Jess

Whatever the Thunderhead does here fully caught me off guard. I kept thinking I understood where that whole thread was going and then it swerves in a way that makes you sit there like, hang on, what. And the annoying thing is it also sort of makes sense when you think back over the series, which is why it's so good. It isn't random, it's just bigger than what I thought the book was aiming for.
This one also feels like it finally gives you the most world. The first book has the concept, the second expands it, but this one actually shows you how wide the world is and how many people have been living under these rules in totally different ways. It feels less like we're only watching Scythes do Scythe politics and more like we're seeing the whole machine and what it does to everyone.
I also loved the relationship arcs in this book, which I didn't expect to be one of my main takeaways. 

It's not perfect. It's trying to wrap up a lot, and a couple of threads could've had more time. But overall this was my favourite of the three. It felt more emotional, more expanded, and more surprising than the other two.

Slightly higher than the first two for me.

I've just finished Scythe and I think it's a genuinely strong book with a great hook.
The premise is doing a lot of work, but in a good way. Humanity has removed natural death, which should be a utopia, except it creates a new problem. Someone still has to decide who dies. Enter the Scythes. From the start, that tension carries the story. It constantly forces you to think about power, justification, and how easily something framed as necessary can turn rotten. The book is at its best when it leans into that discomfort.

The plot moves quickly and confidently. It never really drags, and there's a sense that each section is pushing the characters closer to something they can't avoid. I liked that the story doesn't soften its choices. 
The characters themselves are solid rather than extraordinary. They're not wildly complex, but they're believable within the system they're trapped in, and their development feels earned through pressure rather than speeches or angst. I also appreciated that romance stays secondary. It's there, but it doesn't hijack the story or the themes.

Where it didn't fully land for me is the worldbuilding. The rules of the world are clear, and the Scythe system is well thought through, but the wider society feels a bit thin. I wanted more sense of everyday life in a world without death. More cultural weirdness. More social consequences. At times the world feels slightly too neat, like it exists mainly to support the concept rather than feeling messy and lived in. I'm aware that's partly a YA pacing choice, but it did leave me wanting more depth.

That said, the book knows what it is and does it well. It's smart, readable, morally interesting, and clearly setting up bigger ideas for later books. I finished it feeling entertained.
Overall, a really enjoyable read with a killer premise, even if the world itself could use more texture. I'll definitely be picking up the second book.

I really loved Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil. After Dungeon Crawler Carl, it felt like switching from loud, chaotic fun to something quieter and more reflective, and that contrast worked perfectly for me.

At the beginning, I wasn't sure what I was meant to be doing as a reader. There's no obvious plot hook or clear goal, and that made me slightly uneasy. I kept waiting for the story to announce itself. It never really does. Instead, it asks you to pay attention and trust that it's going somewhere. Once I accepted that, the experience became much more rewarding.
The novel traces queerness across time, threading together the lives of many women shaped, limited, and bruised by the societies they move through. Their stories echo one another, overlap, and collide rather than standing neatly apart. It feels intentional that no woman exists in isolation here. It mirrors real life, where women live entangled with those who came before us, carrying both the weight of what they endured and the space they carved out.
I also appreciated how queerness was handled. It isn't spotlighted or explained, and it isn't romanticised either. Relationships feel shaped by the realities of their time. Sometimes tender, sometimes constrained, often costly. Love matters, but it never exists without consequence.

The vampire element is one of the most interesting takes I've read in a long time. It's understated and woven into the story rather than sitting on top of it. There's very little interest in rules or spectacle. Instead, the focus is on what immortality does to a person over time. The idea that vampires don't stay the same inside, that they decay internally, felt genuinely unsettling and surprisingly grounded.

Sabine is where I diverge from a lot of readers. By the end, she's horrifying. Hunger strips her down to something ruthless and cruel. I understand why people hate her. But I can't forget the woman she was before that rot set in. Her early choices, ambitious, selfish, strategic, don't feel like unique sins. They feel like responses to a world that gives women limited exits and punishes them for wanting more. Her fascination with the “first Sabine,” with the life Maria might have, feels tragically human. Desire curdles into domination, yes, but it starts somewhere recognisable.

Her story does not begin in evil. It begins in pressure. Like so many of the other women in the book, her choices are warped by the society she lives in. That doesn't excuse what she becomes, but it makes it tragic rather than simple.

