 / 17
Every serial wears a cover on the shelf. Describe the one you want, or let it compose a prompt from your title and first chapter; pick an art theme if you like, and generation runs on your own key for a couple of cents. When a cover deserves more, one switch moves it to a best-quality image model.
Prefer your own art? Upload it. Prefer neither? Every novel is born with a typographic cover in its own colours — a design, not a placeholder — so the shelf never shows a blank spine.
13 / 17
A brand-new account can write its first chapters on the free tier — a shared pool of free models, no key, no card, one click. Free models come and go with demand, so expect the occasional slow start, but the words cost nothing while you find out whether this is your tool.
When you want the full catalogue and steadier speed, connect your own key — everything you wrote comes with you, and you can switch between the two in Settings any time.
14 / 17
Over 400 models via one OpenRouter key, switchable mid-novel. When something better launches you get it the day it lands — no waiting for us to integrate anything.
Providers are pinned per model rather than load-balanced, which sounds like a detail and is worth real money: a scattered request loses its cache and pays full price for the whole novel again.
15 / 17
Chapters are appended, never rewritten, so the prompt for chapter 40 begins with exactly the bytes that chapter 39 sent. Providers can reuse that prefix at roughly a tenth of the price — which is the difference between a novel that gets more expensive every chapter and one that does not.
It is measured, not assumed: the app shows the live hit rate per novel, and the estimator models it honestly, including the models that quietly do not support it.
16 / 17
Three resizable panes — chapters, prose, context — that collapse when you want the page to yourself. Focus mode hides everything but the words. Two themes, plus separate reading settings for the prose column: serif or sans, size, line height, column width.
A command palette on ⌘K, keyboard shortcuts for the whole loop, and generations that keep running when you navigate away and tell you when they are done.
17 / 17
Export any novel in full whenever you like. Delete a chapter, a novel, or your entire account — and deletion means deletion. We do not train on your writing, and we impose no rules of our own about what your story is allowed to be.
Hidden novels sit behind a PIN, off your dashboard and out of exports until you unlock them.
Coming soon
This is a harness, and a harness is never finished. Here is what is being built, roughly in the order it is coming.
The same harness running on your own machine, the way Codex and Cursor do for code. Your novels stay in a folder you own, on a disk you control — nothing leaves the computer except the model call itself.
With the desktop app, storage becomes yours. Point it at a local model and a novel can be written end to end without a single word leaving the machine — the strongest privacy guarantee there is, because it does not depend on trusting us.
One-click publishing to WordPress, Ghost, Substack and a plain RSS/Markdown export, so finishing a chapter and putting it in front of readers is the same action.
Serials already publishes chapter by chapter; what is missing is the calendar — schedule chapters ahead, keep a backlog, and post on a cadence, the discipline that actually builds a web novel audience.
You can already ask whether a character has drifted from their design and get back where the story went its own way. What is missing is the unasked version — a pass over each new chapter against everything before it, flagging a changed eye colour or a broken world rule while it is still a draft, rather than forty chapters later.
Draft with something cheap, polish with something excellent, and pay the premium only where it shows. The harness knows which call is which.
Turn accepted chapters into narrated audio, because a large part of serial fiction is now listened to rather than read.
Serial fiction crosses languages constantly. Keep names, terminology and the prose register consistent across a whole translated novel rather than chapter by chapter.
Continuous evaluation of what is genuinely good for fiction at the low end. When a model an order of magnitude cheaper writes just as well, you should be the first to know.
More aggressive caching, smarter compaction, fewer wasted tokens per chapter. Every improvement here comes straight off your bill.
No dates promised — things ship when they are good rather than when they are announced.