by Wera Niyom (@eggqueenwera.bsky.social)
Adult Romantasy
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Query
LET HER INHERIT RUIN is a 95,000-word dual-POV adult romantasy with series potential that reimagines the Krai Thong and Chalawan folktale with the legend of Himmapan. Think Sailor Moon meets Sue Lynn Tan and Thea Guanzon set in a world that feels nostalgically Thai, shaped by mythology and Rattanakosin-era traditions.
Fa Ying Ratnaphan was never meant to lead a war. As the Nangfa Niran of Jade, she’s expected to guide the kingdom’s other gemstone-bound protectors against the Demon King’s growing forces. But when the Chaophraya order her to reunite with the exiled Joorakee—the very group blamed for her father’s assassination—Fa Ying vows to expose his killer and make them suffer. There’s just one problem: she can’t transform. Neither can her closest allies. And without their powers, they’re nothing more than symbols waiting to be sacrificed.
Tanawat Thawisuk, the Nangfa Niran of Moonstone, has spent the last three years living among traitors. After his mother was executed for the king’s murder, the Joorakee fled to the Demon King’s territory, where survival demands loyalty, and betrayal is currency. When a political kidnapping goes wrong and the Crown Princess assumes he’s to blame, Tana captures her to protect his people. What he doesn’t expect is to find his fated soulmate in the woman he once vowed to hate.
As war looms, Fa Ying and Tana must expose the truth behind the Nangfa King’s death, the cover-up of Lalisa Thawisuk’s execution, and the dormant power hidden within Chalawan Cave. Restoring Transient Magic to Ratnavana could save the Joorakee from annihilation, but only if they choose trust over vengeance, and love over legacy.
I’m an Asian and Black author who writes biracial protagonists in Thai-inspired worlds. My journey began on Wattpad, where I won the 2019 Watty Award in fantasy for a story now self-published with over 50,000 reads. I have a master’s degree in Criminology & Criminal Justice with a focus on crime analysis. My academic research on cyberbullying has appeared in peer-reviewed journals, but my true love lies in creating lush, mythical narratives that center on belonging and identity. When I’m not writing, I’m binging Asian dramas, playing cozy life sim games, or hunting down rare Gudetama merch. LET HER INHERIT RUIN was selected as a 2025 RevPit winner.
Thank you so much for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
CHAPTER ONE
Fa Ying Ratnaphan
Saints don’t exist in Ratnavana. Only devils disguised as opportunists and charlatans. They corrode your kindness, twist your intentions, and hollow out your soul until it bends to deceivers or burns in the temple. Sweat slips down my neck, soaking into the pressed collar of my school uniform. The Month of Thorani’s Blossoms ushers in a belated heat—suffocating, oppressive, unmerciful—much like the Chaophraya’s searing gaze. One moment of weakness. One lifetime of ruin. An eternal samsara of spiritual disquiet. That’s all it takes in a kingdom like this, where mercy is ornamental and loyalty gets you killed.
Today should be a day of celebration, but instead, it’s a reminder of the duties I’m bound to. Everyone’s watching me to ensure I meet their expectations now that I’ve graduated. Two empty chairs stand out in a sea of a hundred expressionless stares—Mae fulfills her duties as Ratnavana’s queen while Phaw’s ashes dissolve in the Royal Jade Temple of Tanthira. Even on graduation day, the title of Crown Princess brands my skin hotter than the sun, but none of its warmth pierces the hollow stone beating beneath my ribs. The crown keeps me afloat for now, but it could give at any moment.
I refuse to be a pawn in their game, or entertainment for the wicked.
Professor Kalanchoe slithers through the curtain flaps. She adjusts her green blazer, spreading a faint muskiness poorly disguised behind tangy citrus. Thin black slits train on me. The blue-green aventurine crystal atop her head and the iridescent ultramarine scales on her cheeks glint like a rude awakening. She’s not Phaw’s killer. She’s not even from the same Phao, a kin-group bound by magic and shared physiology.
Her hand wraps around Lawana’s arm to keep her from fleeing, while her serpentine tail tugs on the bottom of her pleated skirt to lower it. Every female student knows their skirt mustn’t go higher than the knee, but that doesn’t stop Lawana from testing the teachers’ patience. “Miss Chen, the rules of the academy don’t change because you graduated. You represent the Nang Mai Phao and Ratnavana now. Do not give them more reasons to dismiss your kin.” Professor Kalanchoe reaches for the large hibiscus clips holding back Lawana’s mint-colored bangs.
Lawana smacks her hand away, then cowers behind me. Her branch-like antlers nearly impale my eye. “My Phraya Phao gifted it to me,” she defends.
Heads turn in our direction, like vultures descending on an abandoned meal. They’re all waiting for the same thing: the Phaya Naga’s misstep and subsequent exile to Narakavana. The Phaya Naga are Niran but in name-only, all because of their disposition. They aren't as mighty as the Singh, or as wise as the Kochasri. Only colder than the chill the monsoons bring.
Professor Kalanchoe is the Phraya Phao, the chosen representative and spiritual head of the Phaya Naga. A title binds as tightly as the anti-magic shackles they place on criminals. Those without a title are nameless and scorned for lacking ambition. For those with power, every missight is catastrophized, every scandal in the Phao shouldered by its Phraya Phao, and every disaster in a kingdom attributed to the monarchy. The noose tightens and digs into my neck.
