Об авторе:
Мой творческий путь — это история о том, как магия одной летней ночи переплелась с культурой далекой страны и вдохновила на творческий полет.
В жизни иногда случаются совпадения, которые сложно назвать случайными. Именно такое событие произошло со мной в ночь с 6 на 7 июля 2020 года. Тогда, всего лишь записав несколько абзацев, я не подозревала, что начинается мой творческий путь. Абзацы стали складываться в листы и через три месяца родилась и первая книга, которая была посвящена потусторонним силам и загадочным событиям.
Лишь спустя время, я обратила внимание на дату своего старта. Ночь на Ивана Купалу — древний славянский праздник, полный тайн, гаданий и веры в чудеса.
Все мои истории объединяет одна деталь — их действие так или иначе связано с Южной Кореей. Именно корейская волна, которая захлестнула весь мир, стала для меня главным творческим катализатором.
Но как мистическая ночь Ивана Купалы, овеянная славянскими поверьями, связана с корейскими дорамами и музыкой? Для меня это до сих пор остается загадкой. Возможно, именно в этой точке встречи двух культур и рождается та особая магия, которая питает мои произведения.
Для меня писать — это не работа, а удовольствие, состояние потока. Я не просто придумываю сюжеты — я словно просматриваю кассовый фильм. Проживаю жизни своих героев, вместе с ними прохожу через испытания и радуюсь их успехам. И этот процесс захватывает меня полностью.
Мне хочется, чтобы мои истории не просто развлекали, но и оставляли в душах теплый след. Моя цель вселить в сердца людей лучик надежды о том, что в жизни есть место чуду, каким бы невероятным оно ни казалось.
About the author:
My creative journey is the story of how the magic of one summer night intertwined with the culture of a distant country and inspired a creative flight.
In life, coincidences sometimes occur that are difficult to call random. Exactly such an event happened to me on the night of July 6-7, 2020. Back then, having merely written down a few paragraphs, I had no idea that my creative path was beginning. Those paragraphs grew into pages, and three months later, my first book was born, dedicated to supernatural forces and mysterious events.
It was only later that I noticed the date of my start. The night of Ivan Kupala—an ancient Slavic holiday, full of secrets, divination, and a belief in miracles.
A single detail unites all my stories: their plots are, in one way or another, connected to South Korea. It was the Korean Wave, which swept across the world, that became the main catalyst for my creativity.
But how is the mystical night of Ivan Kupala, steeped in Slavic folklore, connected to Korean dramas and music? For me, this remains a mystery to this day. Perhaps it is precisely at this intersection of two cultures that the special magic which nourishes my work is born.
For me, writing is not work, but a pleasure, a state of flow. I don’t just invent plots—it’s as if I’m watching a blockbuster film. I live the lives of my characters, go through trials with them, and rejoice in their successes. And this process completely captivates me.
I want my stories not only to entertain but also to leave a warm trace in people’s souls. My goal is to plant in their hearts a glimmer of hope that there is room for miracles in life, no matter how incredible they may seem.
Отрывок из фэнтези “The Curse of the Blackwin Estate”
Year 1827, Winter
At the dawn of the nineteenth century, Great Britain faced challenging times. Industrial revolution marched vigorously across the land, exacerbating class struggles and political crises, affecting trade and supply chains worldwide. Affairs at the estate deteriorated drastically. Within a year, the young master squandered his entire inheritance. Overburdened by debts, the property had to be mortgaged to the bank. Circumstances compelled Anderson to abandon frivolities and focus on preserving whatever still functioned and yielded minimal returns.
Forcing himself to spend long hours poring over documents and deeds in his study, one day, while sifting through papers, he stumbled upon a worn-out old notebook with a papyrus sheet inside. It was his father’s journal. Opening the yellowed page, he saw a drawn map — not of buried treasure on some desert island, but a plan of his ancestral home, specifically the cellar. Scanning the sketch indifferently, he tossed it aside, more intrigued by the cryptic entries within the book. Page by page, he uncovered revelations about his grandfather — a sorcerer — and the possibility of resolving problems by striking deals with devils or their servants. Yellowed pages narrated accounts he had never imagined or even suspected possible.
Since ancient times, humans have craved instant solutions, preferring magical shortcuts over reasoned effort.
Carefully studying the records, Anderson reached a conclusion.
— This solves my problems! — He muttered, gripping the journal tightly.
Without delay, he embarked on finding the person mentioned in the notes. After countless attempts, he learned that the individual had passed away long ago. But there was a successor recommended: Charles Sherton, chieftain of a coven of witches, a magician and necromancer.
England experienced a surge in mysticism and occult practices in the early 19th century, contributing to the popularity of black magic practitioners. Individuals nationwide sought forbidden knowledge offered by these agents of supernatural forces. Finding a necromancer, however, posed difficulties. Potential seekers risked detection and legal repercussions. They resorted to clandestine methods, navigating labyrinths of secrecy to locate those proficient in dark arts.
