M.K. Felix | Updates

First Chapter of Charmed Beast

M.K. Felix — Fri, 1 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Below is the first chapter of Charmed Beast. It has not been proofread yet, so bear with me if my comma placement isn't perfect yet. But I thought you'd want a sneak peek of this story.

Princess Adara de Trinata
The threads of music fade as I lower into a curtsy across from Prince Malkam, the layers of my pink dress billowing around me. He smiles, and the dimple in his cheek pops. His blue eyes flash as he steps forward and grabs my hand, placing a kiss on my knuckles. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I don’t think my cheeks can become any more heated.
“You are gorgeous, Adara,” he says.
“Thank you,” I murmur as my handsome prince loops my arm through his and walks us to the refreshments table. The cool fruit juice he hands me is a welcome reprieve, and I eagerly quench my thirst. My feet ache, and sweat beads at my temples. But I wouldn’t mind dancing several more times with my betrothed.
“Your family knows how to throw a party,” Malkam says, looking around at the sparkling candles and festive ribbons adorning the walls. The women around me are in bright and happy colors, reminding me of the array of blossoms blooming in my garden, while the men wear brightly colored neckerchiefs and pocket squares. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of for my betrothal celebration—a cause for rejoicing for our two kingdoms.
I take a sip of my juice before responding. “What can I say? My parents are excited about our official engagement.”
He smirks. “So are mine.”
The door to the ballroom opens, despite the party being in full swing for the past hour. Shouts sound from beyond the entrance, and several of us turn toward the commotion.
Malkam hums a note of displeasure, his brows lowering.
An elderly man makes his way through the crowd, stepping between dance partners and creating chaos in his wake. He heads straight for us, stopping a few feet before Malkam.
“Do you know him?” I whisper.
Malkam frowns. “No.”
The old man, dressed in a suit several decades out of fashion, has wispy white hair swirling around his head and a scraggly beard. He slowly lowers into a bow before Malkam. “My prince. I have a gift for you and your future bride.”
“Oh?” An arrogant tone I haven’t heard before lines Prince Malkam’s voice. “And who might I thank for this gift?”
The man smiles, showing stained teeth, and doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, pulling forth a hand mirror. “This mirror has long been in my family. It shows the holder who they truly are. Those favored of Solwain are blessed exceedingly when they look in this mirror. You are such a man, Prince Malkam. Alas, I have none left to pass our prized possession to, thus my trip to you this day. A gift and a prayer of blessings upon your marriage.” He holds the mirror out, waiting for Malkam to take it.
Malkam’s grin is thin, his eyes narrowed. “Thank you. You may give it to one of my servants to inspect.”
My heart lurches at Malkam’s reply. I study the old man with his kind expression. His grin reminds me of my deceased grandfather. My gaze falls to the small mirror in his hand. It’s gold plated and looks to be of excellent workmanship. I want to hold it, to admire the family heirloom. It looks to be a work of art, something I’d treasure.
I step closer to my betrothed, lowering my voice. “Malkam, can’t you accept it?”
Malkam tilts his head toward me, a snarl on his lips, his whisper harsh. “No, I won’t receive a present from a half-dressed vagabond who has crashed our party. If you want to accept it for me, you may.”
My mouth dries, unease coursing through me at the callousness of my fiancé’s response. I step toward the older gentleman. “You are very kind. What a beautiful gift. May I accept it for my intended?”
The gentleman’s eyes widen a fraction. “Yes, Princess, you are quite gracious.”
I smile and reach forward, gripping the ornate handle of the mirror. Golden roses line the edge, the petals almost lifelike in how well they’re shaped. “It’s quite beautiful. Roses are my favorite flower.”
The man nods, his smile weary. “Many happy wishes, Princess Adara. May someone be worthy of your gentle heart.”
I look up, a question on the tip of my tongue, only to find the gentleman walking away.
“What an odd man,” I murmur.
Malkam lets out a disgruntled humph.
I look down at the mirror and trace my finger across the thorny vine along the top edge. A sharp sting takes my breath away. When I pull my hand back, a droplet of blood swells on my fingertip. It falls, landing on the reflective surface.
Black smoke erupts from the glass in the mirror, billowing out as if it’s the dark ash from an erupting volcano. It encompasses me until I can’t see anything. I open my mouth to scream, only to choke on the darkness. The mirror falls from my hand, but I don’t hear it hit the floor.
Sounds disappear as shadows close in on me, clinging to my skin.
The pain hits in waves, and I fold in on myself, clutching my stomach as I fall to the floor. Not one sip of air enters my lungs. A fresh onslaught of agony courses through my body, and I succumb to the darkness.