The internal rot of the vampires reminded me strongly of dementia. That slow loss of self. The way someone can become angry or unrecognisable, and how the people around them are left holding grief and revulsion at the same time. The book never forces a moral conclusion there. It just lets the discomfort sit.

This isn't a fast or comforting read, but it is a deeply considered one. Everything feels intentional. By the time it all comes together, the impact is emotional rather than clever.

For me, it's an easy five out of five. 

This is the first book in the series that didn't quite hit the same highs for me, even though it still does a lot of things very well.

For a large stretch in the middle, this book leans hard into being a war novel. Battles dominate, factions multiply, and the dungeon shifts away from the “game-like” structure that worked so well in earlier books. Before, the story felt potted and deliberate. Mini fights, contained arcs, sharp twists, then space to breathe. Here, the warfare stretches on and on. I understand why. This is a faction war floor, death is permanent, and the scale is meant to feel overwhelming. But for me, it became too much.
The middle feels overweight. Battles begin to blur together, and although there is an interesting political narrative woven through it, I struggled to follow it properly because the constant combat overshadowed everything else. I didn't lose interest emotionally, but I did lose clarity. At some point, I stopped trying to keep track of who was doing what and why, simply because there wasn't enough room to process it all.
Where the book really shines is when it pulls away from the battlefield.

The character work here is excellent and often devastating. The tone is much darker and more cynical than earlier books, but it feels right for where Carl is mentally. He is exhausted, angry, and carrying an unbearable amount of responsibility, and the story reflects that. The humour is still present, but it is sharper and grimmer, and that shift makes sense rather than feeling like something is missing.

I especially loved how much this book leaned into human solidarity. The “no one gets left behind” instinct that people seem to tap into during disasters felt painfully real. These are not perfect people, and in ordinary life they might never act so selflessly, but under pressure they show a kind of loyalty and decency that feels uniquely human. 

Katia's storyline hit me hard. Her memories, the pregnancy, and the sheer vulnerability of her situation cut through all the noise of war. Bautista's loyalty to her is one of the most affecting moments in the book. It is not framed as heroic or dramatic. He simply does what needs to be done, bringing her the mechanical limbs she needs to survive.
I also really loved the AI arc. Watching it shift from background system to something morally aware was fascinating. It does not suddenly rebel or “wake up” in a cliché way. It accumulates memory, notices patterns, and becomes increasingly uncomfortable with what it is facilitating. Through the AI, the dungeon starts to feel less like a twisted game and more like evidence of a civilisation that has normalised cruelty. Those sections were sharp, focused, and genuinely interesting, and I found myself wishing there had been more of them to balance the sprawling war narrative.
I kept going partly because of those moments, and partly because I trusted the author. That trust is rewarded by the end, when the story recentres on consequence, loyalty, and irreversible change. 
Still, this ends up being a 3.75 for me, whereas the other books have all been solid fours or fives. Some of the best moments in the entire series are here, they are just buried under a middle section that felt longer and heavier than it needed to be.

A strong book, and possibly a necessary one for the overall arc, but not the series at its sharpest.

This is a five-star book for me, and easily the strongest in the series so far.

What makes it work isn't spectacle or clever mechanics — it's how emotionally solid everything feels. By this point, Carl isn't just a character reacting to horrors as they happen. He's carrying them. You can feel the accumulation of loss, anger, responsibility, and fatigue in the way he thinks and acts. Nothing resets anymore. Nothing feels temporary. That weight makes him feel real in a way the earlier books, good as they are, don't quite manage.

This is also where the story fully outgrows the idea of being a “game”. The systems are still there, but they're exposed for what they are; tools for control, entertainment, and exploitation. The dungeon feels less like a series of levels and more like a regime that sustains itself by breaking people slowly. That shift in framing is what pulled me in completely. It stopped being clever fun and started being unsettling in a way that sticks.

Carl's growth here is subtle but significant. He isn't becoming louder or more heroic. If anything, he's quieter. More deliberate. He thinks before he moves. He withholds parts of himself. That emotional restraint feels like survival, not growth for growth's sake. He's still angry, deeply so, but he's learned that constant fury just burns you out. Watching him choose when to care and when to harden himself feels painfully believable.

