At the time of publishing my debut novel The Magnificence of Death, I had no idea what I was doing or how it might play out. I wrote the book years prior, had written quite a few more, spent months and months in the query trenches and had completely lost my self-confidence. I posted a chapter a night here on Substack for six weeks and then published the book to Amazon and called it good.

I had no marketing plan besides posting on my social media platforms and curating a somewhat cohesive feed. That was my strategy.

You might be chuckling, but it worked. Somehow, miraculously, it worked. I didn’t pay for Facebook ads, or hire booktok creators to share about the book. Every sale was genuine word of mouth.

It wasn’t until the nine month mark that (after watching a few friends run a successful campaign) I decided I needed to do a bit of marketing. Sales were starting slow bit by bit, and one random Sunday night I applied for a BookBub deal.

So here’s my experience…

It starts with an application on their website after setting up an account. From my understanding, your book has to be uniquely positioned to get picked for a deal. BookBub has more information on their website about their selection process, but just know that application does not guarantee a deal. I’ve had friends apply a few times for certain titles before landing the deal. I was fortunate that TMOD was selected so quickly. Within twelve hours of applying, I had an acceptance email with a link to payment and the date they planned on running the deal.

When you apply there are a list of genre’s and each one comes with a different price tag depending on the readership. The price also varies depending on the price of your deal. The steeper the discount on your book, the steeper the discount on the advertisement. You can check out that chart HERE.

The process is fairly simple, you apply, you get chosen, you discount your ebook over your selected days and BookBub does the rest.

For context, I ran a three day deal where I priced The Magnificence of Death for FREE. It was placed in Fantasy, and it cost me roughly $424USD.

Looking back, I should have discounted the title to .99 or 1.99, but to be honest, I didn’t think about it when I placed the application. I wasn’t considering the deal strategically, I was just thinking it would be nice to push it into another thousand hands. Publishing TMOD for me was also cost efficient, I had already made all my money back and so I felt like I could afford to run a paid ad with no profit.

But with that being said, since it is a selection process, next time I will be maximizing my effort for a better gain.

Over the course of three days I “sold” roughly 22,000 copies of The Magnificence of Death. I woke up screaming when every second that ticked by another hundred copies was downloaded. It was an insane three days and the whole time I was thinking “holy shit this totally works.”

Where this kind of sucked for me was that I gave all the copies away for free (again, not a big deal but it could have yielded some income) and secondly, I didn’t have another book up for pre-order or another book for readers to flock to. It was a powerful tool in pushing my writing into new hands, but combined with a pre-order for a second book (or even better implemented with a series) it could have yielded greater results on my end.

So I caution you to really consider your game plan when applying for the BookBub deal, because once you submit you have to be ready to pay the fee and rock n roll. I was floored with their reach, and to be honest, it did garner me new followers on social platforms, as well as on Goodreads. Actually, a decent amount of reviews have flooded in since then as well. Which is always a plus!

Some points to consider:

BookBub could be a powerful tool to move your rank on Amazon, but just know that if you list your book for free it will only rank on free rankings not on the actual rankings its usually in. TMOD reached the number one spot in the kindle store for free titles, but that did not transfer to paid ranking spots. If I had placed TMOD at .99 or 1.99, it could have ranked quite high.

Consider all options when it comes to list price. Free book deals cost considerably less, and they also might have a greater reach considering more readers will download a free book rather than just a discounted book. If I had run the same advertisement over the three days for the same book but only discounted it to 1.99 instead of free, it would have cost me over $1,000USD.

Match the deal with an upcoming release. I have a duology coming out in the late fall, and I will be applying for another BookBub deal on the cusp of the second book’s release to drive pre-orders and to push the first book into new hands. Maximize your investment! You have the ability to push your book into thousands of hands, how can you turn those downloads into lifelong readers??

All this to say—BOOKBUB WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT. For me, the FREE tier was definitely worth, considering where I was at and the fact it was my debut novel. I will probably do BookBub deals for every book I write now, but will be approaching it with a more careful strategy next time to maximize the reach.

I hope this is helpful to those of you on the fence. Obviously I cannot speak to other’s budgets, but if you have the opportunity it is well worth the cost, especially considering it comes with such low effort. It’s not a recurring ad on Instagram you have to monitor, it’s not a partnership you broker with an influencer. It’s essentially an emailed link to readers inboxes.

I am so grateful platforms like this exist for those of us who begrudgingly partake in this side of the job!

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It’s the weekend, and the weather is beautiful from where I sit on my back patio. This is a just a quick note to let you all know that I am opening a limited number of spots to receive e-ARCS for Satellites.

Applications will close on 13th, those chosen will be notified by the 15th, and ARCs will go out on the 22nd of May.

If you are interested in reading an advanced reader copy of the novella, you can find the form here: ARC APPLICATION

Satellites will release June 23rd on Amazon, via paperback and ebook. Hardcover and audiobook will release late summer.

Thank you for all the love for Solace and Jude, I can’t wait to share them with you!

Xx

Rhea

I finally did something I have been considering for a while. I made a discord server just for readers! It’s called the Hydration Station (because I think I’m funny) and I hope you join me over there.

I plan to continue to keep most of my updates and newsletters here. The server is basically a space to hang out beyond the books—talk about characters, share reactions, see behind the scenes of what i’m writing, and just exist in the same corner of the internet together.

Inside you’ll find things like:
– book chat (obviously)
– what i’m currently writing + snippets
– creative stuff + fan art
– drink recipes (because i am, in fact, a beverage person)
– memes, and general fandom behavior
– a place to ask me questions directly

All are welcome. If that sounds like your kind of thing, you can find the link here:

HYDRATION STATION

See you there!

Xx Rhea

Human blood carried a lifetime of secrets in less than a teaspoon—some of them deadly, some of them delicious. Vesper Sullivan had spent the last ten years unearthing every single one. And yet, nothing could have prepared her for this.

Her knees sank into the cold mud, the stitching of her threadbare gown ruined. Crawling, fingers digging into the earth, she clawed for leverage. Hem catching beneath her heel, her gown ripped as she rose. “Please. God, no.”

The blonde curls were long gone, the wig lost somewhere in the bracken and bramble, a garden and stone wall back. Rain plastered her hair to her spine, a heavy curtain down her back as the sky raged above. Angry and relentless, beating its fists.

Stumbling around a fallen tree, this one larger than the last, she ran. Ran as though blood did not stain her dress and a crown of branches did not sit crooked in her hair. Bare feet, cold earth—forest swallowing her breath. She ran as though her life depended on it. Because it did. There was a monster hunting its prey in the woods. Its teeth, she had barely escaped; its claws, had already found purchase in her skin.

Somewhere overhead, a bird screamed—the noise wrong and warped, an unholy echo through the trees. The sound bent toward her as she fled through the forest’s sleeping arms, wishing it was all a dream. A nightmare born of stress and sleeplessness. That she would wake on the plane, shudder, and laugh it off.

But she wasn’t that lucky.

For a moment, all she could hear was her heart hammering against her ribs, like dirt shoveled into a grave. Dull, hollow, and final. She opened her mouth to scream—to drown out the sound of herself with anything, something. But the monster could count the seconds it took for her blood to circulate through her body; could taste the rhythm of it. Even beneath the rain’s shroud, it scented the iron soaking through her clothes.

Nothing could hide her.

And so she ran.

Until the iron gates appeared through the trees, their black spires piercing the clearing. A gravel drive stretched between them—the way out. As she broke through the last of the branches, a scream split the air. It was inhuman, and bone-deep. In every horror movie she’d ever watched, she would yell at the stupid girl who turned back, who thought one last glance might change her fate. It never did.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Yet Vesper found herself turning, and in doing so, fell at the feet of a different monster. The one behind her halted its chase, skidding to a stop in the mud. The one standing before her knelt, cold fingers catching her chin. “There you are,” he said, voice low and melodic. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Vesper shut her eyes. Breathed in, slow and long. Agitated. Her ribs, crushed by the corset’s boning.

“Stand,” he commanded.

She didn’t want to, but her body obeyed, limbs trembling, jerking to his will. She tried to scream, to object, to do anything—

“Silence.” His words stole her breath entirely. He turned her toward the creature hunting her through the woods. “Watch,” he said. Fingers ghosting over her bare shoulder as he passed, stepping forward.

It happened in the space of a blink. Barely a breath. And then—the monster was no more. Blood sprayed the air, warm and crimson, splattering at her feet. The man tore the creature apart with a single, vicious motion. Its head falling first, body crumpling soon after. The forest fell quiet. The rain, the wind, leaving only the sickening thud of death. Was it stupid to close her eyes? To blink as if that might tear the nightmare apart?

He turned toward her, sharp teeth gleaming, tongue tracing their edges as he walked back. Slow and deliberate. Garnet eyes glimmered like precious stones beneath the pale moonlight slipping between rain.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across her cheek. Blood streaked it red. He lifted it for her to see, and licked it clean. “It appears this competition may be worth my while after all.”

She swallowed hard.

“Speak,” he commanded.

Her lips trembled. “You’re—you’re not real.”

He smiled, gathering her easily into his arms as he turned toward the looming castle. “Not so, love. I am as real as the fear tracing your veins.” He canted his head lower, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Yet it is true, I have long since been dead.”

Chapter One: 15 days earlier

There is no measure to luck, yet Vesper Sullivan found herself weighing her life against it. It was impossible to control, unruly in its yielded results, and at the mercy of uncontrollable variables.

For what it was worth, Vesper hated being late—despised it, really. In fact, there was a time when the thought of being late made her want to puke. But that was grad school, and there wasn’t much that didn’t illicit those feelings. Realistically, she knew that her being late was not as much luck, as it was a design of her own failing. Yet, that did not refrain her from yelling at the other drivers on the road.

“Are you kidding me!” Her chest was tight, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. She cursed the minivan that cut her off as rain streaked across the windshield in fractured lines, roads shimmering gray under a cover of clouds that wouldn’t go away. This is why she hated driving. Well, one of the reasons. The other was far too painful to think about today. She was late and there was nothing she could do about it, short of taking the freeway, which she’d refused.

By the time she backed into the parking garage, her bag was half-spilling across the seat, notebooks teetering and pens lost to the void beneath the leather. She stuffed everything in, ignored the missing chapstick, and sprinted across the garage. Today would not wait for her.

Greeted by the sterile scent of disinfectant, Vesper rounded the receptionist’s desk in a flurry. The hem of her pants were soaked from where she’d accidentally stepped into a deep puddle, and her blouse was wrinkled because she’d slept through her alarm and nearly didn’t make it out the door.

Gwen, who did not appear to understand the effects tardiness had on her nerves, offered a small, practiced smile. “Good morning, Dr. Sullivan.”

“Morning, sorry I’m late.”

Her manicured fingers tapped at the keyboard. “No worries, here for your donation?”

“Yep.” Vesper dug her cellphone out of her bag.

“I—uh, let me grab Deacon real quick,” Gwen said, getting up to disappear through the door.

Vesper took a seat, sinking into one of the vinyl chairs, gaze wandering to the posters on the walls. They wore smiling faces, slogans about saving lives, and charts about blood donation frequency. As she waited, she flipped through her emails, deleting a few and forwarding another. Her thumb hovered over a time sensitive notification from Dr. Carlotta Griggs.

“Dr. Sullivan,” Deacon called, walking in behind Gwen. He wore purple scrubs with black cats all over them, ones she’d never seen before.

“Halloween?” She gestured to his bright workwear.

“Like them?”

“Love,” she said, standing to follow. “I am running a bit behind, I have an important meeting at one—”

“Sorry, Vesper.” Deacon held his hand out, placatingly. “But I think you’ve mixed up your days. Your last donation was only six weeks ago. You’ll need to wait a few more weeks before you can give again.”

“That can’t be right…” She opened her calendar, searching for the appointment. “C’mon Deacon,” she begrudged, still searching, but she couldn’t find it. “You know I am fully within safe physiological parameters. I can donate today.”

“And you know that I can’t let you.”

Vesper shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I track my hematocrit—” He raised a brow, but she continued. “Everything is well within range. I can safely donate today without any risk to myself.”

Deacon stood behind the desk, arms crossed, voice gentle. “Doesn’t matter. Protocol says you wait fifty-six days. Eight weeks.”

Her thoughts drifted involuntarily—how different things could have been. How horribly wrong her morning had gone already. “Fine. Next week.” With a tight smile, she took the appointment slip Gwen kindly slipped across the desk toward her.

Deacon gave a small, sympathetic nod as he rounded the counter. “Let me walk you to your car.”

“Thanks.” Though she’d wanted to tell him not to worry about it. Except, that never stopped him before, so she didn’t bother. Deacon was quiet as they waited for the elevator.

“You do this every year around his anniversary, you know.”

Her eyes remained glued to her shoes and the gum that was stuck to the tile beside her. She wound her fingers through the strap of her bag. “I… I guess it just feels necessary.” The elevator doors slid open, and Deacon motioned her ahead. “My calendar got all mixed up, things have been hectic at work.”

He nodded, not pressing further. “I’ve been drawing your blood for six years, Vesper. You’re doing more than most of us. All of us.”

“Thanks.” The elevator stopped and the doors rang open. “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” she assured, backing out of the space.

He held the doors open and watched her cross the empty garage park to the Volvo in the corner. “I hope not,” he called back with a sly grin. “Come back in a couple months! Give your red blood cells a break, I’d hate to see them stage a mutiny!”

She laughed, with a smile he wouldn’t recognize as lacking. It was hard for her to admit he was right, that everyone was right…

Consequently, she wouldn’t.