***

“Adara, wake up.” My brother’s commanding voice shocks me to consciousness.
I force my heavy eyelids to open, only to find several people standing over me. My parents are on one side, my cousin and her husband on the other. My mouth opens, but unfamiliar teeth greet my tongue, and I stop, unable to speak.
My brother gently holds my head and neck, his fingers pressed into my skin. I can barely make out the glow emanating from them. That would be Caladen’s healing magic activating.
“What?” The word comes out a garbled mess, and I lick my lips, swallowing against the dryness before trying again.
Caladen’s chuckle comes from above me, and my brother lifts my head enough to pour a few drops of water through my lips. I squint, seeing his face with a disconcerting clarity and vividness. “What happened?”
Mother leans over, her eyes lined with worry. “That’s what we’re wondering, dearest. Um . . . you look . . .”
Rowena, my cousin and newest queen of our neighboring country Lyriva, leans forward, her long brown curls draping over my arm. With her movements comes the smell of . . . apples and cinnamon. “You were cursed by a mirror.”
I blink my dry eyes a few times. “A mirror?”
Caladen strokes my hair, brushing a strand out of my face. “Do you remember what happened?”
I close my eyes and inhale deeply but immediately start coughing.
Why can I smell everything?
“I . . . I was with Prince Malkam when a gentleman gave me a mirror.”
I take another overwhelming breath filled with a myriad of smells. I lift my hand to cover my nose, then freeze, my fingers in view.
My skin is no longer golden brown. My arm is now covered in hair. Not just normal arm hair, though. I now have what I can only describe as fur, the color of my skin, coating my arms from the end of my cap sleeve to the tips of my fingers.
But that’s not the most shocking part.
Where once I had nice fingernails, buffed and polished in preparation for this party, I now have inches-long ivory-colored claws. Their shape and coloring don’t match any of the animals in our mountains. I’ve never seen claws like these before—not even in textbooks. They’re completely unique and utterly terrifying.
My chest heaves as I try to draw air. “Caladen—” I hiss out between hurried breaths.
“I’ll carry her out of here,” he murmurs. “Rowena, Alvor, meet us in the library with my parents.”
Caladen scoops his arms under my legs and back, lifting me and my voluminous skirts with ease. Guards fall into place around us, and I’m hurried from the room.
My claws flash in the torchlight lining the hallways of our castle. I don’t even notice the rooms we pass until we get to the library.
Caladen sets me down in a big armchair next to a fire. I can scarcely take my eyes off my intimidating claws.
“Stop looking at them,” he says as he pulls up a chair next to me.
“I can’t,” I whisper. My tongue slides along my teeth. “Caladen, look at me.”
His eyes meet mine.
“Do I have fangs?”
I bare my teeth, and he flinches.
“I don’t think you want my answer.”
My body quakes as it fully hits me just how wrong I feel right now.
Mother and Father seat themselves across from me as Caladen reaches out, light flowing to the tips of his hands as he grips my arm. His magic resumes flowing through me, a cool river, relieving the last of the pain from my fall and the lingering discomfort caused by . . . whatever happened.
But my arms, hands, and teeth stay the same.
Rowena steps up to my brother’s shoulder, her hand resting on his arm. “Stop wasting your magic, cousin. That’s not how curses are broken.”
Despite the low light in the room, I can see Rowena’s face clearly and her husband standing in her shadow. “Am I cursed?”
Her lips thin. “The minute I saw the man holding a mirror, I started across the ballroom, but I was too far away. Did you bleed on it? Where is it anyway?”
Father pulls a package from his pocket, unfolding the fabric and revealing the mirror.
Rowena steps forward, leaning over the surface. “This is much smaller than the mirror King Ferdinand used to curse Alvor and our people. But it could have been made by the same person. The darkness surrounding Adara looked similar to what we experienced.”
My fingers flex, and I’m shocked when my claws extend. My gaze moves from my fingertips back to my cousin. “How do we break it? How can I break my curse?”
Rowena lifts her eyebrows. “You went to the Academy of Radiance to train your magic, and they didn’t teach you how to break curses?”
I shake my head. “I never heard about dark magic. I might have also skipped that class to go play in the gardens.”
