Kaleyia

Kaleyia writes by candlelight because the darkness keeps requesting sequels. Her novels braid dark fantasy with forbidden romance — slow-burning, lavish, and unafraid of teeth. She is interested in the small cruelties between gods and the small mercies between lovers, and in what happens when neither can be trusted.

She came to writing the way most people come to ghosts: by accident, then on purpose. Before that, there were closed libraries, cold cathedrals, half-finished maps, and a long apprenticeship in reading other people's grief.

Her readers have called it “unhinged and irresistible” and “like falling through a floor you didn't know was rotten.” She takes both as compliments.

When not writing, she keeps too many candles, too few houseplants, and a steady correspondence with seven cats who have never given their true names.