Sitting in her car, she scrolled past conferences and scheduled video calls until she found the actual appointment buried beneath a lunch meeting. She had double booked herself, that’s why, she thought. Though that still did not explain why subconsciously she felt today, of all days, she must donate blood. She opened her email and typed out a quick message to the junior faculty member, letting him know she’d need to reschedule because she refused to miss it again. She set her phone aside, turned the radio up, and pulled out of the parking garage. She wanted, of course, to cry—but she wouldn’t. Today, of all days, would not be stolen from her. Not like it had been all those years ago. Today was a day of redemption, and the small green calendar reminder in her phone was proof enough. Sure, her slacks might have been wet, and since she’d missed her alarm she had to opt for a greasy slicked back ponytail—but that was the style these days, wasn’t it?

Besides, now she might actually make it to the lab in enough time to finish filtering her emails, review the latest hemoglobin assay results from the other team, and maybe run a small test of her own on the new oxygen-binding formulation she’d been tweaking. As a Senior Post-Doctoral Fellow, Vesper had worked tirelessly since that moment junior year of High School when she decided to go into medicine. Late nights in the lab, gallons of coffee, notebooks filled with half-scribbled equations and hastily drawn graphs, grant proposals rewritten until her eyes blurred, seminars where she asked one too many questions, and experiments that failed spectacularly before finally yielding the tiniest glimmer of progress.

She had lived on a diet of energy drinks, instant ramen, and the occasional celebratory pastry when a paper got accepted. Her social life whittled down to rare dinners out with her roommate Eden and hurried phone calls back home. Every meticulous data entry has led to this moment—the meeting that would decide whether she would take over her mentor’s lab, the one she had nurtured like her own, and finally secure the assistant professorship she had long believed was hers.

Today wasn’t only another day of experiments; it was the culmination of over a decade of relentless work, of sacrifices that only she fully understood, of nights spent staring at cell cultures wondering if it would ever be worth it. The pain in her chest had once been all-consuming, but it was also the catalyst. And if she got her way, the answers to her hypothesis would soon follow. The research would save lives, like it had already been saving hers.

She pulled into the faculty parking lot, only to find the space she preferred occupied. With a long sigh, she drove around to the far side of the building, slipped into the last open spot, and grabbed her bag from the seat. Her boots squelched as she stepped down into another puddle.

“Ugh.” Water seeped into her socks through the shoes that were, supposedly, water proof.

Vesper closed the door and ran up the sidewalk. The glass doors of the building loomed ahead, gleaming like a dark castle beneath the gray, drizzle-soaked sky. Inside, the familiar hum of fluorescent lights and the faint tang of iron greeted her. She paused, glancing around the lab. Dr. Hammond wasn’t at his desk yet—a little odd, though not alarming. Usually he arrived early, coffee in hand, checking in on the postdocs before the day started. But it was Friday, and she too, struggled to make it out of bed on time this morning.

Vesper made her way to her own bench, noting the usual flurry of activity: interns reviewing data, a centrifuge spinning in the background, a stack of lab notebooks precarious on the edge of the counter.

“Dr. Sullivan,” one of the younger interns approached, a timid grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I saw the memo about your meeting today… I just wanted to say—I think you’ve got it in the bag.”

Vesper bounced on her heels as she allowed herself a small, secretive smile. If only anyone else knew how much this meant. Dr. Lionel Hammond, a tenured Professor of Biomedical Engineering, had been her mentor for six years. His recommendation had been the final piece she needed for the tenure-track position she’d been chasing since grad school. Ever since she chose not to pursue practicing medicine, she had known exactly what she wanted. This was it. To run her own lab as Principal Investigator. Securing the position wouldn’t merely be a title—it would be stability. It would mean space, resources, and time to chase the discovery she had been dreaming of since she first glimpsed her own hypothesis. It would mean she could finally take the long view, the patient, meticulous approach her research deserved. And today… today would be the culmination of all those late nights, all the grant proposals, all the experiments that had refused to work right when she thought she had them figured out.

She set her bag down, ran a hand over her rain dampened hair, and pulled out her phone.

There was a message from her roommate, Eden.

I know today sucks, but don’t let that ruin this. I love you, you got this. And we’re totally celebrating this weekend!

Vesper’s face almost split into a grin, until she saw her mom’s unread message below it.

Tried calling, I know you’re busy though. Call when you can. 13 years today. Hard to believe. Love you honey, we’d love to come visit soon.

That gnawing feeling was back in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she was going to puke, and it wasn’t because she had been running late. She turned the screen off and shoved it to the bottom of her bag. Her lab coat was hung in the corner. She shrugged it on, and felt a thread of power slide down her spine. As if she’d been starved of touch and the coat was a warm and relentless hug. It didn’t make sense to anyone else, but it didn’t have to. The lab is where she felt most in control. She slipped on a pair of gloves, settled the goggles, and got to work.

Hidden by shadow, concealed in the mist,

A realm where the light seldom dares to persist.

Its people were moss and rot, not flesh, not bone,

A kingdom of ruin that called itself home.

Faerie, bound to the folk and their second sun,

Was ruled by the Alder King, whose line was never done.

Seven proud houses, in velvet array,

Fed on the land and bent it their way.

They feasted on laughter, on sorrow, on lies,

On the wide-eyed wonder in mortal eyes.

Through the veil they lured the plain and meek,

With treasures no hand of man could seek.

But once the young king sought a bride,

A mortal maiden, heart of fleeting tide,

He silenced the games, he stilled the snare,

He bade his people take no more there.

CHAPTER ONE: Renahlia

With malice in her heart and dried blood on her sleeve, Renahlia drove the pickaxe into the ground, as if the nightmare she found herself trapped in could be relieved with sweat and steel. Her gaze flicked to the cart beside her, where a body lay wrapped in cloth.

She’d waited too long to bury the girl.

The corpse was bloated now, swollen with rot, the stench curling up through the snow to pull a gag from her throat. She choked it down and struck again, the blade clanging off packed ice. The frost was supposed to have thawed by now—especially this late in the season—except that was only a fool’s wish.

Lark stood off to the side, peering around the thick trunk of a tree as if she couldn’t see him. He’d followed all the way from the catacombs, which Renahlia had trotted through if only to scare him into turning around. He was loud. Too loud. And decidedly clumsy. She clutched the pickaxe tighter and grit her teeth. They’d have to continue their lessons in shadow slinking and spying later that week.

“I can see you, Lark.”

The wind crept between the wood with a whistle. “Lark,” she called again, tossing the tool aside. Her pulse quickened as she scanned the razor-thin trees, stripped of leaves and laden with menace. She was careful of the shadows who played tricks in the Mottled Wood. They purred pretty promises, coaxing the unwary forward, only to snap shut with a ferocious maw. Grinding their bones to powder to leave nothing but the teeth. The woods were dangerous and as often as Renahlia found herself standing in the middle of them, a certain disquiet always rose within her.

Lark groaned, snapping a fallen branch as he begrudgingly unveiled his hiding spot. “How did you know?”

“Your boots are three sizes too large, and you breathe much too heavy since breaking your nose.” Pulling out the scratchy scarf she’d bartered for, she untucked its length from her pocket before securing it around her mouth and nose. “If you insist on following me, make yourself useful and grab the feet.”

“For a human you’ve got keen hearing, you know,” he sighed, pulling his too-small-coat tighter.

“For Folk, you’re quite clumsy.”

Lark stuck his tongue out, quickly slipping it back in as soon as he met her gaze. It was morbid to ask that he help bury a body, yet what twisted Renahlia’s gut worse was that the boy had already seen his fair share of death in his short nine years. A bloated body or two was nothing new for Lark.

“I hate doing this—”

“If you don’t want to help, don’t follow me. You’ve no reason to wander the woods at such an hour.”

Lark trudged forward, his large boots clopping against the compact dirt and ice. “I haven’t seen you in days. I followed you to tell you that Rooster’s returned, and in a mood.”

“I don’t care.” Rooster was an ass. But, so was she. “Grab the shovel or get lost, Lark.” She nodded toward the tool at his feet. Although the task of burying the dead every few weeks had become a mundane chore, she was in a rush this evening.

With a groan he gave the body in the cart a wide berth as he stepped up beside the grave she’d been laboring over. He hesitated, shuffling his foot back and forth, then added, “He was doing room checks.”

That stopped her. “He didn’t happen to look behind the crate did he?”

Lark shut his eyes and gave a slow, miserable nod of his head.

Bastard, she thought, jaw clenched. “Did he take the stash?”

“Everything. The notes too.”

Damn it. She heaved a sigh, handed him the shovel, and dragged the cart closer toward the jagged grave. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if he’ll let me leave anyway.” Standing over the shallow grave, her jaw locked, nails biting into her palms for the coin she knew she’d lost. Behind the crate she’d nailed to the wall, she’d dug a careful hole—her life’s savings tucked into the dirt. Every coin from Sellus’s errands. Every gleaming scrap from Rooster’s riskier jobs, and it was enough to earn a new life. Or it had been. Yesterday had come and gone without fanfare, even though it was the day the geas should have broken. It hadn’t, and now the stash was gone too. Renahlia exhaled slowly, forcing the feeling down before it could take root. It was only coin, she told herself.

“He swore worse than a kelpie when he pulled his hand out to find it covered in snail mucus,” Lark said with a laugh—one that faltered almost as soon as it started. His brow furrowed, voice quieter. “I suppose you’ll be in trouble for that prank, though.”

“It wasn’t a prank,” she groused. “It was a way to keep intruders from rifling through my things. He deserved it.” Lark’s smile returned and Renahlia gave him a half-hearted hug, then pushed the shovel back into his hands. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

It wasn’t that she disliked the ruddy-haired boy. The truth was quite the opposite. She’d come to feel about him in a way she knew she couldn’t afford. With no family of her own, there weren’t many options for children like them in Faerie. Similar to Renahlia, Lark had grown up at the Roost, under the ward of Royse ‘Rooster’ Hawthorne, the ninth son of one of the prominent Folk families. His father wasn’t a lord, in spite of that, it never stopped him from behaving like one. Rooster was entitled, arrogant, manipulative, and entirely evil. Instead of offering care and shelter to Faerie’s displaced children, he built a treasury on the backs of their labor. Rooster was a vice broker, and he dealt in misery.

Lark was usually reluctant to help. He must have heard the gnawing hunger in her voice tonight as he grabbed the shovel from her and began digging. She watched him for a moment. He was holding it all wrong, but if she pointed it out he would probably take it as an excuse to quit, and she didn’t have time for that. He had a few years left before Rooster would start collecting on his debts. It shouldn’t have been her burden to carry—yet it was. Even now, after all this time, when she looked into Lark’s umber eyes, she saw the baby he used to be: rosebud cheeks, a gummy smile, those chubby little hands pawing at her midnight braids. She’d almost saved enough coin, not just for herself, maybe for Lark. For Isa, too.

Lark had arrived at the Roost when she was ten, just two weeks after she was dumped there. Even though he was only a few weeks old, his sharp ears had been clipped at the tips: the mark of a throwaway. A bastard. Against her better judgment she took to him as if he was her own kin. She liked him, perhaps even loved him, except that was a truth better left buried. She hadn’t let herself think too hard about it. Not now. Not while she drove the pickaxe into the frozen ground, clearing space for another child’s body, one not much older than Lark. Not when her own debts—if you could stack them like leaves—would tower so high she’d need a sprite to fly the last few notes to the top.

Renahlia glanced up at the sky, at the hollow where the burning star should have been. The moon hung there now, pale and watchful. She still felt the absence of its sister like a wound. The first sun rose, casting its sparse light across the land while the second sun failed to follow, marking the days colder than the last, each season’s frost layered upon the previous ice. The sun was more than light. It was the lifeblood of Faerie’s magic, the force that nourished the Folk. Without it, Renahlia was certain the land and its people would whither. Yet no one cared to admit that truth, let alone confront it. Nothing had been done in the decade since the burning star vanished. No questions asked. No answers sought. Sometimes Renahlia wondered if they even cared. The folk had a way of warping what you cherished. Maybe that’s why she’d dug thirteen graves this year. For growing up under their rule, Renahlia had no love for the fae. And she pitied those who crossed into their lands chasing whimsy and adventure, only to find themselves caught in a dream far more wretched and cruel.

“You’ve got that look on your face again.” Lark leaned against the shovel—no help in the blasted eternal slumber. Not that he was much help when he actually used it. He’d hardly made a dent.

She tossed her own tool aside. “There’s no look.”

He stepped up beside her, following her gaze into the shallow pit. “You’re angry.”

“I’d say you’re perceptive for nine, but the way you jutted your jaw reminded me of a rabid animal.”

His toothy grin twisted into a scowl. “Perceptive enough to know not to lip you at this hour.” The forest shuddered with the thunderous clang of the village bell. Lark jumped, tripping over his own feet. Even this deep in the woods, it was impossible to escape the King’s Hunt.

For the week leading up to it, at midnight, the metalsmith would strike the bell with a monstrous mallet—counting down the days until their search for the Seventh Lord continued.

She hated it.

Not because it interrupted her sleep, or anything noble like that. No, it meant the entire kingdom and each of its seven regions, stayed awake later than usual. Folk milled the streets, the few taverns packed from sundown to sunrise, patrons swaggering in and out all through the unblessed night. It was damn near impossible to tend to her seedier business with the King’s Guard lurking on every corner and the street lamps still burning bright.

