There’s a manuscript I haven’t dared to touch.
Not yet.
It sits like a curse in the corners of my mind—ink-stained, frostbitten, threaded with languages I pretend not to understand. It’s colder than the rest. Heavier. Less candlelight, more cathedral dusk. Less velvet and more velvet lined coffins.
It speaks of legacy like a noose. Of tradition that tastes like rusted metal between your teeth. Its characters don’t fall in love—they inherit enemies and write their devotion in violence.
I don’t know if I’ll let this one live.
But the story is already writing itself behind my eyes. Pacing the marble floors of my thoughts. Pouring black tea into a poisoned cup.
And if it comes through...you’ll know.
You’ll feel it.