I was seventeen when the forest first found me.

It came in a dream. A girl walking into the woods, unaware that the trees were watching, that the magic was waiting, that something wild was already stirring inside her. I didn’t know it then, but that dream would follow me for years.

At the time, it was just a creative outlet, a story I returned to whenever I needed somewhere to put my imagination.

At twenty-seven, I made a promise to myself: I would finish what I started.
At thirty, I did.

I quickly learned that dreams are only the beginning. Stories must be sharpened. Worlds must be built with care. Characters must speak in voices that are unmistakably their own.

So I rewrote.

I studied the books that made me ache and believe. I learned how conflict reveals character. How memory shapes voice. How magic feels different depending on who is holding it.

While waiting on revisions, I mapped the rest of the series and realized this wasn’t just a book.

It was a beginning.

I often think of the women I descend from—women whose names were not always recorded, whose magic was not always allowed to flourish. Their resilience lives in my blood. Their survival made my voice possible.

This journey is for them.
And for the seventeen-year-old girl who dreamt she could turn into a wolf.