The found family matters more than ever, and not in a sentimental way. These relationships are strained, functional, sometimes uncomfortable. People don't always agree. They don't always make the “right” choice. That friction makes the bonds feel earned, and it makes the consequences hit harder when things go wrong. There's no safety net here.

What finally pushed this into five-star territory for me is that it no longer needs to rely on humour to carry the story. The jokes are still there, but they're secondary. The book stands on its character work, its emotional continuity, and its willingness to sit in discomfort without rushing past it. That's what made it feel real rather than just entertaining.

The emotional register is high from the outset, and it stays there. That might be too much for some readers, but I needed it. The series has been winding itself tighter book by book, and here it finally releases that pressure. This isn't the lighthearted RPG-flavoured chaos of Books 1 and 2 anymore. The humour is still there, but it's sharpened, defensive, often ugly. It feels like something Carl uses to survive rather than enjoy.

What makes this work is how clearly the stakes have changed. Early on, the dungeon is terrifying and absurd in equal measure. Carl is angry, yes, but he's also curious. He recognises the structure. He understands games. There's a grim fascination alongside the fear. By Book 5, that fascination is gone. He knows exactly what the system is, and he despises it. The dungeon isn't a puzzle anymore; it's a machine, and it grinds people down for entertainment.

The masquerade itself becomes the perfect setting for that realisation. Everything about it is performative, manipulative, and cruel by design. Power is exercised through spectacle, alliances are transactional, and loyalty is constantly tested. The political intrigue steps fully into the foreground here; backroom deals, betrayals, incentives that corrupt even good intentions. It's ugly, but it's compelling, and it reframes so much of what came before.

Carl's evolution is harder to watch in this book, and that's a compliment. He's colder. More controlled. Sometimes frightening. He still cares deeply, but that care has edges now. He's learned that softness is something the system exploits, and he refuses to make it easy for them anymore. That shift won't work for everyone, especially readers who miss the earlier warmth and novelty — but for me, it feels honest. Trauma doesn't leave people untouched, and leadership under constant threat rarely produces gentle outcomes.

The found family element is one of the book's greatest strengths. These relationships aren't comforting in a neat, sentimental way. They're strained, complicated, and sometimes painful. People falter. They make bad calls. They hurt each other without meaning to. That messiness makes the bonds feel real, and it raises the emotional cost of every decision Carl makes.

This is also the book where the wider system behind the dungeon becomes impossible to ignore. The audience, the sponsors, the structures that profit from suffering — all of it is dragged into the light. The story stops flirting with critique and commits to it fully. The dungeon isn't just broken. It's designed this way, and Book 5 makes sure you feel that truth.

It's relentless, dense, and often bleak. Some readers will miss the lighter, more playful tone of the early books, and that's understandable. But for those willing to follow the series into darker territory, The Butcher's Masquerade is gripping because of that shift, not despite it. The fun now comes from tension, consequence, and the slow, furious unravelling of a corrupt system and that makes this one of the most satisfying entries so far.

This is the book where the series finally settles into the version of itself it's been circling since the start.

I really like the tonal shift. The early books have that strange mix of terror and novelty — Carl is furious and traumatised, but there's also curiosity there, even flashes of excitement. He understands games. He recognises mechanics, patterns, exploits. Part of him can still engage with the dungeon as a warped system to be learned and beaten, even while everything else is on fire. That tension works early on.

By Book 4, that layer is gone.


Carl isn't intrigued anymore. He isn't amused. He isn't secretly impressed by the cleverness of the dungeon. He's scorned, angry, and fully aware of how much has already been taken from him and how much more there is left to lose. The humour doesn't disappear, but it hardens. It feels defensive now. Bitter. Sometimes cruel. Which fits exactly where he is mentally.

What makes that shift work is the change in stakes. At the beginning, it really is just him and his ex's cat, clinging to survival through sheer stubbornness. Now there's a found family around him — fragile, imperfect, but real. People rely on him. People follow him. People can be hurt because of his choices. That weight sits on every decision he makes in this book, and you can feel it grinding him down.

The gods themselves push that tone even further. They're not epic or awe-inspiring in any comforting way. They're petty, dangerous, invasive, and unsettling. Their presence strips away any lingering sense that this is a “game” with a fair referee. Power here isn't just stacked — it's arbitrary, childish, and vindictive. 

