Two books, two scars.

 Some books are born from inspiration, others from sheer necessity. My first two, Where Fire Sleeps and What the Crystal Could Not Hold, were written from a wound—a place where darkness was not just the setting, but the atmosphere I breathed.

I wrote these stories during the darkest time of my life, when depression was a fog and finding a reason to get up each day was its own battle. Writing was not a hobby, but a way to survive, a way to keep from vanishing completely. Even now, as the world outside remains uncertain, storytelling has become the thin thread of light that pierces the shadow.

Imagining new worlds, shaping characters, trying to make lyricism matter more than silence—these things have offered me moments of peace, small reprieves where my mind could rest. If I am not writing, I am dreaming up what story might save me tomorrow.

Where Fire Sleeps is a novel of ruins and names that carry too much weight, of wars that never truly end. Its characters move through ash, not seeking victory, but resisting oblivion, fighting to remember who they were before they became shadows. There is magic in these pages, yes, but more than that, there is memory—broken, fragile, dangerous. This is a story about what still burns when there is nothing left to burn, and the echo of those who refuse to be forgotten.

What the Crystal Could Not Hold was born from the same universe, but in a different key. It’s the story of those who have lost more to magic than they ever gained. Here, the protagonists awaken with no memories, only a name etched in crystal. Every spell is a sacrifice, every act of power costs them a memory or a piece of themselves. This book is about identity, about the terror of losing yourself, about the pain of having nothing left to name. Lyricism here is both refuge and curse: every beautiful phrase is a way of keeping silence at bay, even if the story moves slowly—because every word is a way not to let the silence win.

I know these books can be harsh, even dense at times. I wrote them as someone might write a letter they never intend to send. If I move slowly, if lyricism sometimes weighs more than action, it’s simply because my mind works that way: every sentence is an act of resistance, a way to capture beauty before it disappears.

Maybe that’s why dark fantasy was my first home, even though I’m slowly moving toward lighter stories, even cozy ones. But I never forget where I come from, nor the reason I write.

To anyone who finds their way to these books:
Thank you.
I hope, somewhere in the ashes and fragments, you find an echo of what you’re carrying, too.
Sometimes, the greatest magic is simply surviving yourself.

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