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heddas_bookgems's Reviews (490)
The Book Eaters by Sunyi Dean serves up a darkly delightful twist on your average literary buffet. Set on the remote and windswept Yorkshire Moors, this gothic tale introduces a secret society with a very particular palate, books. Devon, the protagonist, belongs to this unusual clan where consuming stories is literally a matter of life and death. While most women in the group are nourished by fairy tales and cautionary fables, Devon’s son takes after a more... unconventional appetite. He doesn’t crave books, he craves human minds. Just your average parenting nightmare, right?
The novel cleverly shifts between two timelines, offering readers a glimpse of both younger and older Devon as she navigates a life steeped in secrecy, danger, and tough choices. Dean peppers each chapter with a literary nod, most notably to The King of Elfland’s Daughter, adding a layer of bookish homage for the fantasy fans among us.
Ominous from the get-go, the story has the brooding vibes of The Handmaid’s Tale with a dash of feminist rebellion. It explores the fierce bonds between mothers and their children, because nothing says "maternal love" like fighting off patriarchal forces while trying to keep your son from devouring the wrong kind of brain food.
Sure, the pacing occasionally stumbles, especially during the slower Ramsey sections, but the plot stays on track. And for those looking for some queer representation, this novel delivers, weaving it seamlessly into the broader narrative.
Overall, The Book Eaters is a wickedly clever tale about survival, love, and the lengths a mother will go to in order to protect her child, even if that child’s diet is, let’s say, less than traditional. It’s a feast for readers who love their gothic fiction with a twist of wit and plenty of dark charm.
The novel cleverly shifts between two timelines, offering readers a glimpse of both younger and older Devon as she navigates a life steeped in secrecy, danger, and tough choices. Dean peppers each chapter with a literary nod, most notably to The King of Elfland’s Daughter, adding a layer of bookish homage for the fantasy fans among us.
Ominous from the get-go, the story has the brooding vibes of The Handmaid’s Tale with a dash of feminist rebellion. It explores the fierce bonds between mothers and their children, because nothing says "maternal love" like fighting off patriarchal forces while trying to keep your son from devouring the wrong kind of brain food.
Sure, the pacing occasionally stumbles, especially during the slower Ramsey sections, but the plot stays on track. And for those looking for some queer representation, this novel delivers, weaving it seamlessly into the broader narrative.
Overall, The Book Eaters is a wickedly clever tale about survival, love, and the lengths a mother will go to in order to protect her child, even if that child’s diet is, let’s say, less than traditional. It’s a feast for readers who love their gothic fiction with a twist of wit and plenty of dark charm.
The House Witch sequel serves up exactly what fans of the first book will love, a warm, cozy, banter filled experience that’s like wrapping yourself in your favorite blanket. Picking up right where we left off, this book delivers plenty of chuckles, the occasional tear, and a general sense of loveliness. If you enjoyed the first book, this will feel like coming home.
One of the standout elements is the balance between lighthearted fun and deeper themes, like grief and discrimination, which sneak in under layers of magic and comfort food. Think of it as being emotionally ambushed by a marshmallow, soft and sweet, but still packing an unexpected punch.
But let's talk about the real star of the show: Kracken, the cat. He’s endearing, he’s sassy, and frankly, he deserves way more stage time. More Kracken equals more laughs, and honestly, if a cat can steal the spotlight in a book about magic and witches, you know he's got something special going on.
Now, for the critiques: the book does have a habit of switching points of view mid-chapter, which can feel a bit like the narrative equivalent of a sneeze attack, you’re not sure how it got there, and it’s slightly disorienting. But if you can roll with it, you’ll likely find it just a minor hiccup in an otherwise charming tale.
Also, this sequel is a bit shorter than the first, thankfully so, as the first one occasionally dragged like it was being asked to run a marathon. Here, the pacing is more in line with its relaxed, cozy vibe.
Don’t pick this up expecting an intricate plot twist or fast-paced action. The plot is there, but it’s wrapped in a fluffy, slow paced slice of life where characters take center stage. It’s more of a slow burn, ideal for readers who want to sip, not chug.