This year, when the bell first clanged three nights ago, Renahlia found herself intrigued. Desperate, more like, if she was being honest. “What do you think of the King’s Hunt?” she asked, surprising even herself. What did a nine-year-old’s opinion matter? Still, she couldn’t deny the curiosity twisting in her gut. Everyone either feared the festivities and the strange rumors that clung to them—or they were bewitched, caught under the same fortuitous spell that dragged fresh victims to the seventh manor’s gates every year.

Lark shuddered. “Did you hear that the King might attend the feast this year?” His crooked front tooth impeded his speech and his voice was sharp as he strained to make out certain words.

Renahlia hadn’t heard that. The Alder King stopped attending the feast years ago, so why now? Shouldn’t he be more worried that his kingdom yielded to ten thousand layers of ice and snow… Or that food was running scarce? What about the failed trade routes, or the growing unrest in every region? If what Lark said was true, part of her was tempted to join the Hunt if only to meet the king and give him hell for the piss-poor job he’d been doing lately.

She shrugged, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand. The King’s Hunt was the last thing she should be thinking about, and yet she found herself consumed by it. With each passing day, her confidence grew sharper. A sliver of hope was as good for a soul as a feast to a starved and hollow stomach, and Renahlia was famished. Hunger pains were horned enough to have her considering joining the slaughter herself. If she died, at least it would be done trying, not like this—

Renahlia stared at the grave. Her heart clenched, though she’d never admit it. She could only hope that Sellus had good news for her. She swallowed it down, there was no time to linger.

“When you’re dead, so am I.” Lark was staring too. Eyes boring into the dirt, expression gone vacant and dull.

She frowned. Lark was intuitive. Gentle. Though his heart was too big, he often pierced himself by lack of fortitude. “Don’t say that. I’m only a means to an end.”

“Ren—”

“No, Lark. I mean it.” She stopped, studying him. “If you don’t take care of yourself—”

“Yeah, yeah. No one will.”

It was a cruel lesson, yet a necessary evil if they wanted to survive the bitterness of their circumstances. “Good,” she said, shoveling the first bit of hardened dirt over the body. Sellus’s note pressed warm against her breastbone. Renahlia hadn’t heard from him in a while; usually, she was the one who sought him out. Three nights ago, just as the gong struck midnight, the note appeared beside her mug of ale. Its crisp paper, cool against the fading heat of the drink. Her name was scrawled across the top, followed by an address and Sellus’s signature stamp: a fox chasing its own tail.

In Faerie, certain goods were easy to come by—the fae’s deceptions making all manner of magic and mischief available. Want to turn your neighbor’s skin pink as a petty slight? There was a jar of munk’s tongue for that. The Nymphs were known to lend their skin’s sheen for a coin or two. The brave hunted Hystods deep in the Mottled Wood, pulling hairs to sell at market. Those born without the land’s magic—like her—were forced to find those things in seedier places. Sellus was that place. He ran the largest and most formidable black market right under the court’s nose. Even the King’s Guard struggled to catch the Fox.

It wasn’t easy to connect with him, and only once she had proven she was of strong mind, their bond was an alliance forged in blood and steel. Unbreakable, mostly because he was the only one she’d ever willingly trusted. Despite their years working together, Sellus had never invited her to his home. Instead, they met in the shade of an old oak, past the setting sun when the land finally quieted, or on busy market days when the streets thrummed with life. Once, he came to the Roost while she was fighting in The Wagers. Her opponent was twice her size, even so, Sellus bet three hundred coin Renahlia would win and when she did, she’d won enough to buy herself a new pair of leather boots.

That’s when she knew their strange dealings with stolen and illegal goods had become something closer to kinship. Even then, he still had never offered her a personal invitation to his home. So when she held that bleached parchment three nights ago—the familiar red ink staring back at her—she couldn’t help wondering if he’d actually sent it at all.

“I stole a bit of chocolate from Isa this morning, we can play cards and share it when we get back.” Lark stamped his foot over the dirt, smoothing the fresh grave out. Not that it mattered, the frost would cover it by the end of the hour and tomorrow there’d be a new layer of ice to hide it from sight.

“I’m not going home.” Renahlia bent down to pocket a handful of it. She pulled out a canvas pouch, sewn from leftover bits of an old blanket. Shoving a handful of grave dirt inside, she tied the end in a knot so as to not lose any of it.

The boy scoffed. “It’s the middle of the night. Rooster’s been looking for you.”

“Tell him I’m doing what he asked. Burying the dead.” She swung the pickaxe and shovel up over her shoulder, stalking to the hollowed-out tree a few hundred feet away. She’d been storing her supplies there ever since Sellus showed her the place. He used to stash bottles of wine he smuggled over the veil, except after the curse of winter descended, he’d given up that effort.

Lark trudged behind her, turning away and covering his eyes when she started changing in the bitter cold. She’d gone home covered in blood and grime more times than one could count, but tonight she would head straight to Sellus’s. The sooner she cleaned up, the sooner she could find out if he’d finally found a way to give her a leg up in her incredibly stupid plan of escape.

Peeling off the ruby-splattered shirt she pulled on a tight-knit black sweater that hugged high on her neck. Brushing the dirt off her pants, she swapped out the old boots she wore only when burying the dead for clean, knee-high black ones. It was colder than usual. The breeze whipped around her, kissing her face with tendrils of ice. With a sigh, she pulled an old coat from the back of the tree and slid her long arms through the sleeves. Fastening the few buttons it had left, she tied the belt tight around her waist and grabbed the cap she had painstakingly knit two seasons ago.

“I’m coming with you,” Lark whispered with his back still turned. He hated the dark. Even though he was born after the second sun’s disappearance, he never got comfortable with the lack of light.

Renahlia didn’t care. “No, you’re not.”

“I am,” he cried.

She dropped the pack and knelt before him. It was the middle of the night, and even though the forest had fallen into a gentle slumber, that didn’t mean any creatures, surely lurking by, had. “I’ll take you back to the catacombs, you can find your way from there.” Pulling out a lantern, she turned the key in the bottom, watching the faintest spark bloom to life inside the glass. “There’s enough flame to give you light, you’ve run the ‘comb plenty. You know the way.” It was a short jaunt home if he ran through the crypt.

“No there’s not.” He shook the lantern in front of his face. “It will hardly lead me out of the forest.”

“Not if you don’t light it until we get there.” She tugged the boy along, whispering a silent prayer for the dead.

She glanced across the forest floor where dozens of small mounds shimmered under moonlight and frost. Perhaps she was as foolish as those who’d willingly cross through the veil, because as the village bell rang out one final time, Renahlia held hope. Hope that the next body would not be Isa’s, or Lark’s.

Renahlia did not belong to Faerie.

And she finally found a way out.

I think love works the same way. Even when two people drift apart, some part of them is still orbiting the other.

The world may have ended, but that didn’t stop us from leaving pieces of ourselves behind.

BEFORE

Chapter One_Solace

FRESHMAN YEAR

I didn’t know that my life would be weighed in near-misses. Linguistically, it barely made sense. How can you nearly miss something? The phrase had been used to describe dodged aircraft crashes, bombs that didn’t land, and accidents that could have happened… but didn’t. That’s the thing about near-misses—they live in that sliver of space where collision introduces itself, only to diverge at the last second and find a different path. Leaving nothing but a small what if.

My life was full of them. What if I hadn’t played during recess that day? What if I hadn’t left my window open that night? What if I had gotten the nerve to tell people how I felt? What if I hadn’t gotten so drunk? What if I’d gone to the music conservatory instead of the four-year college my mom insisted on? What if…

If a near-miss was used to describe narrowly avoiding disaster, how could I measure my life in them? Two words: Jude Ransom. Or rather—a name. Of the boy who came crashing into my life, only to barely escape catastrophe.

The first near-miss was small, barely a scrape on my knee, and yet it left a mark I still carry. It was first grade, and I’d been shoved to the ground at recess, gravel biting through the knees of my pants, by a boy with a mop of sable curls and gray eyes. He reminded me of a wolf, with his straight nose, and the stern line of his mouth. “Hey!” I shouted, scrambling to my hands and knees, ready for a fight.

That’s when we locked eyes. Jude Ransom.

His brows were furrowed, a hand half-raised like he wasn’t sure whether to step closer or run away. “I didn’t mean to, Sol.”

Turns out, I hadn’t been paying attention, and had nearly been nailed by a flying tetherball. Which was unsurprising—I wasn’t the most attentive child. Jude shoved me out of the way, but did not mean to send me crashing to the asphalt. He gave me his hand and helped me up, muttering another apology with a crooked smile.

Not all of them looked like that though. Some near-misses didn’t break skin, they broke hearts, and those were the worst. There was nothing to bandage, and nowhere to place the blame.

The next came in third grade, under the wide arms of the oak behind the school. We’d been inventing kingdoms, arguing over who would rule, and laughing until our stomachs ached. Jude sat across from me, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Solace,” he said, hesitant. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

My stomach flipped, and I blinked, caught between disbelief and panic. At nine, the idea was absurd. Funny, even. His girlfriend? “No.”

He nodded, pressing a smile into his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Jude was inquisitive and gentle. His heart was often louder than his voice. “Why not?” he asked, standing to brush the dirt from his knees.

“We aren’t old enough.” At least, that’s what my mother said. No boyfriends until you’re thirty, Solace.

He reached a hand out, and like always, I gripped it. “One day we will be though.”

“When we’re bigger, yeah.”

“I’ll ask you again.”

“Okay.” And that was it. When you’re nine, boyfriends and girlfriends are just a pact made between friends.

We’d grown up in the same town and went to the same school and had the same friends, but our lives never quite collided the way I’d always felt our souls had. If you’d asked Jude, he’d tell you it started in third grade when I told him I wouldn’t be his girlfriend. It was that ‘no’ that set off all the others. All our near-misses.

From there, it turned into birthday party invites. Co-partners on school science projects. Band concerts and basketball games. Volunteer hours. Movies with friends. And yet, somehow, our lives never quite converged. By ninth grade, it felt like we were destined for the friend zone regardless of how either of us may have felt.

It was early fall, we were assigned the same English class, and to both of our delight we’d been seated beside one another.

“Long time no see,” Jude said, bumping his shoulder lightly against mine. His hair had grown longer over the summer, curling just enough to fall in front of his eyes, and—for once—he was taller than me. A fact he refused to point out, though I could tell he felt smug about it.

I stole glances at him while digging my notebook out of my backpack. “Did you have a good summer?”

“Good enough,” he said. “After space camp, we went on a cruise. What about you?”

I glanced down at my paper, the scribbles forming little spirals that didn’t mean anything. I didn’t want to tell him my summer had been one long stretch of hospital appointments, waiting rooms, and whispered fears. That my mom had cancer, and I hadn’t been allowed the things I wanted most—not the midnight premiere of the movie I’d planned for, not the lazy afternoons with friends. And that for even considering my disappointment I’d felt selfish. Embarrassed.

“I… um, it was fine,” I replied with a forced smile.

He nodded, studying me in that way he always did, like he could see past my thinly veiled humor. “Anything new?”

“Not really,” I lied. It wasn’t that I was ashamed, or worried about pity or anything like that. It was just that—I don’t know… I didn’t want to bother him. I didn’t like bothering anyone.

We started talking about the small things: books we’d read, movies we’d seen, the new cafeteria lunch menu. He leaned in close to whisper a joke, and for a moment, I’d been able to forget. Stealing glances out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t help but notice there was something different about him, and it wasn’t just the two inches he’d grown over the summer.

“See you at lunch?” he asked as the bell rang.

“Yep.”

For three weeks, we sat together in the cafeteria, side by side. A couple of other friends joined sometimes, but mostly it was just him and me, trading fries and whispered jokes.

“Are you thinking about going to the dance?”

I wasn’t, but Jude held an expression that made my stomach tighten. “I’m not sure yet.”

He chewed on his lip. “Yeah, same. Nobody has asked me.”

“And you can’t go unless someone asks you?” It was a stupid question. Of course he’d go. Unlike me, Jude’s friend group had only grown. He’d even tried out for the football team, and as much as I hated to admit it, our lunches were beginning to grow far and few between.

Scoffing, he plucked a french fry from my plate. “I’m going. I was only hoping someone would ask me.” I caught the way his eyes narrowed, and his elbow brushing mine a second longer than usual, but I pretended to not notice.

The event in question was a Sadie Hawkins dance, which meant that girls were supposed to ask boys. It still felt silly to me. I couldn’t yet drive, and I wasn’t dating—nor was I ready to.

The dance was all in good fun, but I was struggling to have fun at all these days.

Jude gave me a goofy smile, bumping his shoulder into mine in that way he always did. “You should ask someone.”

Like you? I almost joked, but then Matthew dropped his heavy backpack on the table, tipping Jude’s water bottle over, where it managed to spill across his science homework.

It shouldn’t have felt like such a big deal—we were best friends after all. Except that lately everything about him felt foreign to me and I couldn’t figure out why. Still…

I should ask him. I was going to ask him.

From that moment, I counted the days, rehearsing the question in my head: Will you go to the dance with me? By Friday, I had my words perfectly lined up after having practiced them on my little brother, my dog, my bedroom door, and the cutout of Edward Cullen I kept in the corner.

My stomach was in a riot that morning as I walked into English class and took my seat. The dance was next Friday, and even though my mom was set to have another surgery that morning, my dad made sure to fill in my grandparents and arrange a ride to and from the school. My mom, even feeling like crap, drove me to the mall where I tried on dresses, and bought my first pair of heels.

Jude walked in and I thought I was going to puke. My palms were slick with sweat. He slid into the seat beside me.

“Morning, Sol.”

This was the moment—I was going to ask. I swallowed thickly. “Morning.”

“How’s it going?”

