Theron Lysandros author

When I finished The Crystal Debt , it felt like I’d poured not just a story onto the page, but an entire world of wounds, lost names, and the weight of memory. It’s a novel obsessed with one question: what happens when power isn’t simply inherited, but stolen—or even forgotten? For months, I lived among ashes and crystals, haunted by that tension between identity and oblivion. Reading it now, I see that what I most wanted to convey was uncertainty—the push and pull between the self and all the echoes that came before. The characters (Kaien, Löez, Narel…) aren’t just mages or wanderers; they’re fragments of memory fighting not to disappear. The central conflict isn’t good vs. evil, but the right to remember—and to choose what part of the past gets to define us. But not everything turned out as I hoped. With some distance, I can see several areas where I would have done things differently: Narrative pacing: The novel can move heavily at times, especially in the first half. Out of f...

Today I went through another long episode of depersonalization—the kind where you feel like you’re just a spectator in your own body. It’s not as frightening as it sounds: it’s simply my “other self” taking over, staring at a single spot with its own thoughts, while the conscious part of me tries to break through. It sounds more dramatic than it really is; it’s nothing like what you see in movies like Split (and I doubt it’s even close). What I’m getting at is that, when I reread my books, sometimes there are passages that don’t feel familiar—sections where I can’t remember exactly when I wrote them, or if it was, somehow, my “other self” who did the typing. It happens especially during those moments when the writing just flows: the story, the plot, the characters, the whole world is clear in my mind… but I’m never quite sure which version of me is putting those ideas on the page. I’ve been thinking about this for days. What if that other part of me has ruined my books? What if it w...

 Some stories demand to be written. The Fire Prince’s Bride was one of them—a novel born from my love of dark fairytales, forbidden pacts, and characters who refuse to bow even when the world would see them broken. At its core, this book is about two enemies forced into an alliance by war and prophecy. Arin is not a damsel, nor a pawn—she is flame, vengeance, and fragile hope all tangled together. Kael is no perfect prince; he’s a ruler made by loss and scarred by the choices that power demands. What drew me to write this story? It’s the question that lives at the heart of every romantasy: What if the person who could save you is also the one who destroyed everything you loved? What if trust is just another battlefield? The Fire Prince’s Bride is a book about heat and memory—about how sometimes the most dangerous magic is not fire, but forgiveness. It’s for readers who crave slow-burn tension, found family, palace intrigue, and a heroine who would rather burn than break. Wr...

 For years, my heart belonged to dark fantasy: haunted kingdoms, wounded heroes, stories stitched with shadows and memory. I wrote from the ache, from the places that hurt, searching for meaning—or at least, a kind of beauty in the darkness. But even the most devoted wanderer in dusk needs, eventually, a place to rest. The Hollow and the Hearth was born from that longing. I wrote it when the weight of the world became too much to bear, when grief and exhaustion pressed in from all sides. I didn’t need another tragedy—I needed a cottage at the edge of the woods, a place where magic moved slowly, where the warmth of a fire and the kindness of strangers could be healing in themselves. Cozy fantasy became my emotional refuge. In this story, and in the act of writing it, I found the gentle magic I’d been longing for: not the kind that burns, but the kind that heals. I learned that hope doesn’t always arrive with a shout—sometimes, it’s the quiet light that spills from a window on a ...

 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,...

 Welcome to the official blog of Theron Lysandros. I am a writer of dark fantasy—of worlds where memory burns and nothing is ever truly forgotten. Stories have always been my refuge, especially during the nights when sleep never came and the world outside seemed impossible to endure. What began as a way to survive my darkest moments slowly became a calling: to create universes where wounds are sacred, where the beauty is found in brokenness, and where hope, if it exists, is always fragile. My books are not about heroes who conquer or villains who are simply evil. They are about people who endure, who lose themselves and sometimes find themselves again, who would rather remember the pain than live without meaning. I write in English and Spanish, because pain, longing, and memory are languages that transcend borders. Writing, for me, is both an act of resistance and a kind of healing. Some of my stories were written when I was at my lowest—when I felt more shadow than person. Eve...