I write stories that feel like they’ve clawed their way out of some forgotten myth, dusted themselves down, and immediately gone looking for mischief. Ancient, slightly dangerous, and absolutely not house-trained. I’ve always been drawn to the darker corners of folklore—the places where magic and menace share a drink, secrets linger too long, and nothing smiles without a reason.

My worlds don’t pay much attention to reality. They bend the rules, snap them clean in half, then act offended when anyone dares mention it. Doors open where they shouldn’t, shadows know far too much, and common sense usually slips out early without paying the bill. Even time itself can’t always be trusted.

When I write, every word has a purpose. No freeloaders allowed. Each one belongs to a much larger web, stretching from the frozen towers of the Winter Palace in Eldermere to the loud, warm chaos of Saracea’s taverns. Threads cross, collide, and tighten when you least expect it. Everything connects eventually.

So if something seems small, harmless, or easily ignored… watch it carefully. In my stories, that’s usually where the real trouble begins.