I opened my mouth to say it, to speak the words… and nothing. Absolutely nothing. Instead, like a fool, I just stammered, “Good… yeah it’s good. Homework was a little rough.”

“You’re telling me. If I don’t get my grade up my mom won’t let me tour NASA on winter break.”

I laughed, popping my binder open. “That would suck.” The question died a terrible death in my weak throat. I was a loser.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried. I really did. Twice more, actually. Once at lunch, and then again that night, thumb hovering over a lame text. I was just that pathetic.

It was the following week that my world came crashing down.

“Look what I got.” Jude held up a bear, with soft red ears and stitched paws. “Heather gave it to me. She asked me to the dance.”

The words hit me like cold water and my carefully constructed courage drained away in an instant. I stared at the bear, then at him, and at the empty space where my rehearsed question hung between us for an entire week.

“Oh,” I said. The room felt louder, as I gripped the edge of my desk so hard it was sure to leave an impression. I forced a note of joy into my voice. “That’s cool. You’ll have fun.”

Jude grinned, oblivious to my deflation, swinging the bear gently between us. “She said she’s been wanting to ask me for a few weeks. Crazy, right?”

I nodded, forcing a smile, pretending the sharp twist in my chest wasn’t there. For the rest of the period, I couldn’t concentrate. The words I’d planned dissolved into silence.

“Hey, did you ask anyone?” The look he gave me was expectant, as if I’d already lined it up.

“No, I can’t go,” I lied. “We have uh—family thing that day.” It was sort of the truth, and it hurt a lot less than admitting I’d planned on asking him approximately a million times if only I’d been born with a spine.

“Oh. Sounds fun.”

I nodded, giving him a faint smile.

Friday arrived, and with it, my nerves once more. I’d almost convinced my grandmother to keep us home, but she insisted it would be good for my brother and me to be distracted. As if I wasn’t already distracted enough. I sank into my usual spot in English class, beside Jude, stomach knotted as I checked the clock on the wall for the fifth time.

A few minutes later, I glanced again, pencil flicking back and forth in my hand.

“Hey are you okay?” Jude leaned in to whisper.

“Fine.” My mom’s surgery started at eight-thirty and was going to be a few hours long. I couldn’t focus, so I checked the clock again.

Twenty minutes in, the phone rang. Ms Bates picked it up, twirling the cord between her slender fingers. “Solace, you’re needed in the office.”

I froze. My heart caught in my throat. “Okay.”

“Can someone escort her?” she asked the class.

Jude’s hand shot up before anyone else could answer. “I’ll go.”

When we reached the office, my little brother, Milo, was crouched against the wall, knees hugged to his chest, eyes red.

“What’s going on?” I asked softly, but he didn’t answer. Head still lowered to his knees.

Our principal leaned out of the office. “Solace, can I have a moment?”

Nodding, I rubbed a hand over the arm Milo held wrapped around his legs. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll stay here,” Jude added, sitting down beside my brother.

Mr. Schumacher’s expression was terse, arms held tightly against his chest as he leaned against the office desk. “Sorry to disturb your class time, but we’re struggling to get in touch with your family. Your brother has started not one, but two fistfights this morning.”

I winced, glancing over my shoulder to where I could see Milo through the glass. Jude had an arm slung around his shoulders, their heads ducked low together.

“He won’t talk to us and we can’t reach your parents.”

My throat closed. “My mom… she’s having surgery this morning. My grandparents are staying with us for a few weeks. He’s not doing super well with all of it.”

Mr. Schumacher’s jaw ticked, as if he wasn’t expecting that. Hard to discipline a kid who’s already going through hell. “Is she—is she alright?”

“She has cancer.” I didn’t add that she’d already had chemotherapy and radiation and we were all a mess.

He looked pensive for a moment. “I see. I’m very sorry to hear that Solace. Do you think you could call your grandparents for us? We need to let them know, and have them pick up Milo. I think it’s best if he goes home. What about you? Would you like to go home?”

I watched Jude and Milo through the glass where they were talking. Actually talking—hands and mouth moving.

He’d hardly spoken all week to any of us.

“Solace?”

“Oh—um, yeah. I’d like to go home.” Mr. Schumacher handed me a phone, and I dialed my grandmother.

Afterward, I knelt beside my brother, wrapping my arms around him even though he hated being hugged.

Milo pressed his face into my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I held him tighter. “I’m going to go gather your things and then grab my backpack. Grandpa’s on his way to get us..”

“Am I in trouble?”

My lips thinned into a line. “No, I don’t think so. Let’s go home.”

Milo nodded, tucking his chin back into his knees. “I’ll wait.”

“Be right back.”

Jude hovered nearby, awkward in his concern, but he’d at least waited until we’d made it further down the hall and out of earshot to say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I shrugged, words about the dance, and about my strange feelings caught in my chest. “I don’t know.” Why didn’t I tell him? I’d told him everything. Even the time I peed my pants in first grade, or the time Ms. Laken made me help her shave her cat.

We walked back to class together where I gathered my things and Milo’s while Jude lingered.

Steps away from the office, he stopped me with a hand to my shoulder. “Solace, you should have told me.” He wrapped his arm around me, tugging me into his chest. “I can cancel on Heather tonight, skip the dance, and come over after school.”

My heart died a little. He would do that? For me? “No, it’s fine. Go, you’ll have fun.”

“Say something next time. I won’t let you do this alone.”

And so that was the beginning—near-misses never stopping. For a moment, I let him close enough to brush the edges of collision, even as everything else spun hopelessly out of control.

In the meantime I hope you’ll give Solace and Ransom some love. I don’t know what it is about the cusp of summer, but I find myself reaching for sci-fi, dystopian, and all the contemporary romances. This story feels like a bunch of that thrown together. A bit of what I loved about John Green novels as a teen, the film Passengers and a bit of Station Eleven. And if you watched People We Meet on Vacation, a bit of that too. The novella is structured in two major parts—before and after the end of the world. BUT I PROMISE IT ENDS HAPPY!! It’s a genre romance you guys, I swear 💗

Solace and Ransom have been missing each other their whole lives. From childhood “almosts” to adult what-ifs, their love story was built on timing that never quite worked out. That is, until the day the world ends.

She’s survived in an underground bunker on a ruined Earth. He rose through the ranks of humanity’s new spacefaring order. Separated by planets, their matter finds its way back to one another in their dreams.

When a signal suggests a bunker door has opened on toxic ground, he risks everything to go back for her. But love, like physics, has laws of its own and some connections can’t be broken. Even by the end of the world.

Satellites

Releasing June 23rd via paperback + ebook (preorder will open soon)

Some love stories burn bright, theirs kept a steady signal across the dark

I am so excited to tell you! We have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get right into it.

Starting off with The Magnificence of Death. The number one question I get most is: How do I get a signed copy? And while that request makes my heart sing, I currently do not have the bandwidth to offer signed copies. We’re (my husband and small team) is working on figuring this out and what that might look like because I would love to be able to offer them. But currently, that would mean having space to keep a large back stock and handling all the packaging/shipping. As a busy mom of two littles still trying to keep up with writing, it’s just not feasible. BUT!

BUT BUT BUT… I do have fun news to share with you soon that I am sure all of you who want a signed copy (or maybe a special hardcover hint hint) will be thrilled to hear! More on that to come, be on the lookout.

The audiobook is out. You guys are listening and enjoying and it has been really fun to chat all things audiobook with you. Thank you again, for all the love and all the support. We are only seven months into the release and have surpassed 1 million page reads and almost 4k copies sold. Which is truly CRAZY. Never in my wildest dreams…

I have three projects to share with you this evening. Yes, you read that correctly, three. One of the best things about waiting so long to publish (because… query trenches…) is that I have quite the backlist. Each story is quite different from one other but I think they all showcase my personal taste and what I’ve been hyper-fixated on as of late. I have tentative pub dates for each, as we have just gotten covers squared away and finalized this week. But just in case, I’ll be sharing the season and year instead of the date, and a bit of info about them below. I’m still keeping a couple titles up my sleeve, to be shared at a later date, but without further ado, here’s what’s on the schedule for Rhea Rainwater.

SUMMER 2026 — sci-fi dystopian romance novella

LATE FALL 2026 — dark romantic fantasy (book 1 of 2)

WINTER 2027 — stem/vampire romantasy

Summer of 2026 will bring you, TITLE TO COME SOON, a standalone sci-fi dystopian romance novella.

Some love stories burn bright, theirs kept a steady signal across the dark.

Solace and Ransom have been missing each other their whole lives. From childhood “almosts” to adult what-ifs, their love story was built on timing that never quite worked out. That is, until the day the world ends.

She has survived in an underground bunker on a ruined Earth, while he rose through the ranks of humanity’s new spacefaring order.

Separated by planets, their matter finds its way back to one another in their dreams. Conversations carried across the void through a mysterious quantum link neither of them understands, or even fully believes.

When a signal suggests a bunker door has opened on toxic ground, he risks everything to go back for her. But love, like physics, has laws of its own and some connections can’t be broken. Even by the end of the world.

Late fall of 2026 will bring you, THE SEVENTH MANOR, the first book in a dark fantasy duology. For fans of Holly Black and Rachel Gillig.

Humans do not survive the King’s Hunt. They are not meant to.

Twenty-year-old Renahlia Scarrow knows this better than anyone. Bargained away by her mother and bound to a vice broker, she has spent her life trapped in Faerie—enduring its glittering cruelty with a blade tucked up her sleeve and grave dirt in her pocket.

Each year, Faerie opens the gates of a cursed maze to honor the lost Seventh Lord. The King’s Hunt is a ritual soaked in blood, watched by six magical lords who rule with merciless ruin. This year, Renahlia is betting everything on it. If she can outrun living hedges that devour the slow, curses that turn flesh to bone, and rival contenders who kill without remorse, freedom waits at the maze’s heart. That is, if she is fast enough to escape Faerie’s hunger.

Except the Hunt offers more than death. Buried within its shifting paths are secrets long forgotten and a destiny Ren never meant to claim. What she does not expect is Wulfric Oleander, son of the Third Lord. A quiet noble drawn into the Hunt by a royal inheritance sharp enough to destroy them all, Wulfric is as dangerous as he is reluctant; his loyalty is uncertain, his growing affection worse.

As rival hunters close in and ancient magic awakens, Renahlia and Wulfric forge an uneasy alliance that threatens Faerie’s carefully constructed timeline. Because inheritance in Faerie is never a gift—it is a sentence. And by choosing her own path, Renahlia may become the very thing she was raised to fear.

Early winter of 2027 will bring you, SECRET TITLE, a standalone romantasy. For fans of Crimson Peak, The Bachelor, and Ali Hazelwood.

Blood. Love. Lust.

One feeds the body. One feeds the heart. One devours both.

Dr. Vesper Sullivan never believed in vampires.

Not until one chased her through a forest with cameras rolling.

Burned out and furious after losing her fellowship, Vesper impulsively signs up for a trashy dating show, expecting a paid vacation and a pretty face. Instead, she finds herself competing for the hand of an immortal king—one who would rather drain her than marry her.

But Vesper is a scientist first.

If he wants her blood, she wants his.

Their deal is simple: she stays on the show and lets him feed. In exchange, she studies the impossible biology running through his veins. What begins as professional curiosity spirals into something far more dangerous as court politics sharpen, contestants stake their claim, and desire tangles with survival.

The king is not the only predator on set. Caught between ambition and attraction, science and superstition, if Vesper isn’t careful, she may lose more than her heart. Because the more she studies the king’s blood, the more she begins to question what truly rules them both—and whether love is just another form of hunger.

All should be available as paperback, ebook, and audiobook. With the opportunity for special hardcovers in the future. I have gone through a lot of changes the past few months with publishing and how I’ll be doing things going forward, so I appreciate the patience and kindness as I find my footing. I am very excited about these books, as they’ve lived with me for some time, and I am thrilled to finally share them with you.

Art, title and cover reveals are coming. I have much to share soon and will be, of course, updating here first! Thanks for being here <3

Collages were made using Pinterest, where all images were sourced.

The immediate follow-up question from my friends was—what are you working on next? We all shared a laugh when I told them exactly what I was working on and that I was already beginning the drafting process. In the same few hours (after a post on IG) I got a few messages from readers and other writers asking me when I take a break or how do I seem to just keep going…

So this blog post is a reflection of those questions because I have been thinking about this a lot over the last couple days. I sit down at my desk and wonder, can I write a book? Can I write this book?

To begin, I’d like to say that there are days where I can write 12k words in one sitting, and others that I stare at the wall. Or don’t attempt to write at all. I experience weeks of dry spells, or sometimes I am an insufferable word goblin that cannot even hold a simple conversation with the world because I am stuck in another.

Writing has never been a consistent word count every day, for me.

I finished 7M on Sunday, but that book still has to go through more editing. I started drafting that book in December of 2024 and finished the first draft of it in February of 2025. It might seem like a fast turn-around, but really so many of my projects have been “on deck” for 2+ years now. The project I began on Monday will take me roughly 8ish weeks to draft, maybe less because it has a lower word count than I normally shoot for.

Seven books in, and I’ve finally given myself permission to write things bad the first time around. There will definitely be brackets like [insert fight scene here] or [lots of kissing] or DON’T FORGET TO RENAME THIS LATER. I write the first draft so it has bones and a heart I can work with, not so that it has perfect grammar and seamless character development on the first go around.

But how do I get there, to a finished draft?

