Works in progress
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If any peak your interest be apart of my alpha reading team :) Reminder these are early drafts and excerpts may change
A matter of life and death
In a world where magic is normal and the Others can influence the mortals’ threads of life, Seraphina falls in love with a man of shadows. But can she truly trust a man of the shadows whose bloodlust seems to deepen around her. And what happens when the world she always thought was true turns upside down.
Through rebirth, incarnation and revenge Seraphina enters a world that is well completely.. Other
Inspired by The Originals, Sandman, greek mythology and Once Upon A Broken Heart
“Yes, sweet one. Are you remembering now?”
I looked down. In my hand, glinting beneath the veil of twilight—A dagger. Of thorns, wrapped in bloodlight and memory.
“What have I done?”
His smile deepened, gentle, unafraid. “Only what you’ve done before,” he murmured. “Do not worry. It wasn’t a stake. But it helps, you see—it always helps your memories come back a little sooner.”
“My memories?” I breathed. “What are you talking about?”
He tilted his head, as if regarding a painting he’d known for lifetimes. As if seeing not just me—but every me, stretched across time. And then… He stepped closer. His fingers brushed my cheek.
The garden held its breath. “Oh, Sereaphina,” he whispered, “you were always meant to remember too late.”
The world unraveled. The stars fell inward. The moon shut its eyes. The veil between life and death pulled shut like the final page of a book long forgotten.
Legends of liars
In a world where only royal bloodlines wield control over all the elements, Legends of liars follows Princess Dorethea Kassandre, heir to a legacy as ancient as dragons and as volatile as fire. Born of the Divine Mother's line and destined to rule, Dorethea must navigate a labyrinth of political alliances, forbidden love, and betrayal to claim a throne no woman has ever held. With kingdoms divided by flame, storm, and sea, and dragons stirring in forgotten skies, the fate of the elemental world hangs in the balance.
All she wished was to be his wife, that is all, she didn’t even care about the throne that was until her engagement was destroyed and she was cast aside. Well now… Now she will destroy the world to keep him from his goal
Inspired by Game Of Thrones (season 8 didn’t exist) Courtly Dramas, Old Bollywood, Avatar
“Come.”
Emaya held out a sword. “No magic.”
I blinked. “Why?”
Aurelia’s voice answered before Emaris could.
She leapt down from the ledge above the courtyard, landing with barely a whisper of sound.
“Your father asked us to make sure you could fight… even powerless.” Her voice was soft and calm, as if a giggle was permanently stuck in her throat.
“Surely one of the guards could have—”
“They’re all scared of you,” Emaya said flatly.
“Me?” I scoffed, mock-offended. “Heavens, why ever—”
“Stop it,” she laughed. “The only thing sharper than your tongue is the ice you hurl when you’re moody.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Let’s begin.”
We veiled ourselves in black. Our mouths covered, hair bound. Only our eyes visible, only our blades speaking.
The courtyard was quiet, save for the soft hiss of steel meeting steel. There were no jokes between us during training. Not when we held weapons. Not when we fought.
Emaya was quick — always.
Aurephelia fought with grace, her steps measured, breath even.
And me? I was fire beneath frost, never sure which one would win.
Our swords clashed in rhythm. The sun burned above us, sweat beading at our brows, but still we moved — shadow against shadow.
Until another blade met mine.
The strike came sharp, angled differently than my companions’. A fourth opponent. A new one.
A figure stepped forward — dressed in white silks, veiled like us. His hair hidden, only his eyes on show.
But I knew them.
heavens help me, I would always know those eyes.
We didn’t break rhythm. We danced like soldiers, as if he hadn’t vanished from my life for years. As if this was still a game.
He fought carefully. Intentionally. Each strike came close enough to test me, never close enough to hurt. But every time we neared, heat stirred in my blood — unwelcome, but unrelenting.And then he caught me.
His sword spun mine away. In the same breath, he was behind me — my arm pinned, twisted gently between my shoulder blades, his body pressed to my back.
I exhaled.
“Hello,” he whispered against the shell of my ear.
I laughed — breathless. “Funny way of saying it.”
“Wanted to surprise you.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
“I haven’t seen you in years.”
“I noticed.”
He turned me slowly, hands never letting go, until I was facing him. Too close. Much too close.