In short: it’s cute, cozy, will make your heart ache and swell, and you might just wish for more of Kracken’s feline sass.
One of the standout elements is the balance between lighthearted fun and deeper themes, like grief and discrimination, which sneak in under layers of magic and comfort food. Think of it as being emotionally ambushed by a marshmallow, soft and sweet, but still packing an unexpected punch.
But let's talk about the real star of the show: Kracken, the cat. He’s endearing, he’s sassy, and frankly, he deserves way more stage time. More Kracken equals more laughs, and honestly, if a cat can steal the spotlight in a book about magic and witches, you know he's got something special going on.
Now, for the critiques: the book does have a habit of switching points of view mid-chapter, which can feel a bit like the narrative equivalent of a sneeze attack, you’re not sure how it got there, and it’s slightly disorienting. But if you can roll with it, you’ll likely find it just a minor hiccup in an otherwise charming tale.
Also, this sequel is a bit shorter than the first, thankfully so, as the first one occasionally dragged like it was being asked to run a marathon. Here, the pacing is more in line with its relaxed, cozy vibe.
Don’t pick this up expecting an intricate plot twist or fast-paced action. The plot is there, but it’s wrapped in a fluffy, slow paced slice of life where characters take center stage. It’s more of a slow burn, ideal for readers who want to sip, not chug.
In short: it’s cute, cozy, will make your heart ache and swell, and you might just wish for more of Kracken’s feline sass.
Lud-in-the-Mist by Hope Mirrlees is a slow-paced yet delightful gem of a novel that mixes whimsy with mystery, inviting readers into a world where faeries are less Tinkerbell and more "things we don’t talk about." These magical beings serve as a clever metaphor for the fear of the unknown, something the good folk of Lud would much rather keep buried, thank you very much.
The novel exudes a quiet, enchanted atmosphere, with prose so vivid you can almost hear the trees murmuring in the background. There’s a cozy, Hobbit like quality to it, where the fantastical feels familiar yet fresh. And while there’s a disappearance mystery thrown into the mix to spice things up, don’t expect high speed chases, this is a leisurely stroll through a richly imagined world.
Mirrlees’ writing is nothing short of wonderful, with descriptions of nature that make you want to pack up and move to the countryside (minus the faerie trouble). But fair warning: the trial section? A bit of a snoozer. It drags in places, and the crude handling of the pennants feels somewhat out of place in an otherwise magical tale.
Despite a few slow moments, Lud-in-the-Mist is a charming, quietly subversive read that wraps beautiful prose around an engaging mystery. It's a quirky classic for those who like their fantasy with a touch of wit and plenty of atmosphere.
The novel exudes a quiet, enchanted atmosphere, with prose so vivid you can almost hear the trees murmuring in the background. There’s a cozy, Hobbit like quality to it, where the fantastical feels familiar yet fresh. And while there’s a disappearance mystery thrown into the mix to spice things up, don’t expect high speed chases, this is a leisurely stroll through a richly imagined world.
Mirrlees’ writing is nothing short of wonderful, with descriptions of nature that make you want to pack up and move to the countryside (minus the faerie trouble). But fair warning: the trial section? A bit of a snoozer. It drags in places, and the crude handling of the pennants feels somewhat out of place in an otherwise magical tale.
Despite a few slow moments, Lud-in-the-Mist is a charming, quietly subversive read that wraps beautiful prose around an engaging mystery. It's a quirky classic for those who like their fantasy with a touch of wit and plenty of atmosphere.
Lewis Carroll set out to write Alice in Wonderland as a children’s novel, which was quite the bold move in its day, given its break from the usual moralizing, educational fare. Instead, he offered up a whimsical, dreamlike world with a hint of sophistication that made it equally delightful for adults who know a thing or two about the absurdity of life.