Rowena smiles. “I’m glad you enjoy your magic, Adara. We were taught by a friend that a sacrifice must be made to break a curse. A droplet of blood may suffice, but this curse may be different.”
Father pricks his finger with his dagger, and I reach forward with inhuman speed, snatching the mirror from his hands before the droplet falls. “Stop! A drop of blood got me cursed in the first place.”
“I will do anything to break this curse, Adara. The Princess of Rovia can’t resemble a—”
Mother’s elbow meets his ribs.
She turns to me. “Dearest, your appearance is quite altered. If we cannot find a way to break this curse, and soon, then your wedding to Prince Malkam may need to be postponed.”
I stare at the mirror, the reflection of the ceiling tempting me to lift it just enough to see myself.
My hand tightens on the ornate metal as my claws grow longer as my anger intensifies. The edges of my vision turn red. The smells surrounding my family becomes overwhelming. It’s a mix of noxious fumes and cinnamon-sugar sweetness that make me want to gag.
I grip the handle of the mirror and swing with all my might. It smashes against the carving of a bear in the mantel, the bear’s sharp snout cracking the glass into pieces. They fall to the floor, sparkling against the stones beneath my feet. My chest heaves as I stare into the oval, now empty of anything except the metal backing and shard fragments stuck to the edges.
Caladen slaps his thigh. “Well, that didn’t work.”
“What do we do?” The question rips from my throat, accompanied by an animal-like snarl. The sound is deep and rough enough to startle myself. My hand comes up to my throat, the tips of my claws landing against fur-covered skin. “I can’t live this way.”
The door to the library flies open, and Prince Malkam enters the room. “Where is she? I must see her,” he shouts as he stomps in our direction. His progress halts when his eyes meet mine. “You . . . Adara?” The pungent aroma of rot travels through the air—a truer gauge of my betrothed’s reaction to seeing me in this form than the blank face he’s working to maintain.
“It seems, Prince Malkam, that the mirror intended for you cursed me.” I growl.
He takes a step back, his hands shooting out as if to brace himself as his cheeks redden. His scent turns hot and spicy and rage overtakes his features. “No. I will not be betrothed to a monster.”
Father growls and stands as my vision focuses in on the prince. I can see every detail of disgust on his face.
Father steps in front of him, blocking my view. “You promised to marry her. Our kingdoms need this and our trade agreement. We can postpone the wedding until the curse is broken.”
Prince Malkam scoffs. “As if I can get the image of her looking like that out of my mind. No. The betrothal is broken.”
Father’s back stiffens. “And our trade agreement?”
Malkam hesitates. “I will discuss it with my father.” Then he spins, almost sprinting from the room.
Caladen folds his arms. “Good. I didn’t like him, anyway.”
I spin on him, my hands going to my hips and clawing some of the fabric there. “You said you liked him when you got back from your hunting trip.”
He shrugs. “I lied. I avoided him the entire time.”
Father turns around, his face having aged ten years in the past ten minutes. My heart sinks as the depressing smell of ashes wafting my direction betrays his real feelings more than any twitch of his eye might.
“I’ve ruined everything.” I sink into the couch as tears sting my eyes. My nose twitches, and I hold back the need to sniff.
Mother leans forward. “No. It is not your fault.”
My hands fist at my side. “But it is. Malkam told me not to take the gift. I didn’t listen to him.”
Caladen scoffs. “You were being kind. It’s what you do, Adara.”
I grip the armrests, my claws digging into the wood. “I know. It’s what I’ve done. But now . . . now . . .” I shove up out of the chair and turn away, staring into the orange flames in the fireplace.
Rowena’s voice draws close. “Now, you draw together and figure this out. Curses won’t stop our family from doing good. Solwain has a reason for this—it’s our job to figure it out.”
I close my eyes, focusing inward as I try to find the constant hum of my magic, desperate to feel the light and peace it brings.
Except there’s nothing inside me but darkness. The spot in the middle of my chest where my magic normally can be found is empty. Well, not exactly empty. It’s been filled with a swirling dark fog.
I reach out, gripping the edge of the mantel as my knees falter. Caladen’s arms wrap around me, pulling me into him as I crumple.
“I can’t feel it.” I sob. “My magic is gone.”