“Since your father’s passing,” I said softly. The words tasted like iron. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He met my eyes fully then. “Thank you. For coming to the funeral. And… the coronation.”
“I was only there briefly.”
“Still.” He reached out again, brushing his fingers over my arm. Steady. Familiar. “I thank you. Your words… they stayed with me.”
I shook my head. “I was a child. I didn’t know what to say.”
“You made me laugh again, Dorry,” he said. “No one else had, not in a long time.”
The silence between us pulsed — full of memory.
“Will you be staying at court?” I asked, not quite trusting my voice.
“I think…” He looked down, then back at me. “I think it’s time we begin planning the wedding.”
My heart thudded. Not in fear. Not in joy. Just in certainty.
“I agree,” I whispered.
And this time, I didn’t look away.
Sinful Saints
In a fractured world where Light and Darkness birthed not only magic but deep-rooted prejudice, Sinful Saints follows Jamilla—a destined warrior of Light—and Zayn, her rival turned reluctant partner, as they navigate ancient prophecies, hidden powers, and forbidden feelings. Amid whispers of rebellion and shadowed truths, these gifted youths must choose between legacy and love, loyalty and liberation, before the balance they fight to protect shatters forever.
She was born to save the world. He was born to destroy it. Together, they might just burn it down.
Inspired by my love for enemies to lovers, found family. Shadowhunters meets regency meets agents of shield. With diversity of course.
I ran at him, my daggers in my hands, the embroidery of my family crest running through the metals, while he had a simple sword. I would never admit but it Zayn was one of my favorite people to train with, each move I made he could match which was not an easy feat. And the energy that surrounded us when we fought, with the heat flushing through our skin, our breaths growing deeper, that pure lightning that crawled between us.
He hit me hard, and I threw my daggers down, whipping out the staff that was on my belt, he smirked, well until he remembered why the staff was my favorite weapon.
I slammed my black staff into Zayn’s chest, and he crumpled to the marble like a soldier felled in battle—sharp, fast, inevitable. The sound echoed through the high arches of the training hall, a note of finality in a song we had played too many times. He hit the floor with a gasp, his brown eyes flashing—not with surprise, but with the familiar flicker of stubborn defiance.
Above us, the stained-glass windows loomed, fractured saints and monsters frozen mid-war in crimson and gold. The light they cast was no softer than the truth they depicted. This was not a place for peace. It was a crucible. And I intended to be the flame.
I stepped forward, placing my boot firmly against his chest—not out of cruelty, but as a statement. There was no room for doubt on the battlefield. Only precision, dominance, and clarity. He looked up at me like a fallen knight, and I stared back like a queen at war.
“Tired yet?” I asked, my tone smooth.
“Never,” he spat.
But I saw the tremor in his hand, the way his breath shuddered in his lungs. He was weary. He just hadn’t learned to admit it.
I lowered my staff to his throat, the cold metal kissing the skin beneath his chin. His pulse jumped. Good. Still alive, still fighting. But slowing.
“You’re getting slow, Zayn,” I whispered, my voice calm.
The sound of applause echoed through the hall, slow and deliberate. I did not turn—I didn’t need to. I knew the sound of Cassian’s approval. He approached like a shadow given form, his black robes trailing behind him like spilled ink. Regal, unreadable, dangerous.
“Well done, Jamilla.”
I removed my boot and stepped back. Zayn rolled to his side, coughing, dignity in pieces but pride somehow intact. I didn’t offer him a hand. He wouldn’t take it, and I had no time for gestures of false charity.
“How many marks today?” I asked, voice even, controlled.
Cassian did not answer directly—he never did. “You’ll know when you get your grades,” he said, eyes gleaming. He was young, barely older than us, but the weight he carried was ancient. Politics wrapped in silk and steel.
The Light Council trained us not to lead, but to win. We were not their hope. We were their weapons.
Zayn wiped the sweat from his brow, his curls damp and defiant. “I know, sir. I’m sorry.”
Cassian’s gaze flicked between us. “You are evenly matched. When one wins, both win. When one loses, both lose.”
I allowed myself the ghost of a smile. “I haven’t lost in a while.”
Zayn bristled. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I turned on my heel and shoved my staff into the rack with a final clang.