What really stood out for me were the bizarre, unpredictable moments that pulled readers into a surreal dreamscape, where things felt oddly familiar yet utterly strange, sometimes in a rhyme, no less. Take Alice, for instance, suddenly pondering life’s bigger questions one moment, trying to stay calm amid chaos the next, and then inexplicably going from browsing a shop to rowing a boat with the shopkeeper. Just a typical day in Wonderland.
The dreamlike quality was definitely the book’s high point, though it wasn’t without its hiccups, occasionally, the plot wandered like Alice herself, and some parts lacked a clear direction. As for Through the Looking Glass, while it didn’t quite capture the same spark as the original, it still provided a delightfully quirky, whimsical adventure.
In the end, Alice in Wonderland remains a timeless classic, blending eccentricity, humor, and magic with just enough nonsense to make you feel right at home in its topsy turvy universe.
What really stood out for me were the bizarre, unpredictable moments that pulled readers into a surreal dreamscape, where things felt oddly familiar yet utterly strange, sometimes in a rhyme, no less. Take Alice, for instance, suddenly pondering life’s bigger questions one moment, trying to stay calm amid chaos the next, and then inexplicably going from browsing a shop to rowing a boat with the shopkeeper. Just a typical day in Wonderland.
The dreamlike quality was definitely the book’s high point, though it wasn’t without its hiccups, occasionally, the plot wandered like Alice herself, and some parts lacked a clear direction. As for Through the Looking Glass, while it didn’t quite capture the same spark as the original, it still provided a delightfully quirky, whimsical adventure.
In the end, Alice in Wonderland remains a timeless classic, blending eccentricity, humor, and magic with just enough nonsense to make you feel right at home in its topsy turvy universe.
Pat Barker's Silence of the Girls retells the Iliad from a fresh perspective, the women who were silenced by war. Instead of focusing on the famous heroes and battles, Barker shines a light on women like Briseis, who is taken as a prize by Achilles. The novel is a harsh reminder of how women in wartime were treated like objects, stripped of their freedom and often reduced to nothing more than things to be claimed.
What makes this story powerful is how it makes us think about not only ancient history, but also the way gender inequality continues today. Barker shows that even in the darkest situations, these women find small ways to hold on to their sense of self, even when the world around them tries to take it away.
Some readers might feel that sticking with the women’s viewpoint throughout would’ve been stronger, but Barker’s choice to shift to the male perspective now and then actually adds something important. It makes the contrast between the experiences of men and women even more clear and highlights just how powerless women were in this world.
The writing itself is simple and direct, letting the emotions of the story stand out. There’s no need for fancy language, the power comes from the straightforward way the story is told. The dialogue brings the characters to life, making them feel real and relatable, not just figures from a long-ago myth.
In the end, Silence of the Girls is a thought-provoking and emotional story that brings attention to the women whose voices were forgotten. Barker’s storytelling makes you think about history and gender in new ways, and the book leaves a lasting impact.
What makes this story powerful is how it makes us think about not only ancient history, but also the way gender inequality continues today. Barker shows that even in the darkest situations, these women find small ways to hold on to their sense of self, even when the world around them tries to take it away.
Some readers might feel that sticking with the women’s viewpoint throughout would’ve been stronger, but Barker’s choice to shift to the male perspective now and then actually adds something important. It makes the contrast between the experiences of men and women even more clear and highlights just how powerless women were in this world.
The writing itself is simple and direct, letting the emotions of the story stand out. There’s no need for fancy language, the power comes from the straightforward way the story is told. The dialogue brings the characters to life, making them feel real and relatable, not just figures from a long-ago myth.
In the end, Silence of the Girls is a thought-provoking and emotional story that brings attention to the women whose voices were forgotten. Barker’s storytelling makes you think about history and gender in new ways, and the book leaves a lasting impact.
Dallergut Dream Department introduces us to a delightfully quirky world where sleeping humans wander around in their pajamas, in search of their next new dream, all under the watchful eye of dog-like guardians who ensure no one accidentally sheds their night robes. If that premise alone doesn’t tickle your fancy, it’s time to reconsider your dream life. The book poses a simple yet captivating question: What if you could buy a dream? And the even bigger question: What on earth would you buy? (For me? A flying dream, of course.)
