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A brilliant sixteen-year-old magical dropout learns to pry open finished spells and add unauthorised endings to them.

Book one of a planned duology. Magic in this world is a finished sentence spoken aloud, safe precisely because it stops. June can reopen the sentence and keep writing, which is exactly what the Sovereign Conclave outlawed. While they hunt her, she is quietly treating every catastrophe as a test toward one impossible goal: rebuilding a dead tradition of permanent magic so she can cast a single spell that stays true forever. Chaotic, funny, and carrying a melancholy the reader feels long before they can name it.

A book-length work of culinary satire in the tradition of Swift, where every recipe actually works.

Thirty-eight recipes with real ratios, real temperatures, and real technique, each one wrapped around a joke about wealth. The cooking has to be correct for the satire to land: a reader who knows kitchens should be able to follow any recipe here and produce something edible. The humor lives in the framing, the ingredient names, and the plating notes. No real person is named anywhere in the book, by design. The subject is archetypes and arrangements, never individuals.