My new project was an idea I had almost 2 years ago. When I had the idea I took the time to flesh out a “query” or blurb. I have talked about this a lot on my social media because when I started doing this, it changed my writing process. Essentially, I write my query first—to sell myself the book. If I can’t write a pitch-able query for an idea, that tells me it is an idea that needs to be fleshed out further. If I can write a query and successful hook, then I know the story is ready to be developed and I probably have the excitement to get it across the finish line.

After I write my query and my hook, I develop the book set up. Which usually means, asking myself what the genre is, how many words MINIMUM do I want to write, and my chapter goals. Some of these things change as I draft, but after “pantsing” two out of seven books, I have found that I have to be a plotter.

Ex: Secret Project is a romantasy, 80k words, and roughly 2,000 words per chapter.

Based on those things I know that I have roughly 40 chapters to get from the beginning to the end. So then I take those things and I plan my act structure around it.

This has taken many shapes for me over the last couple years but what I have found MOST helpful for my brain is to take painters tape and put three pieces on my wall. One for inciting incident, one for the climax, one for the resolution. Then, I take sticky notes and I write every single scene idea I have and I move them around between those points. It helps me map out what needs to happen before and after those points, and then I can split those up by chapters. If I want to take it a step further (usually for the higher fantasy stuff) I will set up my tape for a seven act structure.

It sounds crazy, I know, but it does work. Then I look at my wall and move things around as I create a chapter outline on my computer. This looks like…

CHAPTER SIX:

Characters: Sibry, Cassius, and Rasmus

Action: Rasmus tells Cassius how the production will work, Cassius and Sibry later talk about it in his rooms and he begs her to….. (no spoilers lol)

Important Pieces: Rasmus is Cassius’ cousin and could have a foothold to seize his title

Sometimes I just do a bullet point of things that need to happen in the chapter, it kind of depends on the book. But basically, if I have my act structure finished and all my scenes laid out in front of me, its mostly a matter of making sure they go where they need to go and following it as I draft.

A lot changes as I draft because the story takes me where it wants to go. But if I can go into a project knowing exactly where I need it to end up and the main points to get it there, I find it easier to draft.

To get to this point, where all of my set up is finished and I am ready to draft, the idea has already been sitting in my notes app for at least a year, if not longer. Since TMOD was released, I began editing 7M, and while I was editing 7M I was getting everything set up for the secret project. Now that I am done with 7M, I get to draft the secret project. Once it’s finished being drafted, I go back into edits with 7M and the publishing piece of it all. After that is squared away, I go into edits on secret project and begin drafting the following book.

It is a revolving door of ideas, outlines, drafts, edits. I’m still a baby in this gig, so what works for me might not work for someone else, but I am learning to find a workable rhythm.

If you’re a writer reading this, I think there’s a common misconception around timelines. We shame self-published authors for “working too quickly,” and we shame traditionally published authors for “moving too slow.” Nobody wins in that conversation, because as much as we’d like to generalize, writing is deeply personal to the individual doing it.

I have friends who’ve been working on the same book for over four years, and others who breeze through four or more books a year. Everyone has different goals, and your path with your books should be built around your goals. That’s why I’m comfortable passing on an idea if I can’t write a pitch-able query for it. Not because the idea isn’t good or worthwhile, but because it doesn’t currently align with what I want out of this career.

That approach won’t work for everyone, and it doesn’t need to. There’s nothing wrong with staying with an idea until you carve it into exactly what you want. I greatly admire my friends who have stayed with their manuscript and their world for years. I’ve loved reading every version of those stories and watching them evolve.

My very first book is something I come back to often, because I’d love to give it the time it deserves. But every time I sit down with it, there’s something I can’t quite crack. Based on my goals, it makes more sense for me to set it aside for now and explore other ideas, knowing I can always return to it when the timing feels right.

So I say all of this as someone who spent far too long measuring myself against what others were doing: Focus on your writing. Focus on your ideas. Focus on your goals.

It might take two years, or it might take six months. That doesn’t mean you have a bad book, or that you’re a terrible writer, or that you’re moving too slow or too fast. There are always variables we can’t control (traditional publishing timelines versus self-publishing, for example) but outside of those, I believe a writer’s greatest strength is knowing who they are, honing their voice, staying true to it, and owning the process that gets them there.

Care doesn’t always look like speed; diligence doesn’t always look like momentum; and doubt is part of the work, not a sign you’re doing it wrong.

On the truthful, more real side of things—I write because I feel the most like myself when I get to write. It is self-expression, it’s creativity, it’s therapy, it’s mental exercise, it’s empathy, it’s growth. I love writing and even if everything fell apart in the world and the industry ceased to exist, I would still write. I would still tell stories.

Because there will always be those who wish to listen.

So what are my thoughts after writing my seventh book?

I did it. I cannot believe I did it. I’m proud of myself for seeing another story through, and I am hopeful for where it might find its place in the world. I am thankful for all the growth and learning—thankful that I am still evolving my process and figuring things out as I go.

Even as I sat down to work on my new project this morning, I thought: This is too daunting. I can’t do it.

But the seven books that came before it looked at me from their perch in my office and said, “Shut up, yes you can.”

I’m at a stage with my next book where I’d really benefit from a very small number of alpha readers who enjoy adult fantasy and are comfortable reading an early, unpolished draft.

This would be big-picture feedback, not line edits: pacing, character engagement, emotional impact, clarity, and what’s working (or not) at a foundational level. I’ll be sharing the manuscript in stages and with clear guidance, so no one is going in blind. Alpha readers will receive a small mood board and the first three chapters before the rest of the manuscript to gauge interest.

This is very much a quiet, limited ask, and I’m being intentional about who I invite in at this stage. So if you:

• enjoy adult or romantic fantasy

• are comfortable reading rough drafts

• like giving honest, thoughtful feedback

• and realistically have time over the next few weeks

You’re welcome to express interest HERE

Filling out the form does not guarantee selection. As I said, I am only looking for 2-3 readers, but it does help me make sure this is a good fit on both sides. I appreciate everyone’s enthusiasm about my work and the next novel, but at this time in the process I am searching for readers who enjoy this piece of the puzzle and ultimately have time to provide feedback in a timely manner. I will review responses and reach out if so.

No pressure at all. Thank you for reading and for being here.

A little about the book:

The first book in a duology, The Seventh Manor is an adult romantic fantasy with crossover appeal, blending lush, atmospheric prose and thoughtful world-building reminiscent of Holly Black’s The Cruel Prince and Rachel Gillig’s One Dark Window with the dark political intrigue and high-stakes magical competition of Carissa Broadbent’s The Serpent and the Wings of Night. A fractured fairytale at heart: what happens when the princess grows tired of waiting for the knight on the pale white horse and realizes she has always dreamed of being the knight herself? Everyone ends up poisoned, of course! Featuring a fiercely flawed heroine clawing toward freedom and a layered slow-burn romance between two long-lost childhood best friends turned enemies, the novel delivers creeping danger, emotional depth, and lethal tension in a richly imagined and eerie world.

Humans do not survive the King’s Hunt. They are not meant to.

Twenty-year-old Renahlia Scarrow knows this better than anyone. Bargained away by her mother and bound by enchantment to a tyrant, she has spent her life trapped in Faerie—enduring its glittering cruelty with a blade tucked up her sleeve and salt held beneath her tongue.

Each year, Faerie opens the gates of a cursed maze to honor the lost Seventh Lord. The King’s Hunt is a ritual soaked in blood, watched by six magical lords who rule with merciless ruin. This year, Renahlia is betting everything on it. If she can outrun living hedges that devour the slow, curses that turn flesh to stone, and rival contenders who kill without remorse, freedom waits at the maze’s heart. That is, if she is fast enough to escape Faerie’s hunger.

But the Hunt offers more than death. Buried within its shifting paths are secrets long forgotten and a destiny Ren never meant to claim. What she does not expect is Wulfric Oleander, son of the Third Lord. A quiet noble drawn into the Hunt by a royal inheritance sharp enough to destroy them all, Wulfric is as dangerous as he is reluctant; his loyalty is uncertain, his growing affection worse.

As rival hunters close in and ancient magic awakens, Renahlia and Wulfric forge an uneasy alliance that threatens Faerie’s carefully constructed timeline. Because inheritance in Faerie is never a gift—it is a sentence. And by choosing her own path, Renahlia may become the very thing she was raised to fear.

The audiobook for The Magnificence of Death is coming! You guys have been here for it all. From the book’s initial release here on Substack, to its release through Amazon and all of the amazing stuff that’s happened since. If anyone deserves the news first—it’s you.

Podium picking up the audiobook was truly a dream come true for me, and I am so very excited to share that The Magnificence of Death audiobook will release on February 3rd, 2026.

Astoria is brought to life by the lovely Chelsea Stephens.

Death is voiced by the talented Dallin Bradford.

I cannot wait for you all to experience the story in this way. Keep refreshing Audible because the pre-order will be live very very soon!

Atlin Scarrow was a dreamer. A chaser. A boy wishing for magic with the guts to go and find it. He’d left home young, leaving behind his mother and brother to embark on his own grand adventure. Now, working as a shepherd, he spent his days patrolling the stone wall that divided the two worlds. It was an easy enough position—one hardly anyone wanted, given its close proximity to the folk.

But Atlin was not just anyone. He wore a mop of raven-feather hair atop his head and had wide fawn-eyes forever mesmerized by the shimmering curtain between his realm and the other. It called to him the way a moth is drawn to flame. Wonder lived in his gaze.

One day, as Atlin was gathering the sheep, he came upon a merchant’s carriage. Yet this carriage was not built of maple and iron. It was constructed of roots as thick as his arm, curled around themselves until the whole thing resembled a hollowed pumpkin. And inside sat a young, terribly beautiful woman—weeping.

He knew the stories. He could recite the lore from memory. And if he had any sense at all, he would have turned right around and sworn he’d seen nothing. But Atlin was neither sane nor sensible.

He was a dreamer.

So he climbed the grassy knoll, his feet carrying him to the forest’s edge, and called out to the woman.

“Why do you cry, beloved?”

He wasn’t sure whether she was human or not, but better to grace her with a lovely title than call her what she might be. Fae. They despised the names his kind had given them. In their minds, they were not faerie or folk. They simply were. Magic, adventure, enchantment, wonder…

They liked to be endeared, held in higher esteem than their mortal counterparts. And why shouldn’t they, he thought.

She was turned away from him, hunched with her hands wrapped around a root. Her hair was the shade of honey, falling down her back in thick braids with moss woven throughout.

“Are you all right?” he called again, placing a hand against the roots. There was no horse to pull it, and no wheels. The longer he studied the carriage, the more he realized it was never a carriage at all, but a cage. “How do I free you?”

“Leave me,” the woman whispered, her voice hoarse.

“I will not.” He pulled at the branches, calloused hands searching for a weakness, but found none. “It won’t open,” he muttered, knocking his shepherd’s crook against the wood.

“It won’t,” she agreed, turning to face him.

Her beauty stopped him mid-motion. She seemed touched by fortune (perhaps even favored) as though she carried a warm summer day within her. Golden hair, wisps of it curling around her face. High cheekbones and a smatter of freckles kissing her nose. And when at last his gaze met hers, he nearly fell against the bars of her gilded prison, breath stolen clean from his lungs. Her eyes were as vast and blue as the gentle waves of the sea.

“You are human,” he murmured—mostly to himself, though the words escaped aloud.

“She is, and she is mine,” a sickly voice called from somewhere beyond.

The young woman turned away again, but not before Atlin saw a tear slip down her cheek, her shoulders hunching as if under an unseen weight.

“What is she to you?” he called into the woods.

But no answer came.

“I say—what good is she to you?”

“You say, yet I do not listen. You call, but I do not dare answer. For you—you are nothing at all.” ​​The voice belonged not to a ghost, nor a creature, nor even some lurking monster, but a woman with skin the shade of the very grass his sheep fed on. Her hair hung in heavy sheets of stringy clay, something that resembled hair no more than it did straw. She was nude, her form misshapen: knotted knees, arms far too long, sweeping toward the earth as she approached. Her teeth were rotten, bared in a sneer.

“Leave us, wishling.”

Atlin straightened, tightening his grip around his crook as though it were a sword. He had never seen one of the folk before. All he knew came from stories, pages, whispered warnings. And he knew a great deal. Yet nothing he’d read compared to the reality of their flesh. What was she?

“What is she to you?” he demanded. “You forbid me to ask—very well. But what if, instead, we bargain, fairest?”

The faerie regarded him down the length of her nose, as though she could not quite understand him. He had not run. He had not cowered. He had not even flinched. Atlin stood as straight as his body would allow, gaze fixed on the creature who kept a woman caged.

“A bargain, you say, wishling.” She paused, eyes darting between the weeping woman and him. “Nay… you have nothing I want.”

“Who are you to say what I have?”

“I am not,” she drawled, her voice scratchy as old bark, “but you see, I seek beauty.” She turned toward her prize. “She will fetch me many, many years of youth.”

Years? Of youth?

If the color drained from his face, he did his best not to show it. The creature meant to take the years from this woman. Her beauty, her life. He looked at the captive again. Her head was still turned away, forehead pressed to a root. She wore no shoes, and the hem of her dress was filthy. Not that Atlin cared; he was a shepherd, after all…

But it made him wonder. Had she fallen prey to one of their games? Had she signed away her beauty in some cruel twist of fate?

Did that matter?

No. It did not.

“What might I trade for her?” he asked.

The creature’s expression shifted to delight, hands clasping together. Her fingers were so long they tapped against the opposite wrists, which were dressed in gold bangles and ropes of pearls.

“A life for a life. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“I shall trade,” he said. “A life for a life.”

The woman shrieked, turning toward them, horror etched into her perfect features. “No, you can’t.”

