Still here. Deep in the edit — five books on the table, being cleaned and prepared for publication. It’s slow, careful work.

While I’m in it, here’s a scene that hasn’t left me.

The Mutamba Chronicles

Saday. Athanatos. Sabaoth

Elena is eight months pregnant, pinned under an archangel in an armoured SUV while someone shoots at them. She has one question.

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My babies protest — not quietly either — inside my belly, reacting to the bolt of adrenaline and Mikhail’s heavy body practically pinning me. The car jerks, bullets still hammering the metal.

I’m getting genuinely pissed off; this isn’t an adventure anymore, and I don’t care how magical my twins are — who shoots at a pregnant woman, anyway?

What the actual fuck?!

The SUV screeches to a halt; gunfire stops as fast as it began. Mikhail, eyes wild but precise, touches my head, checks my limbs, searching for blood. “You ok? Not hurt?” Half-demanding, half-panicked.

I look him straight in the eye, breath ragged. “Let me inform you — I am royally pissed off. And since when do you have wings?!”

He catches my face, presses a rough kiss on my lips, and murmurs in Russian:

“Ты, сумасшедшая принцесса с кровью саркастического льда.”

You crazy princess with blood of sardonic ice.

I.Ph.

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© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.