This charming story is as cute as it is whimsical, prompting you to think about your own sleep in unexpected ways. The heroine, Penny, is an absolute sweetheart, curious, full of heart, and eager to improve herself. She's someone you root for right from the start. And then there’s Dallergut, the quirky side character who feels like Willy Wonka's sleep-deprived cousin or Jupiter North’s dreamier counterpart. His eccentricities and offbeat charm only enhance the magical aura of the book.
The world-building here is a lush and wonderfully creative delight. The author effortlessly weaves together lore about past, present, future, and the enigmatic in-between space where dreams dwell, creating a landscape that’s as enchanting as it is complex. And let’s not forget the currency of this dream-world: the emotions dreamers wake up with. Now that’s a currency that would give the stock market a run for its money!
However, while the setting is rich and imaginative, the characters themselves can feel a bit flat, lacking the depth that might make them more relatable or nuanced. The storyline, too, is rather absent, it's more a collection of moments and vibes than a tightly woven plot. But in the realm of dreamlike, atmospheric tales, this works in the book’s favor, allowing it to excel in creating a magical, whimsical mood. The running theme is clear: this book is about dreams, yes, but it’s also about what they mean to us.
And while the book reminds us that “dreams are just dreams,” Dallergut Dream Department makes us wonder, maybe they’re a little more than that after all.
This charming story is as cute as it is whimsical, prompting you to think about your own sleep in unexpected ways. The heroine, Penny, is an absolute sweetheart, curious, full of heart, and eager to improve herself. She's someone you root for right from the start. And then there’s Dallergut, the quirky side character who feels like Willy Wonka's sleep-deprived cousin or Jupiter North’s dreamier counterpart. His eccentricities and offbeat charm only enhance the magical aura of the book.
The world-building here is a lush and wonderfully creative delight. The author effortlessly weaves together lore about past, present, future, and the enigmatic in-between space where dreams dwell, creating a landscape that’s as enchanting as it is complex. And let’s not forget the currency of this dream-world: the emotions dreamers wake up with. Now that’s a currency that would give the stock market a run for its money!
However, while the setting is rich and imaginative, the characters themselves can feel a bit flat, lacking the depth that might make them more relatable or nuanced. The storyline, too, is rather absent, it's more a collection of moments and vibes than a tightly woven plot. But in the realm of dreamlike, atmospheric tales, this works in the book’s favor, allowing it to excel in creating a magical, whimsical mood. The running theme is clear: this book is about dreams, yes, but it’s also about what they mean to us.
And while the book reminds us that “dreams are just dreams,” Dallergut Dream Department makes us wonder, maybe they’re a little more than that after all.
Seanan McGuire’s Down Among the Sticks and Bones offers a dark, twisted, and unexpectedly heartfelt take on the consequences of intense parenting, or, more precisely, on the ways in which parents can mold children into set shapes and leave little room for free will. This is not your average tale of bad parents but rather a harsh reflection on what happens when children's identities are built out of their parents' narrow desires rather than their own.
The story follows Jacqueline and Jillian, twins whose upbringing is so distinctively opposite that you might wonder if their parents had a secret pact to split personalities in half. Jacqueline, the picture of femininity, and Jillian, the perfect example of a tomboy, are the products of parents who seem to view childhood as a design project, assigning traits like one might assign chores. As one might expect, this suffocating environment prepare them for the moment they escape into another world, literally.
McGuire drops the girls into the magical, grimdark world of the Moors, an atmospheric parallel universe where you half expect Narnia’s wardrobe to meet Alice’s rabbit hole, and then instantly run screaming. The Moors are a gothic nightmare filled with eerie wonders, including a vampire lord and a mad scientist, with an ambiance feel of a Victorian horror novel turned upside down.
