I never meant to become a storyteller.
Or maybe, perhaps I was meant to — only to realize it after a handful of episodes: tears that rival Niagara Falls, anger that could summon abominations, and hatred potent enough to rot everything it touches.

But silence has a weight — and grief has a voice.
Mine came quietly, between the shadows of memory and the echo of loss.

I was born in Sabah — a Kadazan daughter tethered to a lineage older than maps.
My father did not come from wealth, but he carved his way into it.
He never finished school, yet he built an empire — one rooted in land, sweat, fruit trees, and quiet resilience. I carry his legacy like an oath whispered into the marrow of who I am. Even now that he’s gone, it anchors me still.

We lived on a forested hill, surrounded by fruit trees that bore witness to our laughter, our silence, and our undoing. When everything fell apart, it didn’t just take our home — it quietly unraveled the story we thought we were living.

Still, he endured. And so did I.

My life has wandered through every flavor the world had to offer — sweet joy, aching sorrow, quiet warmth, and chaos. Some memories, I’d relive a thousand times just to feel whole again. But little by little, everything slipped through my hands, leaving only emptiness… and a longing too deep for words.

When he passed, it wasn’t just his absence I mourned — it was the collapse of a world I had been holding together with bare hands.
I had already been betrayed too many times. I had learned how to shatter.
But losing him? That was different. That was extinction.

The idea of me walking and living in this world alone without his guidance is terrifying, but maybe that’s what legacy is: learning to walk with the weight of absence, and still moving forward.

My grief wasn’t loud. It wasn’t public.
It lingered in corners — folded between daily chores and motherhood, where no one thought to look.

There were betrayals I swallowed. Words I stopped saying. I withdrew not out of hate, but exhaustion. I stopped asking to be seen.

But the words never left me.
They lingered in the corners of my mind — quiet, patient — until they built a room inside me.

A room I now call Nyxra’s Realm.

A place where my voice could live, even when I couldn’t speak it aloud.
A place where the real me — elegant, serpentine, raw — could finally unfurl.

I write not because I’m healed. I write because I remember.
I write for those who have no one left to tell them they matter.
He carved his name into land. I carve mine into story.

This is not a triumph story. This is a return.
To earth. To silence. To power.

Welcome to the realm.
Welcome to me.