Under cover of darkness, with blindfolded eyes, Anderson traveled circuitously. Once satisfied they weren’t being pursued, the guide halted at a massive castle. Awaiting outside was a man clad in a dark woolen cloak.
— Good afternoon, I’m…
— Come, your host awaits, — interrupted the stranger.
Led through narrow corridors echoing their footsteps, torchlight flickering shadows onto stonewalls, they reached a vast hall.
Turning to address Anderson, the attendant announced:
— Lord will join us shortly. Please wait.
Whereupon he withdrew.
Guest examined the room with curiosity. At the entrance to the hall, the floor gradually sloped downward, creating the effect of a descent. A gentle, step-free incline led to a niche where, like a chieftain, a throne loomed majestically — crafted from dark wood with intricate patterns and upholstered in red and gold fabric that shimmered in the torchlight.
The ceiling soared high above, crowned by an interlacing of stone arches and vaults. The chamber was illuminated by torches mounted on walls adorned with frescoes depicting scenes of past glory. These images featured dragons, sorcerers, and great warriors who seemed to come alive in the fire’s glow.
At the center stood a massive table made of dark marble, its surface smooth and cold to the touch. Upon it, draped in black cloth, lay what appeared to be a spherical object, judging by its outline.
An air of anticipation hung in space. Anderson suddenly felt a pang of unease — as if something more than just ancient architecture lurked within this hall. There was something ominous yet alluring at the same time, making his heartbeat faster. Every breath felt heavy in this majestic emptiness.
The door creaked, and a tall, gaunt man with a long gray beard and matching hair entered the hall — none other than Mr. Charles Sherton himself.
Anderson spun around sharply. The mage wore a dark velvet robe, his head adorned with a fez, and his outfit was completed by shoes with a modest heel, elongated tongues, and hefty buckles at the instep.
— You wished to meet me, and here I am,»* the man said. — What brings you here?
— I am the grandson of Mefest Grand. In his notes, I read that magic could rid one of troubles. I sought a certain Mr. Hodge, whom my great-grandfather mentioned, but it turned out he had long departed this world. I was advised to turn to you for help.
The man was taken aback by what he heard. He was struck by the guest’s frivolity and, judging by the problem he had come with, his sheer immaturity and recklessness.
The man raised his eyebrows in surprise.
— Young man, you clearly do not grasp the gravity of the situation. I am not some circus illusionist performing tricks for public amusement. Do you think you can just waltz in, make a request, and have your wishes granted?»* he retorted indignantly.
Anderson hesitated and guiltily lowered his head. The mage let out a heavy sigh and continued:
— Magic can solve many things, but far from everything.
Anderson eyed the warlock warily before pressing on:
— If not for sheer desperation, I would not have come to you. Affairs in my estate are in dire straits. Please, help me, and I will not remain in your debt,»* the young count pleaded, his voice thick with supplication.
The man smirked, stroking his beard, and asked:
— And what can you offer in return?
— Any price you name! Take my soul if you must! — The guest blurted out shamelessly, his eyes begging.
The mage laughed.
— I’m flattered you hold me in such high regard, but I am merely a layman who serves the Dark Lord. Your soul is of no use to me.
The count grew wary. — Is he really going to refuse? — Flashed through his mind.
Sherton pondered and, after a brief silence, laid out his terms:
— I will help you, but no one must know about this! We shall strike a bargain. You will bring me the rib of a maiden with a birthmark in the shape of the letter ‘Lamed.’ All I know is that she lives within your domain and has fiery-red hair. I do not know who she is. Deliver the rib here no later than the next full moon, and your troubles — if one can even call them that — will vanish.
Anderson listened, then asked in bewilderment:
— A rib… but for that, she’ll have to be killed? — He said, horrified.
— That is precisely the price of your future carefree life.
— And if I fail to complete the task? — the young man hesitated.
— ‘Fetters of Obedience’ will appear on your wrists, and you will become my vassal. You will serve me. Well then, do you agree?
Anderson thought for a moment, then replied:
— I agree.
— Very well, then sign the contract. — With a snap of the warlock’s fingers, a scroll materialized out of thin air, which he handed to his guest.
The moment Anderson took it, the scroll seemed to come alive like a snake, coiling around his wrists before vanishing beneath his skin in an instant. The young count didn’t even comprehend what had happened. Stunned by what he had seen, he stood transfixed, examining his wrists. The mage snapped his fingers again, and the guest snapped out of his daze.
— Now go. And remember — the deal cannot be undone, — the mage declared, not giving the count a chance to recover.
Anderson only fully regained his senses inside the carriage on his way home. He couldn’t tell whether the snake had been an illusion or real — but if it was real, where had it gone? Yet the terms of the deal were etched firmly in his mind.
This was the most presumptuous and reckless act the count had ever committed, but his desire to reclaim his idle, carefree life was stronger than his fear.
A month remained until the full moon, and the young man had no idea how or where he would find this girl.
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