It’s in this gothic otherworld that the twins are given the ultimate test: to define themselves. But while they have escaped their parents grip, the Moors isn’t exactly an ideal playground for self actualization. Choices here are, let’s say, limited, torn between two competing supernatural forces, they quickly realize the limits of their newfound freedom. Through this, McGuire deftly explores how upbringing affects decision-making, even when those decisions are life altering, as one sister aligns herself with the vampire, the other with the scientist. The relationship between the twins frays as they grow into versions of themselves dictated less by nature or nurture and more by survival.
McGuire’s biting prose doesn’t shy away from public opinions either, with subtle but sharp commentary on body image and gender norms, including moments of fat shaming that reflect the cruel realities of the real world. In this, the book is not just a fantastical story of adventure and danger, but also a mirror to how those same opinions follow us, whether we’re navigating the schoolyard or a dimension filled with monsters.
In short, Down Among the Sticks and Bones is a beautifully grim exploration of identity, choice, and how childhood molds us. It proves, with a dash of wit and no shortage of teeth (some of them vampiric), that escaping your parents is the easy part. Figuring out who you are afterward? That’s where the real journey begins.
The story follows Jacqueline and Jillian, twins whose upbringing is so distinctively opposite that you might wonder if their parents had a secret pact to split personalities in half. Jacqueline, the picture of femininity, and Jillian, the perfect example of a tomboy, are the products of parents who seem to view childhood as a design project, assigning traits like one might assign chores. As one might expect, this suffocating environment prepare them for the moment they escape into another world, literally.
McGuire drops the girls into the magical, grimdark world of the Moors, an atmospheric parallel universe where you half expect Narnia’s wardrobe to meet Alice’s rabbit hole, and then instantly run screaming. The Moors are a gothic nightmare filled with eerie wonders, including a vampire lord and a mad scientist, with an ambiance feel of a Victorian horror novel turned upside down.
It’s in this gothic otherworld that the twins are given the ultimate test: to define themselves. But while they have escaped their parents grip, the Moors isn’t exactly an ideal playground for self actualization. Choices here are, let’s say, limited, torn between two competing supernatural forces, they quickly realize the limits of their newfound freedom. Through this, McGuire deftly explores how upbringing affects decision-making, even when those decisions are life altering, as one sister aligns herself with the vampire, the other with the scientist. The relationship between the twins frays as they grow into versions of themselves dictated less by nature or nurture and more by survival.
McGuire’s biting prose doesn’t shy away from public opinions either, with subtle but sharp commentary on body image and gender norms, including moments of fat shaming that reflect the cruel realities of the real world. In this, the book is not just a fantastical story of adventure and danger, but also a mirror to how those same opinions follow us, whether we’re navigating the schoolyard or a dimension filled with monsters.
In short, Down Among the Sticks and Bones is a beautifully grim exploration of identity, choice, and how childhood molds us. It proves, with a dash of wit and no shortage of teeth (some of them vampiric), that escaping your parents is the easy part. Figuring out who you are afterward? That’s where the real journey begins.
Labyrinth by Kate Mosse is a novel that takes readers on a time-bending adventure between modern day France and the 13th century, with plenty of atmospheric charm. If you've ever wandered the streets of Carcassonne, or dreamt of doing so, Mosse's lush descriptions will transport you right back, like a historical vacation without the jet lag. The medieval chapters are especially vivid, bursting with so much detail that you can almost see the medieval streets, minus the cobblestones underfoot.
But the pacing? Let’s just say this book has two speeds: sprint and snail. One minute the plot’s racing ahead, leaving you flipping back to figure out what just happened, and the next it slows to a crawl, giving you ample time to ponder life’s big questions, like whether or not you should make a snack. It’s a bit like watching a thriller on fast forward and then suddenly hitting pause.
On top of that, Mosse sprinkles in a fair amount of untranslated French, which adds authenticity, sure, but unless you’ve brushed up on your French, you might be left nodding along and hoping you didn’t just miss something important. A quick translation would have gone a long way, though it does make you feel fancy while reading, even if you’re a little confused.