***

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Fairest Hunter - First Chapter

M.K. Felix — Tue, 3 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Rowena

The king’s voice drones on as if we have all the time in the world. In reality, Cook is boiling over because it’s an hour into dinner and they haven’t started the first course. I see her peek through the servant’s entrance again, rolling her eyes before she moves out of my line of sight.

Just another reason why King Ferdinand is not to be trusted. He can’t stop talking long enough to enjoy the freshly baked pheasant I shot today, and if tasty fowl isn’t worth being silent for, I don’t know what is.

My back aches as I lean against the stone wall, the dark leather of my huntress uniform helping me blend in with the guards. Why I’m even here is a question I’m sure we’re all asking, but the king’s whims are not to be questioned if you value your sanity. He’s never called me to a banquet before. Our interactions are usually behind closed doors.

My eyes dart from the head of the table where the king stands, down to the seat next to him. Prince Alvor sits there with a pleasant smile on his face, a vacant look in his eyes, and the same expression I’ve seen on his face for the past five years when I’ve caught glimpses of him. His father rambles on about the state of the kingdom, and yet Prince Alvor is absolutely still, not seeming to care that he can’t eat until his father is finished speaking.

None can eat until the king sits and takes the first bite—a ridiculous rule, in my opinion.

The food is going to be cold, and the servants will be blamed for it when it’s his own kingly heinie's fault.

But who am I to urge the king to stuff his mouth with food I worked hard to procure early this morning? I’m a nobody. A lowly hunter, the only one left, and I only have this job because Father didn’t have a son. Father realized I liked weapons and trained me to be his replacement, and I’ve bested everyone in archery contests who have come to compete to replace me.

Although if Father were still here, he’d never let me touch a weapon if he knew how much more I do besides hunt fowl for the king.

My gaze is drawn back to Prince Alvor, a man I’ve ignored for years. Yet tonight, my magic tugs at me. A ripple of shock runs through me when Prince Alvor’s blue eyes stray from staring into space. They meet mine across the room.

My magic leaps in my chest, and my legs twitch, the desire to step closer to the prince winding my body full of tension. Prince Alvor stares, his gaze unwavering. My magic lurches again. The light swirls like a warm, comforting fire through my veins. I tamp down the innate desire to use it. What would I use it on? There are no animals in the room, my normal affinity, and I can see everyone with my eyes, so I don’t need to see the light of their souls to see where they are.

Why is my magic being drawn to Prince Alvor?

Why is it reacting now, when I need to hide it from King Ferdinand?

I fist my hands at my side. I don’t know, and I don’t care, and why is the prince still staring at me? I’m not one of the flirty maidens willing to swoon over the ridiculous man-child.

I mentally yell at Prince Alvor to look away, to do something to draw the attention away from me.

But he doesn’t. He tilts his head, his eyes boring into me from across the room.

Well, if he won’t look away, neither will I.

Against my will, my magic spreads, warming my whole body, urging me to move toward Prince Alvor.

How odd.

Prince Alvor blinks, his mouth twitching, and finally he breaks my gaze, redirecting his gaze down to his lap. His head shakes, as if he could hear my silent, berating humor tingeing his lips. When he lifts his head, he looks at his father, his brow furrowing as he studies the odious man.

Ice rushes through me when Prince Alvor clears his throat.

King Ferdinand glares at him, but Prince Alvor doesn’t look away from his illustrious father. “My king, I believe our meal is ready.”

King Ferdinand’s mouth snaps shut, his cheeks reddening. His blackened stare travels from one noble to the next, to each nobleman and courtier. They wilt under his gaze, and if they haven’t already pasted on the permanent vacant expression that plagues the nobility—it’s on their faces now.