He set his jaw, firmer than before, and thrust his hand toward the creature. “But grant me until dawn. I must set my affairs in order.”

She glanced down at his hand, then up at him again. “In blood.”

Atlin drew the small knife from his pocket and cut a thin line across his palm.

“Place your hand on the root. It shall open for you at dawn. She will be released then. A life for a life.”

“A life for a life,” he echoed, bowing his head. Atlin pressed his hand to the root nearest the woman, meeting her gaze through the woven bars. “I will be back for you,” he promised.

The woman sobbed harder, and the creature laughed.

When Atlin returned at dawn, he found the carriage exactly as he’d left it. The woman was in the same position, curled around the same root—only now she looked cold, frozen through. Light was only moments away, the first rays of sun gently climbing the hill behind them. His sheep followed in tow as he moved slowly, taking in the morning.

The woman stirred as he approached her cage, one eye opening. “Please don’t do this,” she whispered, fully waking. She crawled toward him, reaching her fingers through the roots. “I’ve gotten myself into this mess—I can get myself out.”

“I do not doubt your cleverness,” he said softly, “but my word is given. Where is the keeper of the bargain?”

“She sleeps,” she breathed, nodding toward the shadowed wood.

“Good.” Atlin reached for the same root he’d touched with his blood earlier, and with his other hand took hold of the sheep’s collar. The roots shuddered. Then they began to part, slow and deliberate, almost serpentine.

“As promised,” he said, guiding the sheep inside. “A life for a life.”

The roots opened just enough, he thrust the sheep inside and grabbed the woman’s wrist, pulling her out of the narrow opening. The wood closed instantly with a hungry snap, trapping the sheep where he should have stood.

A furious cry tore through the forest, and something hideous and terrible burst from the shadows too late. “Wishling! You tricked me, you nasty, deceitful—”

“You should have chosen your words more carefully,” he said, threading his fingers through the woman’s and dragging her away.

They fled down the hill, the faerie lumbering after them, long arms sweeping through the grass. Sheep scattered as she chased them further from her trap.

“There—in there!” the woman cried, pointing back toward the edge of the forest.

Atlin’s gaze snapped to the short stone wall marking the boundary he had patrolled every day. Beyond it, the trees shimmered with a veil of soft, rippling light.

“What? Into Faerie?” he breathed.

“Yes! She cannot enter without her youth. She is as cursed as I was damned.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Please.”

The faerie shrieked behind them.

Atlin did not hesitate. He climbed over the wall and reached back, hands circling the woman’s waist as he hoisted her over. Her bare feet touched the ground on the other side, and together they raced through magic and shadow, light tracing their fleeing figures.

“What is your name?” he finally asked.

“Cinna,” she replied. “And you? My brave and noble hero?”

“Atlin.” He looked at her then as though he had found purpose wading through the depths of her eyes. Her name was as mesmerizing as she. “Where to now, Cinna?”

“Wherever we dream.”

I brushed a hand down the plane of his stomach. “Do you do this with all your collected wayward souls?”

Grim laughed. “No.”

“Did you just snort?”

He gripped me harder, fingers digging between ribs to hit that spot that always made me squirm. “I did no such thing.”

“You definitely did—you snorted.”

“I definitely did not, but even if I had—what you said was funny. You’re the only soul I would allow naked in my sheets. Or to touch me with freezing toes.”

It was endlessly fun to tease him. Even after two and a half centuries, he was still so serious.

Grim ran circles over my flesh, fingers itching further down the base of my spine. “Happy Birthday,” he whispered, lips brushing my temple.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. Birthdays, holidays, and all the in-betweens felt strange. I felt like a thousand different women in one body. Some memories were hazy, softened by the passage of time. But I still had my core—the parts of me that had made the choices leading to this moment.

“Are you ready for breakfast?” he asked, gently climbing out from under me. He sat at the edge, pulling a white t-shirt on over his head.

I watched the muscles in his back stretch.

“I’m ready for you to come back to bed.”

“Are you now?” He took one step away, and I immediately missed his warmth.

“Grim,” I warned.

He paused, half turned, the corner of his mouth curving. “If I get back in that bed, birthday breakfast will be very, very late.”

“Oh no,” I deadpanned. “Tragic. Whatever shall we do.”

“There’s tea steeping,” he murmured. “And I made those berry scones you like.”

“You mean the ones you say you make for me, but actually eat half of before I get to them?”

He lifted a brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I rolled onto my back, stretching beneath the quilt. “Sure you don’t.”

He huffed a laugh—almost another snort—and crossed back to the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, the scent of amber and morning cold clinging to him as he hovered over me.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

His smile softened. “I do,” he said, bracing one hand beside my head, the other smoothing down my hip as if he was memorizing the shape of me all over again. “I love you,” he added, quieter this time, like the words were a secret only the old timbers of the cottage were permitted to overhear.

Heat curled low in my stomach. “Then stay,” I whispered.

A beat passed—just long enough for me to see the war in his eyes. Duty versus desire. Eternal habit versus the simple want of being here with me, in this bed, in this sliver of a morning where nothing required him. But then he sighed, the sound soft and resigned to the inevitable, and let his weight settle alongside me again. The warmth of him seeped back into my bones.

“You’re going to ruin the tea,” he murmured against my jaw.

“I’ll forgive myself.”

He laughed under his breath, his nose brushing my cheek as he pressed closer. “You’re terrible.”

“You’ve had centuries to learn that.”

“And still,” he said, fingers tracing slow patterns at the base of my spine, “I am undone by you every time.”

My breath hitched. The cottage felt too small for the way he said it, like he was naming a truth I hadn’t let myself feel fully until now.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered again, and kissed me—slow, unhurried, with the kind of tenderness that made the world beyond the quilt and his arms feel impossibly distant.

This time, I didn’t swallow the lump in my throat. I let it be there. Let it remind me I was alive—every lifetime of me—and that he had chosen me in all of them.

When we finally made it out of bed, it was to the smell of bitter tea and warm butter. Candles flickered on the coffee table, where Grim set down our simple breakfast. He knew I didn’t care for the fuss.

I’d given a lot of thought to how I might die. For years I imagined the moment—not out of dread, but out of yearning. When you’re immortal, the one thing you can never have becomes the thing you dream of most. It used to hang over me like a storm cloud, shaping every step with its shadow. Now it’s simply a truth I’ve learned to live beside. I bargained my soul for the breaking of a curse, and he gave it to me—and so much more. Years more. Love in armfuls. A life stitched with moments I never thought I’d get to keep.

“Don’t eat too fast,” he said. “Or you’ll burn your tongue again.”

“I can handle it,” I replied, taking a small bite. The sweetness hit my tongue, the warmth of the oven still lingering in the crust. “These are perfect.”

“Of course they are,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite me. “I made them myself, for you.”

“You ate half before I even saw them,” I pointed out.

“I maintain that I was quality-testing.” He smirked, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

We ate slowly, the cottage quiet except for the occasional crackle of the fire. I watched him sip his tea, the cup cradled in his long fingers, and felt a strange ache that was all warmth and belonging. I was here. Fully here. And he was here with me.

Once breakfast was over, he rose, and I followed suit. He moved toward the window, pulling the curtains aside, letting the morning light flood the room. “We should get ready,” he said. “There’s work to do.”

He chose his usual uniform, and I matched him in my own—stealing another sweater from his side of the closet. My stomach twisted with nerves, as it always did when I accompanied him. It was easy to carve out little moments for ourselves, which made the larger task bearable: tending to the duty he had been given. Each day, though, I felt a renewed sense of purpose and admiration—for Death, for what he endured, and for what he gave.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, rubbing Reaper between the ears as I laced my boots.

I smiled at them. “Always.”

“You’ll do just fine,” he said, certainty threading his words.

We stepped outside together. The air was crisp, the world waking around us. He looked at me briefly, that same weightless patience in his gaze that had haunted and comforted me for so long. And I understood, without words that this was my place now. Beside him, in this work, in this life, and in whatever eternity awaited. One broken curse, for one forever: ours.

Q: Why did you choose Death as a character?

A: Death has always fascinated me—not as a figure of fear, but as a presence that carries both inevitability and quiet beauty. The last decade of my life has been shaped by a lot of near-death experiences, and at the time of writing this book I was on a journey of making sense of it. Which I know is funny considering Astoria was immortal, but I wanted Grim to be someone who embodies the gravity of death but also its unexpected tenderness. He’s eternal, mysterious, and yes, a little terrifying—but he’s also the version of Death that gives our human lives meaning.

Q: Did you always know how the story would end?

A: I had a sense of the emotional destination from early on—the betrayal, Astoria’s growth, the breaking of the curse, and the nature of her relationship with Grim—but many details evolved as I wrote. Sometimes the story surprises even me, which I think keeps it honest and alive.

Q: Which part of the story is your favorite?

A: I love the generational threads—the way the choices of women before Astoria ripple into her life. It’s heartbreaking and beautiful, and it really emphasizes that the past is never just past; it shapes everything we do. I wanted to touch on generational trauma, especially through the lens of women’s endurance. I think at some point or another we all look at our mothers and grandmothers and see our habits and personalities in them. Sometimes they’re good, sometimes they’re not. I wanted to explore that deeper. My second answer to this, is the ball scene. I love the scene where she gives him a name. When I wrote that, everything started to change.

Q: Is there a character you identify with most, or do you have a favorite?

A: Favorite character? Day. He was my favorite to write because he’s the most UNLIKE me. I am such a melancholy person, and he’s joy and sunshine in a bottle. I think about him the most, surprisingly enough. But the character I identify most with is probably Astoria. In a small and quiet way.

Q: Astoria fulfilled her life dream due to Grim’s sacrifice but also because of Gentry’s love. Do you think Gentry’s decision to love Astoria knowing she loved Grim was a sacrifice?

A: This is a really thoughtful question, I believe love is always a kind of sacrifice. To love someone fully requires vulnerability, humility, and the willingness to put their needs and happiness alongside—or sometimes even above—your own. Without a doubt, Gentry’s love is selfless in a quiet, human way. He loved Astoria fully, even knowing Death loved her too and that she was once a wife and mother. His choice reflects courage, generosity, and a deep understanding that love doesn’t always conform to fairness or expectation. It’s not a matter of replacing anyone; it’s about carrying all those experiences forward and allowing new love to exist alongside memory.

Q: Grim was my favorite character because he felt so human. I know he was intended that way through his arc and the bits we get about him at the cottage. But, was he always Death or was he human and became Death? Will we get a backstory for him and the other absolutes?

A: When I first wrote Death, he was just the embodiment. Just there. Same with the other absolutes, it wasn’t until I was toward the end of the draft that I realized that they felt like they had once been human and then were giving duty. I am open to the idea of an Absolutes novella, but I have no current plans for it.

Q: How did you manage to write such a heavy book without being completely weighed down? The themes are dark but not once did I ever think it was too much. I felt so much hope throughout.

A: Thank you so much for this. I will say: it was not without tears. When I say I wrote this through my own journey of grief, I truly mean it. There are highs and there are lows. For me, even when the themes are dark, the story is always rooted in connection, resilience, and small moments of grace. Writing Astoria and Grim’s relationship, the humor, the tenderness, and the glimpses of life helped carry the weight. Darkness becomes bearable when it’s balanced with hope, love, and the belief that even in impossible circumstances, growth and light are possible.

Q: What is the significance of Astoria being “the same” as Grim in terms of power when she heals him after he gets attacked by the wraiths?

A: When I was shaping Astoria’s curse and the threads in Fate’s book, I wanted to explore the different versions of ourselves—how life offers many paths, and what truly matters is the choices we make. In that sense, Astoria becomes Death’s equal. She embodies the one thing Grim has longed for: a true companion. But in his arrogance and narrow-mindedness, he makes decisions that complicate that connection—and further complicates it when he realizes that for her to be that version of herself with him, she would have to sacrifice everything she’s ever wanted. It’s a moment of both power and tragedy, showing how love, desire, and responsibility can collide in ways that are beautiful and painful all at once.

Thank you so much for all your thoughtful questions! It’s been a joy to revisit the story, explore its themes, and see the book through your eyes. Your curiosity, insights, and love for these characters make sharing this world even more special.

So I thought I’d share some of the short and sweet notes.

Dear Astoria,

I hope you slept well, my star. I will be in and out. Home for dinner, I promise. Give Reaper a treat for me, will you?

I love you, G

Dear Stori,

I hated dinner. There—I said it. You were kind to eat it anyway, even though I know you slipped pieces to Reaper under the table. The cottage assured me the salt ratio was correct, but I fear my tongue may never recover. I only hope yours doesn’t burn as mine does today.

Yours,

Grim

Dear Astoria,

Ask me how long I sat on the edge of our bed and stared at your backside… The answer is far too long. Feodora was moments away from knocking down the bedroom door to drag me to the dullest gathering imaginable, but it was a risk I was more than willing to take.

Today’s note is of utmost importance, because it must be said: you have the most perfect ass.

– G

My Tempest,

Have I gotten lazy writing these? Do they still bring a smile to your face? I guess I shall check back in soon for the answer.

Be good.

Astoria Devlin Tempest,

Guess where I found Reaper this morning? Slurping the coffee from my mug during the three seconds I stepped away. If I fall ill, I shall blame you entirely. (I cannot fall ill, but I digress…)

I would like to remind you that I did not agree to a dog. You are simply fortunate that you are unbearably beautiful.

Sincerely,

Grim: a most remorseful and begrudged pet owner

Astoria,

Day has informed me I “scowled too loudly” today. I didn’t know that was possible, but apparently it is. I told him that it was because I wished to be back in bed beside you. He pretended to puke.

