Down the Rabbit Hole: How I Accidentally Built an Entire Military for My Fantasy Novel

When I started writing Awakening the Seablade, I told myself I had enough details in the world, created over two decades—something rich enough to support a good story, but nothing too over the top. Just enough detail to make things feel real. Naturally, six months later, I had built a full-scale, career-tracked, cross-principality military institution with a personnel roster, deployment strategy, and logistical breakdown so detailed I could probably use it to run an actual empire.

Let me introduce you to the Imperial Military of the Platinum Lion.

It began with a single question: what kind of army would the most powerful empire in the world maintain? I already knew some about it - from development over the years. But my quick look into this spiraled into an organizational structure with tens of thousands of soldiers, a separate naval branch with ship classifications, rank protocols, magic-wielding personnel, and yes, even distinctions between land-based and shipboard cooks. I regret nothing.

The Imperial Army consists of 109,700 soldiers and is divided into four regional Prides: Copper, Silver, Gold, and Platinum. Each Pride fields two regiments—the Sword Regiment and the Shield Regiment—plus a single elite Independent Company, each with its own specialized focus and notorious reputation. These include units like Manticore Company, whose existence is half fact, half legend. Looming above all regional forces is the Helm, the Emperor’s personal military force of 13,000 soldiers, drawn from all corners of the empire and deployed only by imperial decree.

The unit hierarchy is rigid, but allows for some tactical flexibility. It runs Pride to Regiment to Division to Company to Den to Squad. Each Squad is typically led by a Claw, the first NCO officer rank, while Fangs serve as the senior enlisted.

The officer corps in the Army begins at Blade. From there, you might rise to Silver Blade, Gold Blade, or into the Commander ranks. Above them are the field leadership ranks like Field Marshal and Pride General. On the rarest occasions, an officer may be named Supreme Marshal of the Army, though this role is currently held by the Emperor himself.

And then there’s the Imperial Navy. With just over 30,000 sailors, it operates out of major ports across the empire, including the massive Naval HQ at LionsDen and the sprawling docks of Port of Swords. The Navy maintains nine classes of ships, from the towering five-mast Imperial-class warships to the nimble Sparrow-class scouts. Each ship is assigned a precise crew, down to the number of engineers, medics, and even the number of Seaswords—the Navy’s elite boarding marines.

Naval command structure is separate from the Army and uses its own ranking system. Commanding officers aboard ships are ranked based on the class of ship they command: a Cat-class ship may be led by a Gold Lieutenant, while an Imperial-class warship requires a Silver Admiral. There’s a full support structure below that, of course, and yes, I charted it all out. Did you know the average Tark-class transport ship requires three engineers and two medics? I do. I really, really do.

Every sailor starts as a recruit and must serve in the Deck division for two years before being allowed—or assigned—a specialization in one of the five core divisions: Combat, Command, Science, Support, or Sword. Advancement is possible in any track, but Deck and Sword tend to promote faster due to higher attrition. Command and Science are slower, more competitive paths.

Many warships also carries Focus-trained personnel—those capable of wielding the magical force known as Focus. An Imperial-class warship has two Masters of Focus assigned. A Cub-class? Just two Apprentices. Support ships like Sparrows and Tarks might have one novice, if any. The assignments vary, and yes, I made a spreadsheet.

I wish I could say this was a one-time descent into over-planning. It was not. This was just one rabbit hole among many. But something strange happens when you build this level of detail: the world stops feeling like a backdrop and starts feeling like a living place. When my protagonist Drex walks into a military port, I know what uniforms the soldiers are wearing, what ships are docked there, and who commands them. And it all feels right. Because it is right. I built it that way.

So if you’ve ever gone too far worldbuilding, just know you’re not alone. Somewhere out there is another writer researching the proper transport capacity of a Sparrow-class support ship instead of finishing their chapter. We see you. We salute you. And we probably know how many mess officers your ship requires.

Would you like to know?

Because I have notes.