I Thought I Was Writing a Romance. I Built a Kingdom Instead.

How Obsidian Throne Went From “Spicy Romance Weekend Project” to “Oh… This Is a Whole World.”

There are moments in a writer’s life when you suddenly realize you’re not driving your own story anymore. You’re gripping the wheel, but someone else’s taste is quietly pressing the gas, turning the blinker on, and adjusting your rearview mirror like they live there.

For me, that moment with Obsidian Throne hit like a pothole at midnight: I didn’t realize someone else’s taste had its hand on my steering wheel — until I slammed the brakes.

And listen… the skid marks were dramatic.

The “Baby Author in the Wild” Era

Once upon a time — and by “once upon a time” I mean several projects ago — I wrote sweet, cozy romances. Warm worlds where everyone drank something caramel-flavored, the conflicts were heartfelt but gentle, and nobody had to fight a daemon king to earn their happily ever after.

Then came Obsidian Throne, which was supposed to be my “fun little spicy project.” Something low-stakes. Just vibes. Just a girl, a dangerous man, and a purely recreational level of angst.

Instead, I blinked and suddenly I was knee-deep in ancient magic, political murder plots, daemon dynasties, and an eldritch family tree that wouldn’t stop growing. Like, ma’am… this was not in the original Pinterest board.

Back then, I shared chapters with someone I trusted. I didn’t notice, at first, how those exchanges shaped what I wrote. Little things. Tiny pivots. A scene added here, a tone adjustment there—subtle shifts toward what I expected they’d clap for.

And I want to be clear: no villains here. No dragging. Just the truth that sometimes we create in someone else’s shadow without even realizing it.

The Moment I Noticed the Shadow

There was a chapter — I remember it with almost embarrassing clarity — where I paused mid-sentence and thought, Hold on. This… isn’t me.

It wasn’t the plot. It wasn’t the characters. It was the vibe. A micro-vibe. A “someone else might like this more than I do” vibe.

That was my first spiritual speed bump.

And once you notice one bump, surprise! There are eighteen more in a row. My brain did that slow, dawning inhale of recognition: “Oh no. Ohhhh no no no. I’ve been writing to an audience of one.”

It stung. It felt like an emotional bruise I didn’t know I had. But it also left space for something I didn’t anticipate: Relief. Relief that I could take my world back.

Reclaiming the Wheel

After that came The Great Rewrite Era™. Deleting scenes. Rebuilding magic systems. Kicking down old scaffolding so I could put up new architecture dripping with gothic grandeur.

That’s when I realized something wild: My world didn’t shrink without that external influence. It expanded.

The characters got sharper, stranger, truer. The plot spread its wings. The daemon mythology went full operatic chaos. And Adanth—the High Daemon King himself—became exactly as dangerous, irresistible, and morally complicated as he always wanted to be.

Turns out my creativity was never meant to stay in a small fenced yard. It was more like, “Yes, hello, we are building an empire.”

What I Thought I Was Writing vs. What I Actually Ended Up Writing

What I Thought I Was Writing:

• A steamy enemies-to-lovers romance

• A fun, slightly dark adventure

• Magical spice sprinkled lightly on top like powdered sugar

What I Actually Wrote:

• A girl convicted of murder, sent to kill a king because everyone quietly suspects she’s a supernatural ticking time bomb

• A group of daemons who basically go, “Surprise, sweetie, you live here now”

• An entire mythos that looked at my original outline and said, “Aw, that’s cute.”

The glow-up was… dramatic.

Why This Story Wanted to Be Big

Some worlds whisper. Napea did not whisper. Napea strutted in wearing a velvet cloak, carrying a prophecy, and informing me I would not be sleeping tonight.

Once I stopped writing for approval, the story didn’t just grow — it roared. The themes expanded. The relationships deepened. The whole thing went from “accidental dark romance” to “gothic fantasy saga with claws.”

I had to accept that the story wasn’t misbehaving. It was becoming.

Finding My Voice Again

I’ve wrestled with this series, argued with it, side-eyed it across the room… but every time I return to it, I fall in love all over again.

Which tells me something important: This story has my DNA in it. Not borrowed influence, not outside expectations — mine.

Is outlining Book Four still terrifying? Absolutely. It feels like wandering into the backyard at night looking for the dog while also wondering if a werewolf wants to join the search party.

But fear doesn’t mean I’m lost. It means the world is big enough to matter.

The Heart of It

Obsidian Throne might have started in a season of uncertainty, but it grew into something fiercely mine.

Now, when I sit down with Ziayea and Adanth and all the beautifully dangerous chaos of Napea, I’m not writing for a single pair of eyes. I’m writing for the story itself. For the readers who’ll meet it one day. For the version of me who dared to build something this sprawling and strange and powerful.

And honestly? I’m so proud of her.

Until next time,

Jade

Next, I’ll be diving deeper into Napea — the characters, the relationships, and the magic that turned a single story into a five-book saga. If you’re the kind of reader who loves worlds with teeth and heart, you’ll want to stick around.