Clarity and practical value are at the heart of everything I’ve created.
“For fourteen years, I wrote in fragments—observations, reminders, questions. Not as a teacher, but as someone trying to understand what makes a life feel lighter, freer, and more meaningful.
My books are what happens when those fragments are finally allowed to speak to each other.”
The Blacksmith’s Daughter: The Gods’ Fourth Mistake
Introduction
It’s a love story for people who love stories.
You know who you are. You’re the one who stayed up past midnight reading under the covers. Who named a pet after a fictional character. Who has cried over a book and then immediately pressed it into a friend’s hands saying “you HAVE to read this.”
This one’s for you.
The gods made three mistakes.
First, they loved mortals—too deeply, too desperately, too much. They poured their divine hearts into fragile beings and watched them break.
Second, they tried to stop loving. They built a Veil between worlds and stuffed their hunger inside, hoping distance would cure what connection had caused.
Third, they cursed the world to carry what they could not. The mark of the gods’ own loneliness, passed down through generations, turning lovers into monsters and desire into destruction.
Shewasthefourth.
Elara Voss is a blacksmith’s daughter. Unmarked. Untouched. The only mortal in a century who has never felt the curse’s pull. She’s spent her whole life hiding in shadows, waiting for the world to end.
Then Kael Draven finds her.
He’s everything she should fear—a Starborn general, last of the First Marked, a man who hasn’t slept in a century and can’t die. They say when he looks at you, he sees the exact moment your soul will break.
But when he looks at Elara, something else happens.
The bond between them ignites. Every touch burns. Every secret shared unravels the lies they’ve both lived under. And the Veil between worlds is cracking faster than either can outrun.
Some prophecies aren’t destiny. They’re a death sentence.
The gods made three mistakes. Elara is the fourth—and she might be the only one who can save them all.
Or destroy everything.
This is a love story for people who love stories.
It has:
· A heroine who hides until she can’t anymore · A hero who’s been frozen for 140 years and doesn’t know how to thaw · A bond that hurts to touch and hurts more to break · Gods who made mistakes and are terrified to admit it · A void that learns to create flowers · A hunger that becomes a mother · An orchard planted one tree at a time · Letters written across decades · A daughter with a too-loud laugh and storm-grey eyes · An ending that will make you cry and smile and immediately start reading again
If you’ve ever believed that love is the only thing that survives, even death.
If you’re ready to meet two people who will live in your heart long after the last page—
Turn the page.
The gods made three mistakes. She was the fourth. This is her story. In the end, she became the bridge that connected everything.
It’s a romantic comedy for a time when the rules of the game have changed.
She has a neural implant designed to prevent self-deception. He runs a wellness startup, specialises in grand gestures, and has absolutely no idea what he’s actually feeling.
They meet when he steals her scarf.
In a world where everyone has a Companion nudging them to question their thoughts, misunderstandings are rare. Projection is inefficient. Drama is exhausting.
Falling for lies is almost impossible.
Falling for someone? That’s more complicated.
The Less Gullible Generation is a romantic comedy about what happens when clarity meets chaos, when scepticism meets longing, when the most self-aware generation in history attempts the one thing that still requires a little irrational belief.
It’s for anyone who has ever analysed themselves into paralysis. Anyone who has ever been called “too much” or “not enough.” Anyone who has stood at the edge of love and thought:
As the day bled into a soft Irish dusk, Jack began to have second thoughts about his decision to go hiking in the hills of County Kerry by himself. Every sound, once familiar, was now filtered through the old tales his Granny used to tell by the turf fire when he was younger. His logical mind was losing ground to a deeper, more superstitious part of himself.
At first, it was just the wind—a harmless whisper sliding through the gorse and tall grass. But as the shadows lengthened and the purple heather turned to black, the whisper grew teeth. It became the soft, relentless padding of unseen footsteps, but also something more: a faint, rhythmic rustle, like the dragging of old shrouds. It put Jack in mind of the Sluagh Sí, the host of the unforgiven dead, said to fly in from the west to carry away the souls of the dying.
He increased his pace, the name of the phenomenon uncoiling in his mind like a cold mist.
Then came a single crack of a twig, sharp as a gunshot in the quiet. Jack’s mind, armed with his Granny’s stories, offered explanations he didn’t want: a púca shapeshifter, or worse, the two small eyes he imagined glinting from the hedgerow—first gold, then red, then a sickly, unearthly green.
A low moan drifted across the valley as the wind funnelled through a rocky pass. It wasn’t the wind to Jack anymore. His imagination, steeped in lore, filled the gaps effortlessly. It was a woman. She was keening. The sound was too melodic, too full of a deliberate, ancient grief to be anything but the Banshee. It seemed to wrap around his name, pulling it into her lament, a lost voice carried from a place the living didn’t go.
He tried humming a Pogues tune to drown it out, but the melody shook with his uneven breath.
By the time he reached the fork in the path, night had fallen completely. The landscape had become a giant inkblot, shapes shifting as his torch flickered. Jack’s terror now had a specific form. He didn’t just imagine tall figures; he imagined the funeral procession of the Sluagh Sí—pale, wraith-like forms gliding just beyond his torch’s reach, carrying an empty shroud meant for a soul not yet collected. Each time he blinked, they seemed to drift a little closer, their silent march steady and inescapable.
“Get a grip, ya eejit,” he whispered to himself, the familiar Irish chastisement doing little to steady the quiver in his voice.
Finally, he crested the last hill, and the sight below washed his fears clean: the warm, electric glow of Killarney, tiny and comforting, a defiant scatter of golden light pushing back against the ancient dark.
With every step toward home, the imagined horrors melted back into the rational world. The phantom footsteps became the wind again. The glowing eyes became dew on leaves catching a distant light. The Banshee’s keen returned to the low, familiar sigh of the countryside settling into night.
By the time Jack reached his cottage door, he managed a shaky laugh. He wasn’t in danger. He wasn’t being shadowed by the Host. He wasn’t being called by a death omen.
He’d simply spent too much time alone with the one creature capable of conjuring the old world from the shadows—
His own mind, stocked from childhood with the ghosts of Ireland.
And as he closed the door behind him, the bolt sliding home with a comforting thunk, Jack promised himself one thing:
Next time, he’d bring a friend.
Or at the very least… a bigger torch, and a flask of whiskey strong enough to quiet both the wind— and his Granny’s stories.
