Coming Winter 2026
The
The
Unmoved
Some people are only monsters by the light of a torch.
Some people are only monsters by the light of a torch.
The orcs in The Unmoved don't just speak differently. They think differently. Grakh has no passive emotions. Grief isn't something you feel. It walks with you. Courage is something you declare out loud before you do something terrifying.
Join the mailing list and get a free reader's guide to the language of the orcs. It covers the words that matter most in the story.
By the time the novel is in your hands, you'll already know what vel hvael-rrak means. You'll feel it when Aesh says it. That's a better way to meet them.
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Vel-khara da'ok.
My foundation is my people.
The fragrant blue smoke of last night's smoldering cook fires hung in the air as the first breath of predawn cracked the eastern sky. This convergence threw long columns of milky white light from the east. Phantasmal, the columns made the crisp unmarked canvas of the soldiers' tents look like row after row of perfectly symmetrical grave markers. That wasn't too far from one entirely possible future.
The third-shift watchman dozed slyly at the main gate, secure in his knowledge that if the attack hadn't come by now, it was going to be a quiet day. In just another hour or so he would be relieved of duty and then shortly after of his consciousness. A sniff of brandy and his bedroll were just the thing to take the edge off the damned northern chill. Everyone knew they only came at night. That's what everyone said.
Auberic Krenn walks into the Regent's field quarters carrying three things. A broken lute. A journal she cannot touch. A pendant made from the tusk of a child.
He is the only survivor of a raid that killed Marguerite Valcourt's brother. He is not asking for mercy. He is asking her to listen.
The Unmoved is the story he tells her. The life of Aesh: a young orcish skrint who grows into the greatest warlord their people have ever known. Aesh built something worth protecting. Then the torches arrived. It is a story about what happens when we pick up the dead and use them as weapons. About the difference between a people and an enemy. About a man carrying the weight of every word he should have said sooner.
Marguerite listens. The war is expensive. She is practical.
What she decides will cost someone everything.
J Goldin lives in the Phoenix metro area with his brilliant wife, two alarmingly teenaged sons, and two doodle dogs of questionable intelligence and unfathomable affection. He is new to publishing and completely uninterested in pretending otherwise.
He is a lifelong musician, gamer, and movie buff who comes to his creative endeavors with a strong point of view. None of the punk rock, the late nights, or the dog-eared paperbacks was wasted.
J Goldin is done with cynicism. Not interested. Over it. He has spent a lifetime playing punk rock, rolling dice, and reading everything he could find that still believed in something. He has zero patience left for art that keeps the world at arm's length.
He writes because the stories live in his head and ignoring them has stopped working. He shares them because he has seen what a good story can actually do. Connect strangers. Destroy bigotry. Break a person open in the best possible way and put them back together a little more whole.
The first thing you get is a free reader's guide to the language of the orcs. The words that matter. The ones that will hit differently when Aesh says them out loud.
After that: a limited number of updates. The book is coming. You'll hear about it. That's the whole deal.
This is where the readers are. Come talk about the book, the world, the orcs, and whatever else is rattling around in your head. J Goldin is in there. He's not hard to find.
Join the Server →Got a question, a pitch, or a burning need to read this book before everyone else? This is the place. ARC requests welcome.
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