The mystery itself is gripping, but Mosse plays her cards so close to her chest that readers are left fumbling in the dark for clues. If you’re hoping to play detective, be warned, there are few breadcrumbs here. There are a couple of twists, but some are pretty easy to see coming. A big reveal about the Cathars, for example, feels more like confirmation of something you probably guessed earlier.
Still, Labyrinth makes for an enjoyable read, especially for the summer. It’s light, full of history, and an overall pleasant escape, even if it doesn’t quite reach the heights of literary greatness. You won’t be scaling any mountains here, but for a bit of time traveling escapism, it does the job nicely. Perfect for a lazy afternoon, just don’t expect it to change your life, or your French vocabulary.
But the pacing? Let’s just say this book has two speeds: sprint and snail. One minute the plot’s racing ahead, leaving you flipping back to figure out what just happened, and the next it slows to a crawl, giving you ample time to ponder life’s big questions, like whether or not you should make a snack. It’s a bit like watching a thriller on fast forward and then suddenly hitting pause.
On top of that, Mosse sprinkles in a fair amount of untranslated French, which adds authenticity, sure, but unless you’ve brushed up on your French, you might be left nodding along and hoping you didn’t just miss something important. A quick translation would have gone a long way, though it does make you feel fancy while reading, even if you’re a little confused.
The mystery itself is gripping, but Mosse plays her cards so close to her chest that readers are left fumbling in the dark for clues. If you’re hoping to play detective, be warned, there are few breadcrumbs here. There are a couple of twists, but some are pretty easy to see coming. A big reveal about the Cathars, for example, feels more like confirmation of something you probably guessed earlier.
Still, Labyrinth makes for an enjoyable read, especially for the summer. It’s light, full of history, and an overall pleasant escape, even if it doesn’t quite reach the heights of literary greatness. You won’t be scaling any mountains here, but for a bit of time traveling escapism, it does the job nicely. Perfect for a lazy afternoon, just don’t expect it to change your life, or your French vocabulary.
“Forever the war will rage, until united, the three shall die. Humans made low, then fae made lower, Then elves in ignorance, gone is their power, Cursed to endure, cursed to survive. All shall perish lest all three thrive.”
Faebound has an exciting premise: a war between elves, fae and human and hidden fae court. It sounds like the start of a great fantasy adventure, but the story doesn't quite live up to its potential.
The book follows sisters Yeeran and Lettle, who are living in exile while discovering their fae heritage. On paper, it sounds thrilling. In reality, the characters don't feel as alive as they should. Yeeran and Lettle’s interactions come off as a bit forced, and it’s hard to connect with them emotionally. Instead of pulling us into their journey, it feels like we’re watching from a distance, hoping for more.
The plot also stumbles. While the story promises epic battles and a world full of magic, it spends too much time focusing on romance. Romance is great in fantasy, but in Faebound, it takes over the whole story, leaving little room for the exciting conflicts we’re promised. The bigger issues, like the tension between the fae and the elves, feel pushed aside and left unexplored.
The worldbuilding, which should be a major strength of the book, gets lost along the way. The idea that elves and fae aren’t the same could add a lot to the story, but it just ends up being confusing. What starts out as a rich, magical world fades into the background as the romance takes center stage.
In the end, Faebound starts with a strong idea but doesn’t fully deliver. The characters lack depth, the plot gets bogged down in romance, and the worldbuilding doesn’t live up to its potential. If you’re looking for a light, easy read with a focus on romance, you might enjoy this book. But if you’re hoping for an epic fantasy with strong worldbuilding and complex characters, this one might leave you wanting more.
Faebound has an exciting premise: a war between elves, fae and human and hidden fae court. It sounds like the start of a great fantasy adventure, but the story doesn't quite live up to its potential.
The book follows sisters Yeeran and Lettle, who are living in exile while discovering their fae heritage. On paper, it sounds thrilling. In reality, the characters don't feel as alive as they should. Yeeran and Lettle’s interactions come off as a bit forced, and it’s hard to connect with them emotionally. Instead of pulling us into their journey, it feels like we’re watching from a distance, hoping for more.
