I write at the seam where myth meets machine — stories where dragons speak like thunder, statues hide doors to other skies, and memory can be stolen as easily as a coin. I braid Slavic and Indian echoes into dark, mournful epics about duty, loss, and the strange tenderness of found families. My work favors hungry plots, quiet grief, and scenes that sing (sometimes literally): expect music that alters fate, politics that taste of iron, and heroes clawing to reclaim lives taken from them.

I keep a battered notebook of ruined maps and half-remembered lullabies, and I live, in spirit, between two cities — where tides meet runes. If you find a line that lingers, hold it; chances are it will come back around.

— Viole of Resonating Waves