The same expression that’s plagued Prince Alvor for years … until a moment ago.

Prince Alvor’s shoulders are thrown back, his posture straight and proud. Wait—that vapid smile is plastered on his face again. What happened to the smirk and the light in his eyes? The current look on his face, a passive smile, just makes me want to punch him.

Wow, lots of violent thoughts this evening.

King Ferdinand slams his fist on the table, rattling the dishes. “If you desire to eat over listening to the king, then so be it.” He sits down so forcefully that his chair rocks backward before slamming back onto the stone floor. The violent crack causes several ladies to gasp, their tall hairdos wavering and tilting to the side.

Just another fashion choice dictated by a king who, I swear, is not in his right mind. After one comment on the attractiveness of a woman’s hair piled high, suddenly the entire court decided voluminous columns of hair were to become the mark of beauty. How easily they cower before a king who has proclaimed to be on the lookout for his next queen, yet flits through noblewomen, twisting them to his whims with nary a care in the world.

A boy emerges from the servant's entrance, a covered plate in hand. He slinks to the king’s side, places the food down, and lifts the cover before making his quick escape. Unlucky chap must have messed with something in Cook’s kitchen to have scored serving the king tonight. No one wants to serve him; his volatile temper is most often taken out on the young servant boys and squires.

The floodgates of serving boys open, delivering plates to the court. The sweet scent of pheasant breast drenched in red wine, with mushrooms and roasted vegetables, assaults my nose. No one lifts a fork, waiting for the king’s signal to begin eating.

Just as King Ferdinand lifts his fork to his mouth, my stomach clenches. A mewling sound echoes through the quiet room.

I don’t move. I stare at the back of a nobleman’s chair. But I feel their gazes, anyway. The guards turn toward me, and I even see Prince Alvor’s head tilting in my direction.

I would rather die than admit my stomach made that sound.

Little John was right. I haven’t been eating enough. I should really pack something to snack on for my hunting days. The days when I avoid being in the king’s employ, I’m able to forage more.

But how am I supposed to stomach eating food that could go to the refugees who find us in Sherwood Forest? Especially when I can flit down to the kitchen after dinner and poach leftovers from Cook before she throws them out—by order of the king.

No. Stomach grumbling aside, our people need the food more than I do. I’ll forage to survive, even if looks of disdain over normal bodily functions are my penance.

At least I go hungry for a good cause—not because of a ridiculous king who doesn’t realize he’s a tyrant over everything, including meals.

The guards who turned to look at me sneer, and it’s almost an improvement to their perpetual grumpy-looking faces.

Throughout the first course I subtly shift on my feet, alleviating the tension in their arches. My thin leather boots are made for hunting and silence, not for comfort while standing on stone floors.

The first course is finished, and I sigh as the second is brought out. Only one more to go, if the king is being reasonable tonight. Maybe I was called here on nothing more than a whim of the murderous king? Nope, that’s probably just wishful thinking.

“Huntress, attend me.” The king’s voice rings out across the table. Forks still, and so does the beating of my heart.

For as much as I hate King Ferdinand, and even though I’m secretly rebelling against him, I have yet to conquer the innate reaction his voice brings when he addresses me.

My heart thuds painfully against my chest, urging me to break free. My magic recoils, drawing into me and making itself small inside my chest.

Without the warmth of my magic coursing through me, I grow cold. Frozen in place.

Only a nudge from the sneering guard next to me breaks me out of the trance.

My steps are measured as I resist the urge to flee from this room. Mentally, I’m counting each of my hidden weapons. There are the ones tucked up my sleeve, the dagger tied to my thigh hidden under my hunting leathers, plus the thin one in my pocket lining. If King Ferdinand tries anything—I’m prepared both to fight, and to lose my life. I’m willing to take the odious man down with me if he tries any funny business. I’m not a maid he can dally with and send away when his pleasures are satiated.

My fingers clench, the leather of my gloves creaking. I need to oil them again before I go hunting. The thought brings back a sense of normalcy, and my magic unties itself enough to send a little more warmth and confidence throughout my body.

I stop three feet from the king’s chair and bow low, as expected, before straightening. “Yes, King Ferdinand?”