Professor Kalanchoe fingers the white blouse’s frilly collar. Her forked tongue licks the air. “From Phraya Belrose?” she murmurs. “What a wonderful gift. I hope you thanked her.” Hostility laces her kind words, but it’s enough to dispel onlookers.
“Yes, Aajaan Kalanchoe,” Lawana replies.
She shifts her attention to me and her head bows fully to her hands in a wai. Her eyes are two black holes, draining what little confidence I have. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. I know if the King were here, he’d be very proud of your accomplishments. And you should be as well.”
I fidget with the ribbon tied around my collar. “Chai ka,” I reply, the words stiff on my tongue. While a respectful yes, it strays from sincerity, especially when spoken to someone who views my family as a threat.
My heart pounds harder than ever before. Feelings I fought to keep bottled threaten to surface and bubble over. Everyone is apologizing, but no one means it. They’re all glad he’s gone because no one else will advocate for the Joorakee better than him. No one else will fight to maintain Transient Magic in the academy’s curriculum. Rage pounds against my ribs, unable to escape. My grief has slumbered in its cave for the last three years, but today it wishes to bare its teeth at someone.
I tell myself it’s the guards’ fault. They made an oath to protect the Royal Family no matter the cost. They should have seen the assassins coming. Maybe Mae’s to blame. She knows the anti-Joorakee sentiments are increasing but still refused to encourage Phaw to enter seclusion when the Royal Guard warned us. Despite all this, I can’t shake this impossible feeling that maybe it’s me. If I was stronger—No. Even the Rajasri couldn’t defend against a large group moving as one. I would do no better. Any answer I come up with will have a flaw, but I fear the moment I stop searching for a reason, the silence will taunt me about our final words.
The last thing I said to Phaw wasn’t goodbye. We talked about traveling to the coast when the weather warmed. He said it was all he could do to make up for the torrential rains during my birthday a few months prior. I put it off, thinking the beach would always be there. If I’d known that was the final time I’d see him, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
“Ying Ying,” Hathai calls. Her eyebrows draw together when her lilac eyes scan my aura—a blend of colors depicting my heightened emotional state—around my head. But my aura is the tip of the iceberg. One look isn’t enough to understand my heart.
My hands clench at my side. “Excuse me,” I say, already turning. “I forgot something in my room.” I don’t wait for a reply. My wings catch the air before the silence can.
The wind pushes against my gold-feathered wings, threatening to slow me. Each flap cuts through the heat, the anger, the silence. My breaths burn my lungs, but the ache is better, sharper, than the wave of grief rising behind it. Niran Academy blurs beneath me, its fuchsia walls, students in satin khrui, cheerful rejoices.
My white jade scepter flares to life, and a crystallized jade magnolia blooms in my hand. Warmth radiates against my palms. The runes rise from my fingertips before I speak them.
บ่อน้ำที่บ้าน The Pond at Home
The petals peel away and fracture the skies. Gold light spreads from the cracks with a delicate hum. The airy scent of lavender and chamomile lures me to the place I want to be, and coaxes me to forget about the place I should be. When I emerge, I’m at Pure Jade Palace. Home.
The palace looms behind me, taller and more intimidating than I dare to admit. White jade columns wrapped in golden filigree shimmer under the sun, but look duller than usual. The breeze carries the monkeys’ soft chatter within the mangrove trees and the servants’ shouts instead of Phaw’s laughter. The tropical aroma of freshly cut papaya and mango almost completely masks the fading hints of apricot, Phaw’s favorite scent. The osmanthus shrubs have been uprooted. The last traces of Phaw are being erased like he never existed, but everyone continues to go about their day like we all didn’t lose a leader, a husband, or a father.
I follow the stone walkway to a medium-sized pond. Most have shifted out of place and are now covered with overgrown moss. The filtration system keeps the fish alive for now, but its sputters suggest it’ll give out soon. Remnants of algae form on the water’s surface. The servants must assume there’s no need to maintain this pond now that Phaw and I aren’t visiting it regularly.
Giant carp leap out of the water and splash me, expecting to be fed.
A stiff smile spreads across my face. When I turn to laugh, I remember Phaw isn’t there.
My fingers graze the water, and magic ripples across the surface, cleansing it. “Do you mourn your family, too?” I ask the carp, even though they can’t reply.
A gray and red fish swims up and gently nips my fingertip. Ten years ago, I named her Daeng Nitnoi—Little Red—because Phaw saved her from a fisherman’s net and asked me to name her. This pond is all that’s left of Daeng Nitnoi’s family, and Phaw’s memory.
I laugh, but the sound comes out as a strained puff.
“No matter how many fish we add to this pond, you welcome them as if they’re your own and accept the dead’s departure,” I say. “Will I learn to move on like you?”
Opening my heart to others means risking taking another blade. People in Ratnavana accept death as a normal part of life, and those who fail to acknowledge it are stuck in a cycle of suffering. I held Phaw’s lifeless hand. I know he’s not coming back. But I can’t pretend like he’s left for a long vacation and won’t return in this lifetime after the hundredth day of mourning.
Grass crunches behind me, and the unsettling odor of musk makes my shoulders tense. Maybe the Joorakee have returned to put me out of my misery.