G.

You’re lovely, and I wish I could take back the last century of hurt.

Grim

Stori,

You’re asleep beside me, hand tucked beneath your chin, head resting gently in my lap. I was reading to you, and you fell asleep. I think these are the moments I might miss most…

I didn’t know that it could feel this quiet. I have watched love be a loud and ugly thing at times. But nobody told me it was also this—brushing strands of hair from your face and memorizing the pattern of your breath. I think I get it now.

I don’t want it to end.

With what I know of love—you have mine.

Grim

Astoria Devlin Tempest,

Your dog—YOUR DOG—has eaten my left boot. I repeat: the left one. Not both. No. Just the left.

Sincerely,

Grim: Today’s victim of canine sabotage

Astoria,

You said my hair looked nice today. I have not stopped thinking about it. I am ashamed to admit how much that single comment improved my mood. Or how often I thought of you in my sweater this morning.

Do not abuse this power.

Grim

Astoria,

I saw you reading on the couch, ankles tucked under you, hair a little wild. I almost tripped over nothing. This is becoming a problem.

Devotedly,
G

Tonight, I’ll be doing a Q&A-style interview about the book with questions sent in by readers, and tomorrow is Astoria’s big day—also the last day of the paperback sale! That’s when the bonus chapter will drop, and the winner of the gifting giveaway will be announced.

I can’t thank you enough for being here and for reading. Thank you for making Astoria’s birthday so special, and for filling the last four months of my life with so much magic. This experience has been truly incredible, and I’m so grateful to share it with all of you.

Xx

Rhea

Many authors are firmly against it, and I understand why—but with this book, I find myself in a peculiar place. The story never really ends in my head. These moments didn’t make it into the final draft not because they lacked meaning, but because they echoed beats already explored elsewhere, or they didn’t carry the narrative weight other scenes accomplished more cleanly. Still, each one holds a special place in my heart. To me, they happened. They live in the full scope of Astoria and Death’s story, and that’s why I don’t mind sharing them here with you.

It’s funny—I still find myself reaching for my pen to jot down a memory I don’t remember living, because they’re their memories. Revisiting them feels like greeting old friends and catching up after time apart.

This next scene is the one I wrestled with for weeks. Many of you will probably read it and feel relieved. But I want to be clear: it was left out because it wasn’t essential to the heart of the story, nor to Astoria’s arc. Even though it carries a great deal of emotional significance—and may feel like the tidy bow some of you hoped for—it ultimately wasn’t the focus I wanted for her or for the story.

So, without further ado, here is the scene that was carefully cut from the final draft. First from Astoria’s perspective… and then from Death’s. This would have been at the end, before the final chapter and epilogue.

ASTORIA’S POV:

It was funny—how having a clock to race against made you live as if there was nothing left to lose. I started saying yes to things I’d always been too afraid to try, stretching myself beyond the limits I’d once clung to. When your time is dwindling, complacency feels like a kind of death.

Which is why, after years of filling journal after journal, I finally worked up the courage to call Ira. I worried he wouldn’t remember me, but the moment he answered he said, “I wondered when I’d finally hear from you.”

Gentry and I had been dating a year when Ira invited us to New York to meet and look over my journals. He didn’t know they weren’t fiction—not truly. He thought they were fantastical stories, not the raw record of my own life: my failures and fears, my small victories, the heartache of losing my children, the dread of waking each morning without them. Grim bled through those pages, his love staining everything he touched.

“You texted Day, right?” Gentry called from the other room of our hotel suite.

Mid–stroke of blush, I typed quickly. Yep, texted him.

“Just now?” Gentry poked his head around the doorway, looking me over.

“He’s Time. It doesn’t matter,” I told him.

He was stressed—nothing new. We still had an hour and a half before meeting Ira, and Gentry had specifically booked a hotel just a few blocks from his office.

“How is it that I’m the one with the important meeting, yet you’re sweating through your suit?” I teased.

A knock sounded at the door. Gentry’s footsteps clicked across the tile floor as he went to answer it.

“Who is it?” I asked, touching up the last bit of mascara.

He closed the door softly, then reappeared in the bathroom doorway. His lips were drawn thin, “Are you ready? We have visitors.”

My stomach plunged. I set my compact aside, smoothed my dress, and stepped into the sitting room.

Day stood off to the side with Fortune clutching his arm. But my gaze snapped to the small sofa and the woman and man sitting there, a teenager between them.

In an instant, they were on their feet.

I kicked off my heels and ran.

Piper reached me first, pulling me into her arms as Ishani wrapped herself around my middle and Sanjay gathered both of us close.

“What—how—?” I choked out, already sobbing.

“Time,” Piper said, nodding shakily toward Day. “He told us everything.” Her voice cracked, her perfectly winged liner streaking down her cheeks. “We missed you so much, Astoria.”

“We were worried sick,” Sanjay added. “We searched for months. Even hired a private investigator.” Piper thumped him in the stomach, and he winced with a crooked smile.

Ishani lingered last, her smile trembling, brow creased. I knelt and swept her into my arms. She felt so fragile, her smooth, bald head pressing against my cheek. Four years. Four precious years she almost didn’t have.

“I missed you,” I whispered, kissing her temple.

Regina didn’t deserve what Grim stole from her—but I had been as selfish that day as I’d been when I let Death trade Beatrice for James.

“The stories you told me… they were yours?” Ishani murmured.

“Yes,” I breathed. “They were mine—are mine.”

I let myself sink into their love and our messy, tearful reunion as I told them everything, from the very beginning. From that day on, the Kapoors became a fixed point in my life, alongside Gentry, Day, Feo, and Fortune.

They visited us; we visited them. It was imperfect and beautiful. And I was thankful for every damn minute.

Even when Death appeared, just as he had seven years earlier, my heart was lighter. Ishani had lived a radiant life. Three years after our reunion, she passed peacefully in her sleep. Her fight with cancer had finally come to an end.

It began with a phone call from Piper, who called to tell us that Ishani was back in the hospital and struggling after surgery. Gentry helped me pack my bags and I boarded the first flight to the States, begging Time—and even Death—for this one last gift.

When I reached her door, the number thirteen stared back at me. Instead of dread, I was filled with a quiet peace I couldn’t bring myself to name. Grim sat beside her bed, her small hand clutched in his. Ishani’s eyes flicked to me, lighting with that familiar golden warmth.

If I hadn’t been so frantic to reach her, I might have startled at the sight of him—but somehow, it felt right. Natural. As if we were always meant to meet here, like this.

“You’re here,” she whispered, her voice thin and raspy.

Grim’s lips tightened, something unreadable passing through his gaze as he looked me over. He rose slowly, stepping back to make room as I approached.

I pressed a kiss to her clammy skin. “I’m here.”

“I’m ready, Stori,” she murmured. “I’m tired.”

The words cracked something inside me. I couldn’t begin to fathom the depth of her suffering. Her battle had been so long. I remembered my own exhaustion…

The bone-deep ache, the heaviness in my veins, the way the fight hollowed you out from the inside.

“I know, sweetheart.” I rested my cheek against hers as fat, heavy tears slipped down my face. I had never been able to let anyone go without protest. Even now, my fingers trembled against her skin, aching with the instinct to call on my curse—to pull her back, to keep her here.

But this time… there would be no saving.

I drew a slow breath and lifted my head. Across the bed, Grim was already watching me. His expression was unreadable but there was something else flickering underneath. A quiet understanding. A shared grief. A recognition that we both knew what came next.

Our eyes held.

Something inside me softened, then broke, and finally accepted.

I exhaled shakily, my bottom lip trembling as I whispered, “Take care of her.”

Grim stepped forward—carefully, as if crossing some sacred boundary—and offered me his hand while his other still held hers.

“Always,” he said.

DEATH’S POV:

Time had warned me she was coming. He hadn’t said the words outright—he rarely did—but the way he lingered in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, told me enough.

Ishani Kapoor was nearing her end.

I had been with her for hours, longer than I usually allowed myself. Children often made death quieter, gentler. They walked toward it without the dread adults carried like armor. But Ishani—she clung to life like it was stitched into her skin. Even now, drifting in and out, she kept her hand wrapped around mine with surprising strength.

She knew I was there. They always did, at the end.

But she feared nothing. Her breath rattled. Her eyelids fluttered. Her pulse flickered like a candle in a draft, fighting to stay lit.

I tightened my fingers around hers.

“I’m not afraid,” she whispered once, hours ago, when consciousness had still been kind to her. “Stori told me not to be.”

Stori.

Astoria Devlin Tempest, the only living soul who had ever looked at me and refused to surrender. The girl who had bartered life for life, believing she could outmaneuver the balance. The woman who had turned my existence inside out with every reckless prayer.

It had been seven years since I last saw her. Seven years since she bargained with me. Defied me. Hated me. Needed me. Seven years, and still she lived inside the hollow under my ribs like a stubborn echo.

When the door down the hall opened, I knew it was her before her footsteps even reached us. Shadows bent around her—my realm leaning toward her like a magnet.

Ishani stirred. “Stori…?”

Then Astoria appeared in the doorway.

And my entire world stilled.

She looked older, yes—time had carved new stories into her face. But she was still unmistakably herself. The same wildfire eyes. The same defiant tilt to her chin. The same softness she tried, so desperately, to bury.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

Her breath hitched as I rose, stepping back so she could take Ishani’s other side. Watching her touch the girl’s forehead felt like watching wishing on a star made flesh.

“I’m here,” she murmured.

Ishani melted into her hand. “I’m ready, Stori. I’m tired.”

Astoria folded, grief spilling out of her in quiet, aching tremors. I could feel the pull of her even from across the bed—an instinctive reaching, a desperate grasp toward a power that she no longer held. But this was not a soul she was allowed to keep.

And she knew it.

Her fingers shook with the effort not to try.

Finally, she lifted her eyes to mine.

The room shifted around us, the way it always had whenever we were forced into each other’s orbit. Quiet pressed in. Shadows holding their breath. Even the heart monitor began to pause between beats.

“Take care of her,” she whispered.

Not a command. Not a bargain. Not a plea.

It was trust. Unbearably fragile, undeserved, and still she placed it in my hands. I stepped toward her slowly, knowing that what I approached was sacred. With Ishani’s hand in one of mine, I took Astoria’s in the other.

Waning life in one palm.

Warm, defiant, living magic in the other.

“Always,” I murmured.

It was the only answer I could give her, because even if the universe wrote its laws in stone… I had always broken first for her.

I want to share these scenes from a place of honesty, not correction. I’m genuinely proud of how the book ends—it’s the landing I fought for, the shape the story demanded, and the place Astoria and Death’s arc felt truest to me. These moments I’m sharing weren’t cut because they didn’t “fit” or because I doubted the ending; they’re simply pieces of the story that lived quietly in the margins. Sharing them isn’t about giving readers the ending they felt they missed—it’s about opening a window into the creative process, the stray scenes and secret memories that make storytelling feel alive and personal and wonderfully messy. As some of you who’ve been here from the very beginning already know: this was a strange story. It arrived strangely, unfolded strangely, and carved its own path in ways none of my other books ever have. Even the road to publication felt a little crooked and charmed in its own way. And I’m grateful for every odd, unexpected step of that journey.

This story means more to me than I can easily put into words, and I’m deeply thankful that you’re here to share it with me.

Xx

Rhea

Here’s your warning that if you have yet to read the book, please don’t read any further as there may be spoilers.

As part of Astoria’s birthday celebration week, I wanted to share something special: deleted scenes that never made it into the book. Today I’m sharing a moment that shaped her relationship with Death—and her understanding of the Tempest curse—more than any other, but it didn’t quite fit the final structure. It’s raw, tragic, and beautifully messy. Perfect for her. This scene was originally a continuation of the very first time she met Death. After the accident with Beatrice, she thinks of his warning and shares their next encounter.

You’d think a warning like his would’ve been enough. That I’d accept the limits he’d given me and leave the rest to fate. But I did not. Could not. The Tempest curse had given me nothing but time—time to wonder, time to ache, time to imagine what might be possible if I dared. And in all that empty, echoing time, one truth gleamed like a single dim lantern in the dark: I could take back what Death tried to steal.

All I had to do was bargain with the magic. A life for a life.

***

Death met me again a year later.

I was assisting the birth of our groundskeeper’s wife, in a small house at the edge of the estate. The girl was born first—tiny, wriggling, and wailing. Her brother came moments later, silent and blue.

I didn’t think of the curse then. Only of saving him.

“Please,” I whispered, holding his limp, cooling body. “Please don’t take him.” My hands glowed before I even realized what I was doing. His chest stuttered, then rose. His skin warmed from frost-bitten blue to flushed pink. He came back with a gasp that felt like a miracle—and behind me, the crying stopped.

The girl, his twin…

Her life flickered out like a candle snuffed.

Only then did I understand the weight of the bargain.

Panicked, I took her from her mother, begging the magic to work again, to take me, to undo itself. But the curse had already chosen. Her fate was sealed the moment her brother drew the breath I’d given him.

That was when he appeared. The room froze: the mother’s tears caught mid-fall, the midwife’s arms around the baby boy. Even the air stilled. The door blew open with a violent gust of wind, and Death stepped inside, fury radiating from him like heat.

“Astoria Devlin Tempest,” he growled. “What have you done?”

They were of course the same words he’d spoken a year before, but heavier now. Condemnation disguised as accusation. Stones sinking to the bottom of a river.

There was little point arguing. I was hollowed by grief; he was blistered with rage. He had warned me and I had not listened. Some foolish corner of my mind had believed the next time would be different. That mercy would not demand a sacrifice.

