John

Mossflower has always been my favorite of the Redwall series, and rereading it as an adult reminded me why, it's a story that balances adventure, warmth, and depth in a way that few childhood favorites manage to retain.

When I first read Mossflower as a child, it was pure magic: brave woodland creatures, an evil wildcat queen, and a quest that felt larger than life. Coming back to it as an adult, I was struck by how well it holds up, not just as a nostalgic comfort read, but as a genuinely well crafted fantasy novel. The pacing is brisk without being rushed, moving seamlessly between moments of high adventure, quiet humor, and the kind of cozy, food laden interludes that Brian Jacques was famous for. Even knowing the outcome, I found myself pulled along by the rhythm of the story, never feeling bogged down or impatient.

Jacques creates a living, breathing Mossflower Wood, filled with mice, mischievous thieves, stoic moles, and villainous stoats and weasels. The setting feels both mythic and homely, a place where epic quests and simple pleasures coexist. As a child, I was enchanted by the idea of woodland creatures living in castles and embarking on quests; as an adult, I can appreciate how Jacques layers in themes of community, resistance, and the founding of Redwall Abbey itself. It's a world that feels timeless, and one that rewards rereading.

The character development is surprisingly rich for what is often labeled a children's book. Martin the Warrior is not yet the legendary figure he becomes in later tales. Here, he's still raw, still learning, and that makes his journey all the more compelling. Gonff, the irrepressible mouse thief, remains one of the most charming companions in the series, and Tsarmina, the cruel wildcat queen, is a villain who manages to be both larger‑than‑life and chillingly believable. As a child, I loved the clear lines between good and evil; as an adult, I can see how Jacques gives his heroes flaws and his villains moments of cunning that make them more than caricatures.

What struck me most on rereading was the nostalgia woven into the experience. The same passages that once thrilled me as a child now carry a warmth and familiarity, like revisiting an old friend. Yet the story also resonates differently now, I can see the themes of sacrifice, leadership, and the building of something lasting (the Abbey) as more than just plot points; they're reflections on legacy and community. And perhaps the most exciting part of this reread is knowing that in a few years, I'll be able to share Mossflower with my own child. The thought of introducing them to Martin, Gonff, and the world of Mossflower Wood fills me with anticipation, it's the kind of story that begs to be passed down, and I can't wait to see it through their eyes for the first time.

Rating: 5/5 stars

“You are like a man who—finding a fence in the wilderness—tears it down to clear the land, and doing so releases a lion from its pen.”

It's been a long time since a series made me feel this way. Approaching the last book was bittersweet, I almost didn't want to start it because I didn't want to be done with Hadrian and the Sun Eater saga. That hesitation alone tells me how much I truly loved this series. I was nervous about whether Ruocchio could land the ending, but he absolutely did. Shadows Upon Time delivered in every aspect.

From the beginning of book one, you knew where this story was ultimately headed. The mystery was always in the journey, and here that journey reaches its conclusion in epic fashion. This book is a roller coaster of emotion and action, with pacing that rarely lets up. It's all gas and no brakes, and I often found it hard to put down at night.

Hadrian's arc is the centerpiece, and it's executed with remarkable commitment. By this point, he is fully bought in on the Absolute's path, a zealot for the cause. That means he makes choices that aren't always rational or “right” in the conventional sense. Some readers may be frustrated by that, but for me, it's exactly what makes the story so good. Hadrian doesn't take the “right answer,” he takes Hadrian's answer. We may disagree with him, but that tension is what gives his journey weight and authenticity. It is impressive to watch his growth as a character through his centuries of life, while he still maintains some of his character traits that makes him who he is, deep down. Some of his traits that are viewed as flaws are his greatest strengths, and its nice to see them leaned into other than polished out as you see with some many other series protagonists.

Ruocchio excels at making you fall in love with the characters, flail against what you know is coming, hope against inevitability, and still deliver an ending with a twist that leaves you smirking and wanting more. Without spoiling specifics, the reveals in this book are clever and satisfying; the kind that, in retrospect, make perfect sense. You learn a lot more about the universe and galaxy you've been living in, particularly about the factions who truly hold the power in the galaxy, and what mankind's true history has been. This invokes a lot of dialogue and discussion about the role of religion in society and the control of society through the narrative of history and religion. I will be interested to see how this lands with readers.

Side characters do suffer a bit here, as the plot is laser‑focused on Hadrian's mission. A2, for example, felt somewhat shelved. But others gain deeper insight and “stage time,” and the trade‑off worked for me given the sheer scale of what had to be accomplished. You can feel Ruocchio pushing to keep this a seven‑book series rather than stretching it into eight, and while that makes the pacing relentless, I appreciated not having another volume hanging on the horizon. At some point, the story has to hit critical mass and steamroll forward, and that's exactly what happens here.

All told, Shadows Upon Time landed the ending with extreme satisfaction. This has been one of the best series I've read in a long time, and I would recommend it wholeheartedly to any sci‑fi or fantasy fan. Now I'm in that melancholy phase of finishing a journey I loved being on, already looking for the next one to fill the void.

Rating: 4/5 stars

“Understanding what is at stake will change you, change how easy it is for you to be the man you aspire to be.”

This second entry in The Licanius Trilogy pulled me in far more than the first book. The plot twists and reveals here made me genuinely invested in the larger story, and I found myself much more bought into the trilogy as a whole. Islington leans on familiar tropes: memory loss, time travel, foreknowledge, but he uses them well, turning them into suspenseful devices that feel fresh in a world where Augurs already have foresight of things to come.