The king’s eyes are darkness personified, but they aren’t looking at me—they’re looking at Prince Alvor. “I find that I have neglected my son’s education. If he is to be king one day in the far future, then I need him to learn the art of . . . silence. I’d like you to take him on a hunt and teach him how to be silent.”

My breath catches, and my palms sweat in my gloves, his implied message being communicated clearly. Slowly, I let the air flow out of my nostrils, forcing my heartbeat to steady. It’s sheer willpower that keeps my knees from quaking. “Yes, my king. When shall I take him?”

At this, the king finally meets my gaze. His once-brown eyes are black, swirling with a darkness that goes beyond mere hatred. “Tomorrow. He must learn, tomorrow.”

My carefully laid plans have gone up in flames. With one simple word, everything I’ve worked for is ruined.

Tomorrow, I’m expected to kill the prince—on the day I had planned to assassinate his father.

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First Chapter of Lady Scarlett

M.K. Felix — Thu, 29 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Chapter One: A Tyrant

Lady Marian Wessex

My pale-pink dress is at odds with my dour mood. Though there isn’t anything I can do about the color, seeing as King Ferdinand forbade us from wearing mourning blacks for Prince Alvor, I don’t have to smile.

The desire to smile is nonexistent today. Nothing about this gathering at the king’s castle encourages me to feel anything but contempt and sadness.

The young men around me are sniveling, the women are simpering, and it all feels like too much. I haven’t even heard the king speak yet, but I know it’ll just make today worse. I always leave the castle morose, and spending time here makes it hard to think. I’m blaming it on the overly perfumed women and the choking colognes the men wear.

The doors of the ballroom are thrown open, and in waltzes King Ferdinand, a monstrous golden crown atop his head and red robes with golden trim and lace covering every inch of the fabric.

It’s gaudy, and I hate it.

The room falls silent, and the buzzing in my mind quiets, only to be replaced by a thick fog as King Ferdinand speaks.

“My friends. I appreciate all who have expressed their condolences at the loss of my son. It is truly . . . tragic.”

It really is tragic. Prince Alvor was the only kind man in the courts.

My nose starts to tingle as my eyes sting.

“Seeing as I no longer have an heir, it is time for me to remarry. Our kingdom has been without a queen for too long. Which is why I will be choosing a bride from among the nobility of our people.”

The rest of King Ferdinand’s words flow past my ears without me hearing them.

A bride from among the nobility.

That could be me.

My stomach churns, and I lift my hand to cover my mouth.

Quiet clapping sounds around me, and though I don’t know what we’re clapping for, I reluctantly join in.

“As we are to soon have a series of balls as I find my future wife, I will dismiss you all. Do not forget to settle your accounts with my steward as you leave today.”

Heads bob as the sea of nobility exits the ballroom, not a complaint that we came here for a simple announcement among them.

Father grips my arm tightly. “We must hurry, Marian.”

“Why?” I ask.

He shakes his head, frantically looking around him. “I will speak of it later. For now, let us leave.”

My brows furrow, but I keep my complaints and questions to myself.

We’re ushered out of the castle after Father pays his gold coin for attending the function. It’s a recent change that King Ferdinand instated, citing it necessary to pay for the lavish parties he throws for his nobles. The party we didn’t even get to participate in tonight.

Father ushers me into the carriage, and when the door closes, he lets out a heavy breath. He wipes his forehead with his handkerchief and watches the window with apprehension.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Father takes a deep breath. “I’ve arranged for you to marry Prince Caladen of Rovia.”

My jaw drops. “You have done what?”

Father keeps his gaze trained on the window. “It’s a good thing, too. I do not wish you to be among the potential brides for King Ferdinand. When we get home, you shall pack up your things and I shall gather your dowry items. We’ll head for the border tomorrow. We should arrive in Rovia the following day.”

“But I don’t even know him—”

Father’s eyes turn on me. “No, but you shall do as you’re told. It’s for the best.”

I bite my tongue. How many times have we attended court functions because it’s “for the best”? I don’t entirely trust that sentiment, especially when it takes a decision out of my hands.

If only I could escape all of this and choose a husband for myself.

___________

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