But how could a gift so beautiful damn someone in the same breath?

It wasn’t fair.

He lectured me again about balance, about inevitability, about the inescapable cost. It is not a gift, he said. It is a curse. You are cursed. As if I didn’t already know. But I still believed he was wrong. Death wanted what he could not have—what I refused to relinquish. I was the one thing his power could not fully control. The wall he could not move.

So I kept using my gift. I saved who I could, unable to ignore the pull of the magic or the desperate voices begging for another chance. It was a tide I could not outrun. And every time the water dragged me under—every time— I came face to face with Death.

There’s more to come! Over the next few days, I’ll be sharing additional deleted scenes, including perspectives from both Astoria and Death, as well as some of Death’s personal notes to Astoria from their time at the cottage. All of these pieces will build toward a special bonus chapter, celebrating Astoria’s birthday this Saturday—so stay tuned, and prepare for a deeper look into her story and the moments that didn’t make it into the final draft.

“What do you win for your martyrdom, Astoria?”

She drew a quiet breath. I counted the seconds she held it. Four, five, six. No matter how many times I tried to break myself of that habit, I never could. As if knowing the rhythm of her lungs might somehow fix the way my own had learned to fill only for her.

“I’m not a martyr.”

“Aren’t you?” My voice came out softer than I intended, but the edge was still there. She sure as hell acted like one. “As often as I’ve wished for your death, one does not need to die to make a martyr of oneself.”

Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. I used to find that nervous habit irritating; now I couldn’t stop watching it any more than I could stop counting her breaths. She opened her mouth, her eyes narrowing—

“You push aside your own needs out of some self-righteous instinct,” I said, cutting in before she could speak. “What do you gain by staying meek and chained to your curse? What will it take for you to finally believe you’re worth more than—”

I broke off, the words burning at the back of my throat. Throwing my arms up, I crossed them behind my head and turned away. Astoria wasn’t a martyr in the storybook sense. She didn’t die for a cause. She lived through tragedy over and over, and somewhere along the way, she’d decided she deserved it. In her mind, she wasn’t a hero. She’d accomplished nothing. My jaw tightened.

“There’s no reward for suffering.”

“Actually…” Her voice was so soft I almost missed it. “There is. It’s loneliness.”

This is a deleted scene from The Magnificence of Death, and this evening I thought I might dive into some of the themes and inspiration behind the book.

If you haven’t gotten to TMOD and it’s on your TBR this is your sign to STOP READING RIGHT NOW. Exit out of this email and move along. There will be spoilers and if you continue reading, you are doing so at your own risk. Come back after you have read the book!!!

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!!!!

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Okay, if you’re still reading this you have either finished the book or you accept full responsibility.

I want to talk about Death.

There’s a reason I titled the book The Magnificence of Death. And as much as it may anger you to know, I did, in fact, write the ending first. Right after the prologue.

The idea for TMOD came to me in the middle of the night in November. I’d been living through a terrifying few years—health crises that forced my family and me to face the unthinkable. Roughly twelve hours after receiving some of the worst news imaginable, I woke in the dark and opened my notes app. I often wake with story ideas, but this one was different. It felt like a compulsion.

It was 1:17 a.m. when I wrote the entire prologue in one breath. It’s the only part of the book that never changed from that night to the final draft. After the prologue, I wrote the ending. The story didn’t unfold in neat order; it came in waves, in fragments, in moments I was trying to hold onto time I wasn’t sure I had.

At the time, I was looking down the dark tunnel of terminal illness. I was a mother of two small children, a wife, and someone trying to make sense of death. We were trying not to assume the worst, while also preparing for it. For a few weeks, I wrestled with the reality that I might not have any more time.

And I think that’s something so many of us forget—that every day could be our last. Life moves quickly, and it’s easy to get swept up in the everyday. But when I began to write, I found myself trying to understand death—not just as an end, but as a character, a force, and even a betrayal.

I knew from the very beginning that Death would betray Astoria. Because doesn’t Death betray us all?

An early reader was frustrated with the ending—frustrated that Astoria was upset with Death. “He’s Death,” they said. “Of course he’s responsible.” And yes, on the surface, that seems obvious. Astoria’s rage wasn’t for the act of death, but for the blame. She carried an immense amount of shame and guilt in every life taken, and Death pushed her to believe the cause was her curse, when in reality it wasn’t her curse at all. And I think often times our sadness/grief/shame/guilt/anger makes us believe things about ourselves that simply are not true. They twist us into unrecognizable shapes.

The ending is ambiguous for a reason. No one truly knows what happens to us after we die. But I do know one universal truth: we all do. Some sooner, some more tragically. But we all return to the earth, and what matters then is what we’ve left behind.

For some, it’s family. For others, legacy. Titles. Achievements. Tokens of a life lived.

For me, it was simpler. All I wanted was for my husband and children to know that they made my life worthwhile. That no matter how much time I got, they were everything I’d ever hoped for. And that’s where Astoria was born.

Astoria’s story grew when we got my four-year-old’s cancer diagnosis.
She found her voice when I lost my grandmother.
And she carried me through every heartbreak that followed over the couple years it took to write their story.

Astoria and Grim became companions in my grief. And while this story is untraditional in many ways, her curse is, at its root, about being trapped: in time, in pain, in grief that refuses to move.

It isn’t a loud, triumphant ending. It was quiet. Kind of like healing, some days it’s two steps forward, one step back. Some days it’s leaps. Other days, you’re stuck.

The Magnificence of Death is about a cursed girl, yes—but its heart belongs to Death himself. His arc is the largest, the most transformational, because he is what gives Astoria her purpose.

Death began as a force that despised humanity—and despised the woman who embodied his greatest failure. But somewhere along the way, that hatred unraveled. He fell in love with her not for her perfection, but for her humanity. For that stubborn, unrelenting grit we have when it comes to the people we love. For our impossible tenacity.

And beneath it all, we learn that Death had always, somewhere deep down, admired humanity. Yearned to be human himself. So when the moment comes and he’s given a choice, he chooses the most human thing of all: to love, even when it costs him something. To do what Astoria had done over and over and over again.

And the most beautiful part? It’s messy.

Being human is messy. It’s making mistakes. It’s living in the gray. It’s all the questions without neat answers. Astoria saves people from the brink of Death, fully aware it means someone else must die. That’s the paradox. That’s the ache.

I wrestled with so many what ifs while writing this book, and I hope I did them some justice. I don’t have all the answers—none of us do. All I have are my own experiences, my grief and sorrow, my hope and love and light to offer.

This isn’t a happy book. But it is a hopeful one.

I am forever grateful for you all. I think this is a special book because of those who pick it up and fall in love with it. It’s all the hands that hold it and the tears staining its pages.

I will be following this up with a separate post filled with the other deleted scenes. There was an entire chapter filled with every note Death left Astoria, all the letters he filled her basket with. While it never made it into the final version, I am excited to share some of them here with you.

Thank you all for indulging me! I am nothing without you.

Xx

Rhea

Yesterday I did not get out of bed until noon and it was glorious. I am wishing the same level of rest for you all—may you find it at some point this season before the craziness of the holidays is upon us.

A few things for you this week, first being that I officially have a website now! It’s still pretty plain, but it has the basics. So go check that out here! Secondly, I am going to have some bonus content headed this way soon. I have been mulling over dropping some deleted scenes as well as a bonus epilogue for The Magnificence of Death, and I think I am finally ready to do it. So that is coming soon!!

Next…

If you didn’t hear, I signed with a literary agent a few weeks ago. The journey here is quite untraditional, but given the landscape of publishing in general these last two years, I’d say that maybe… it is?

Anyways, I am thrilled to be represented by the lovely Liz, over at Myth Literary. She reached out to me before TMOD’s release and we’ve kept up with one another and had a call a little while later. Even though I waffled back and forth about what it was I wanted to do, she patiently waited and championed me and I am so grateful for her. Bonus points: she also has a German Shorthaired Pointer.

That being said, my exciting news is that we are officially on sub! Which is one of those things that means nothing to entirely everyone else but feels like the largest and scariest accomplishment in a writers life. I truly never thought I’d get here.

I thought querying was nerve-wracking, but this is much much much worse.

As we wait to hear from editors/houses and what might be next for The Magnificence of Death (which by the way, narrators have been picked and scheduled for audio—EEK!) I am dutifully working on edits for my next book. Which some of you may have already read the first three chapters of.

Those chapters have since been taken down after I decided to make one last large edit, and now that things are taking shape for me a bit differently I won’t be re-uploading them. BUT I will share the opener of the story and the blurb because I have been living in Faerie for weeks now and I want to drag you all there with me.

Below is what you would find on the back cover of the book, essentially my fancy pitch, and below that is the opener! The book is a standalone but split into two main acts and each act is accompanied by a ballad. I can only share the first ballad with you so that nothing is spoiled!

I also want to add that I had the realization earlier this week as I was working on these ballads that I should just write my own music for this book. Considering I have a background in music, music producing, and have much of the equipment, I don’t know why I haven’t thought about that sooner. I am going to combine my love for songwriting with my love for writing in general to craft a ballad of some sorts to accompany the marketing. I asked a few friends and they immediately said yes and we’ve already begun working on melodies and instrumentation. So that’s really cool and I hope something comes of it. For reference I am thinking something Lana Del Rey, Hunter by Paris Paloma, or The Water is Fine by Chloe Ament coded.

The Seventh Manor is an adult romantic fantasy with crossover appeal. It blends lush, atmospheric prose and thoughtful worldbuilding reminiscent of Rachel Gillig’s One Dark Window with the dark political intrigue and high-stakes magical competition found in Carissa Broadbent’s The Serpent and the Wings of Night. Featuring a fiercely flawed heroine clawing toward freedom and a layered slow-burn romance between two long-lost childhood best friends turned rivals, the novel weaves creeping danger and lethal tension throughout a richly imagined, darkly magical world. Readers who crave more than just a pretty world and a kiss in the dark will find emotional depth and gripping stakes at the heart of The Seventh Manor.

Okay now to the sneak peek!

7M BLURB

Renahlia Scarrow has never known freedom. Cunning, sharp-tongued, and bound by an enchantment she cannot break, she serves a tyrant in Faerie, where six lords and their High King rule with glittering cruelty. Her only hope of escape lies in the kingdom’s most perilous tradition: the cursed maze. Each year, the lords send contenders into its shifting heart to honor the vanished Seventh Lord. And each year, the maze claims them all.

No victor has ever emerged.

Ren is determined she will be the first. If she can outwit the lords, endure the maze, and seize the title meant for a ghost, she might finally shatter her chains.

But Faerie is a realm built on treachery. Old secrets stir, enchantments bite deep, and watching her every step is Wulfric Oleander—son of the Third Lord, her childhood confidant turned sworn enemy. His reasons for entering the maze run as dark as hers, and when their uneasy alliance sparks into something far more dangerous, desire threatens to undo them both.

Wraiths, man-eating hedges, and merciless rivals stalk the maze, but the true danger may lie in the bond they swore was broken long ago.

In Faerie, victory means power. Losing means death.

Right the past. Tell no wrong. If you’re not fast, enjoy death’s song.

7M BOOK ONE BALLAD

Hidden by shadow, concealed in the mist,

A realm where the light seldom dares to persist.

Its people were moss and rot, not flesh, not bone,

A kingdom of ruin that called itself home.

Faerie, bound to the folk and their second sun,

Was ruled by a High King, whose line was never done.

Seven proud houses, in velvet array,

Fed on the land and bent it their way.

They feasted on laughter, on sorrow, on lies,

On the wide-eyed wonder in mortal eyes.

Through the veil they lured the plain and meek,

With treasures no hand of man could seek.

But once the young king sought a bride,

A mortal maiden, heart of fleeting tide,

He silenced the games, he stilled the snare,

He bade his people take no more there.

AHHHH! I can’t wait to share more with you all in the coming months.

As always, I am so happy you are here!

Xx

Rhea

But before we get to that, I want to also let everyone know that I have been invited to The Night’s Requiem in Atlanta, GA in February. It is going to be the most magical masquerade ball event, and if you are local (or up for the travel) I would love to see you there! Tickets are currently on sale at the house of reverie. VIP guests will be receiving a goodie bag, included will be physical signed copies of TMOD!

Okay, short newsletter guys. I’ve truly just been trying to soak up the remnants of summer before the weather turns and life gets hectic. Our youngest, Fairy, is starting Kindergarten this year and we (like all parents) are in such disbelief that our kids are growing so quickly. That being said, the next few weeks will be filled with last minute trips, back to school shopping, etc. Part of me is excited to welcome fall and a much more regular routine.

It was such a strange summer, with the book launch and other life things. But it’s been one that I truly won’t forget. Tomorrow I get to celebrate with family and friends, and announce this special news in person while sipping champagne and (forcefully) reading a few of my favorite excerpts from the book…

Which brings me to this—what do we think Death’s voice sounds like?

You’ll find out soon because…

The Magnificence of Death is coming to audio!

Podium Entertainment has officially acquired the rights to produce the audiobook, and it’s already in the works. This means that soon, you’ll be able to experience the story in an entirely new way—one you can take on your commute, on a walk, or while curled up at home.

When I wrote The Magnificence of Death, I couldn’t have imagined hearing my words brought to life by a professional narrator, and I’m beyond thrilled to see this dream becoming real. I’ll keep you posted as I learn more about release dates, narration details, and all the behind-the-scenes moments.

Thank you, truly, for every message, review, and bit of encouragement you’ve sent my way. This book exists in the world because of you, and now it gets to find its voice (literally!).

Xx

Rhea