The lore and worldbuilding expansions were a highlight. Through Caeden's arc, as his memories slowly return, the history of the world unfolds in ways that deepen the stakes and broaden the scope. You begin to understand the gravity of what's at play, and it makes the trilogy feel much larger than the first book suggested.

Caeden/Tal'Kamar remains my favorite character by far. His storyline carries both mystery and moral weight, and I especially appreciated how his relationship with Davian shapes him. One line captures this perfectly: “The people with whom we are friends should never affect our morality; rather, our morality should affect with whom we are friends.” It's a statement that reflects Caeden's struggle and growth, showing how his choices and friendships are guided by principle rather than convenience. That moral clarity, even in the face of his darker nature, is what makes his arc so compelling.

The other characters' plotlines are strengthened here too. Ashalia, whose chapters I enjoyed the least in The Shadow of What Was Lost, became much more engaging in this book. Her storyline felt more purposeful, and I appreciated the growth. The ensemble as a whole feel more balanced, with each perspective contributing meaningfully to the narrative.

In terms of pacing and development, this is a strong second book. It carries the trilogy well, keeps you engaged, and builds momentum toward the finale. I also think Islington's prose is much improved here and better suited to the scale of the story.

Ironically, though, the prose is also the one thing that kept me from giving these a full 5 stars. At times, the dialogue slips into a YA, almost Marvel‑movie style of banter that feels tonally out of place in the rest of the book. It's jarring when it happens, and it pulled me out of the story. On top of that, I couldn't help but notice the repetitive use of certain adjectives, “bemused” in particular shows up so often that I started counting. Call me picky, but once I noticed it, I couldn't unsee it.

Still, those quirks don't outweigh the strengths. This book made me excited to dive into the conclusion of the trilogy. The nature of the story means you know pieces of the destination, but not the journey, and that keeps me hungry to read more.

I also see a lot more of the Wheel of Time parallels now: Kan and Essence echo Saidin and Saidar, the Boundary feels like the Blight, the Banes resemble Trollocs and the Eyeless, the Venerate are akin to the Forsaken, and El/Shammaeloth mirrors the Creator and the Dark One. Whether intentional or not, those echoes add another layer of familiarity to the world.

Rating: 4/5 stars

I went into this one curious, since it's often hyped as “for Wheel of Time fans.” I'm not entirely convinced by that comparison. Sure, there are parallels; a young cast, an ancient evil looming, a world bound by rules and politics, but it doesn't feel like a clone. If anything, those comparisons set expectations a little too high. This book has its own style, and I appreciated that.

What really hooked me was the setting. Andarra is a society that's both oppressive and weary of its magically inclined population. The Treaty and the Tenets hang over everything, shaping how the Gifted live and how the rest of society treats them. That tension between the Andarrans and the Tols adds a sharp political edge, and the looming Boundary with Tol Golan in the north gives the whole story a sense of dread. It feels like a world waiting to crack.

Characters were a mixed bag, but in a good way. Caeden's arc was easily the most compelling. His story line carried a weight and mystery that pulled me in, and I found myself most invested whenever the narrative shifted to him. One line in particular stuck with me: “Everyone has a darker nature, Caeden. Everyone. Good men fear it, and evil men embrace it.” It's a simple sentence, but it captures both the prose style and the heart of Caeden's journey; the tension between who he is, who he fears he might be, and who he could become. That kind of thematic punch is what made his chapters stand out.

Elocien and Ashalia, on the other hand, felt like they were written in a slightly different register. Their interactions had a “YA” tone that didn't quite mesh with the rest of the book. Not bad, just jarring at times. Still, I enjoyed following the different perspectives, and the variety kept the story moving.

Prose‑wise, Islington keeps things accessible. It's straightforward and easy to read, though occasionally uneven in tone depending on which characters are on the page. But when it hits, like with that Caeden quote, it lands.

Overall, I enjoyed this as a solid start to the trilogy. It didn't grip me the way some first books do, so I'm glad it's a trilogy and not a sprawling 10‑book epic. Three books feels like the right scope for this story, and I'm looking forward to diving into the sequel.

The Martyr was great, and I gave it 4/5 stars. I was relieved and happy to see Anthony Ryan deliver a sequel that not only lived up to The Pariah but built on it. I was very nervous after reading his previous trilogy.

One of the things I appreciated most was the continued single character point of view. Following Alwyn Scribe exclusively keeps the story focused, and it allows Ryan to dig deeply into his growth. Alwyn remains a fascinating protagonist; flawed, and constantly shaped by the world around him. He's willing to grow and redefine himself by what he experiences and learns. His weakness regarding Lady Evadine is particularly compelling. His loyalty and conflicted feelings toward her add layers of tension and vulnerability to his character.

The low fantasy setting continues to be a strength. I read another review that referred to this as an “analogy medieval fantasy” and that seems to ring true. The world is grounded in politics, faith, and human ambition, with only subtle touches of the supernatural. The magic system exists, but it remains vague and mysterious, never overwhelming the narrative or being used as a convenient solution to problems. This restraint makes the world feel more believable and keeps the focus on the characters and their choices.

The battle scenes are another highlight. Here the clashes are both visceral and strategic. They carry weight, not just in terms of action but in how they shape Alwyn and the people around him. The battles feel taxing and with gravity, and they serve the story rather than existing for spectacle alone.

The Martyr was everything I hoped for in a sequel. It maintained the strengths of The Pariah, a focused perspective, a compelling protagonist, and a grounded setting while pushing the story forward in meaningful ways. I'm looking forward to the near release of the finale of the trilogy.