The plot also stumbles. While the story promises epic battles and a world full of magic, it spends too much time focusing on romance. Romance is great in fantasy, but in Faebound, it takes over the whole story, leaving little room for the exciting conflicts we’re promised. The bigger issues, like the tension between the fae and the elves, feel pushed aside and left unexplored.
The worldbuilding, which should be a major strength of the book, gets lost along the way. The idea that elves and fae aren’t the same could add a lot to the story, but it just ends up being confusing. What starts out as a rich, magical world fades into the background as the romance takes center stage.
In the end, Faebound starts with a strong idea but doesn’t fully deliver. The characters lack depth, the plot gets bogged down in romance, and the worldbuilding doesn’t live up to its potential. If you’re looking for a light, easy read with a focus on romance, you might enjoy this book. But if you’re hoping for an epic fantasy with strong worldbuilding and complex characters, this one might leave you wanting more.
After reading Throne of Glass, this series wasn’t exactly my favorite, the characters felt underdeveloped and the world was a whirlwind of fragments. But Crown of Midnight? It definitely takes a step in the right direction. Maas seems to have found her stride here.
The pacing is more even, with action sequences that keep the adrenaline going without the lulls that weighed down Throne of Glass. Maas balances the tension much more effectively here, and though the mix of mythologies (Norse, Russian, Celtic, you name it!) still has a touch of the “kitchen sink” about it, the world feels richer and more immersive.
Now, as for the chapters focused on Chaol and Dorian, let’s just say their mopey, angst ridden monologues could use a little less screen time. Yes, they have burdens, but at times they make Hamlet look like an optimist. They do add emotional depth, but sometimes you wish they’d focus on action rather than all the existential musings.
The rebellion? Well, things get murky here. New characters are introduced, but they occasionally feel like two dimensional pawns on Maas’s chessboard. Their motivations and personalities could use more shading to make them memorable, rather than interchangeable.
That being said, Maas does touch on some bigger themes in this book, like loss and depression, which gives the story more emotional weight. It’s not just all about battles and magic anymore; there’s something deeper at play.
And then... the ending. Without spoilers, let’s just say Maas drops a bombshell of a plot twist that will leave you picking your jaw up off the floor. It’s the kind of cliffhanger that makes you want to immediately dive into the next book just to see how she’s going to untangle that web.
Overall, Crown of Midnight is a noticeable improvement on its predecessor. While it still stumbles in some areas (looking at you, Chaol and Dorian), it offers more action, better pacing, and a story that finally starts to dig deeper into its emotional core.
The pacing is more even, with action sequences that keep the adrenaline going without the lulls that weighed down Throne of Glass. Maas balances the tension much more effectively here, and though the mix of mythologies (Norse, Russian, Celtic, you name it!) still has a touch of the “kitchen sink” about it, the world feels richer and more immersive.
Now, as for the chapters focused on Chaol and Dorian, let’s just say their mopey, angst ridden monologues could use a little less screen time. Yes, they have burdens, but at times they make Hamlet look like an optimist. They do add emotional depth, but sometimes you wish they’d focus on action rather than all the existential musings.
The rebellion? Well, things get murky here. New characters are introduced, but they occasionally feel like two dimensional pawns on Maas’s chessboard. Their motivations and personalities could use more shading to make them memorable, rather than interchangeable.
That being said, Maas does touch on some bigger themes in this book, like loss and depression, which gives the story more emotional weight. It’s not just all about battles and magic anymore; there’s something deeper at play.
And then... the ending. Without spoilers, let’s just say Maas drops a bombshell of a plot twist that will leave you picking your jaw up off the floor. It’s the kind of cliffhanger that makes you want to immediately dive into the next book just to see how she’s going to untangle that web.
Overall, Crown of Midnight is a noticeable improvement on its predecessor. While it still stumbles in some areas (looking at you, Chaol and Dorian), it offers more action, better pacing, and a story that finally starts to dig deeper into its emotional core.