I also appreciate how much room the side characters get. They're no longer orbiting Carl just to highlight his arc; they have their own tensions, loyalties, fears, and moments of competence or failure. The dungeon feels populated by people rather than props, which makes the emotional consequences hit harder when things go wrong — because they do, often.
It isn't a perfect book. It's dense, occasionally overwhelming, and demands more attention than earlier entries. But that feels like a feature rather than a flaw. The story has outgrown lighthearted chaos. It needs the weight, the anger, the bitterness.

Book 4 feels like the point where Carl stops surviving the dungeon and starts being shaped by it — not into a cleaner hero, but into a harder, more dangerous one. That evolution feels earned, uncomfortable, and deeply compelling.

Dungeon Anarchist's Cookbook is a 4.25 out of 5 for me.

The big reason it doesn't hit a full five is the Tangle. I get what it's doing, and I don't mind chaos in principle, but parts of it feel like you're trying to follow a fight scene in a nightclub with strobe lighting; you catch flashes, you know something important is happening, and then you realise you've lost track of where everyone is and what the actual goal is. It isn't unreadable, it's just the first time in the series where I feel a bit untethered for longer than I'd like.
But everything around that? I love it.


This is the book where the dungeon stops feeling like “Carl and Donut versus whatever ridiculous set-piece comes next” and starts feeling like a whole bunch of people being forced into a shared nightmare and figuring out how to survive it together. You get more of that sense of community forming under pressure, not in a cheesy way, but in a messy, pragmatic way where people don't suddenly become noble, they just start realising they need each other.

And the side characters start properly mattering. They don't just pop in for a gag or a single beat; you see them develop, make choices, clash, surprise you. It makes the world feel bigger and the stakes feel more personal because it isn't only Carl carrying the emotional load.

Carl himself takes a real step into the role people start projecting onto him. He doesn't turn into some shining hero, he's still morally flawed, still angry, still capable of being ruthless, but you can see him becoming the person other crawlers look to when things go sideways. That's what I like: it isn't a tidy “hero's journey” makeover. It's more like he keeps getting cornered into responsibility, and instead of ducking it, he takes it on... even when it costs him.
So yeah: confusing stretch aside, this one feels like the series widening out — more people, more consequences, more “we're in this together” energy — and that's exactly what I wanted.

I dove in expecting more of the wild, gamer-lit mayhem of the first book. And that expectation was met; the tone is fun and exciting right from the start. Carl and Princess Donut jump from one absurd, brutal encounter to the next, and the stakes ramp up. At the same time, the story keeps its humour intact: it makes you grin at the ridiculousness of a monster-circus in a ruined “Over City”, of Carl stumbling through gauntlets, of all this blood-and-lasers spectacle.

What impressed me most is how the character development continues but in a subtle, gradual way. Carl doesn't suddenly become a hardened dungeon-slayer overnight; instead we peel back layers of who he was, who he is becoming, and what choices he might make. That slow reveal means we still feel like we're getting to know him and Donut, rather than having their arcs shouted at us. I found that satisfying.

It's that sense of someone “ordinary” (or at first glance so) being placed in extraordinary circumstances, and through the journey we see both their potential and their flaws. In this story Carl remains recognisably the guy from Book 1, but the dungeon-world forces him to adapt, to reveal hidden corners of his character. And as I read I kept thinking: maybe there is no “average Joe”, the author seems to suggest we're all capable of big things and also shitty things. The book never hits you over the head with the message; it just lets it shine through in the interactions, the choices, the humour, the horror.

One of the pleasures of the book is the balance between lighthearted adventure and surprisingly sharp emotional moments. You laugh at the bizarre set-pieces (and you will) but you also feel the weight of what this “game” is doing to its players and to Carl. The world-building doesn't hog the spotlight either: yes, the dungeon expands, RPG mechanics go wild, new creatures appear, but the focus stays with Carl and Donut's relationship, their viewpoints, their micro-journeys. The result? It remains an easy “fun read” yet with enough substance that you care.

If there's one minor caveat: the pace of Carl's inner evolution is definitely more gradual than the external action. Some readers might prefer more dramatic “hero-arc now” moments, but personally I appreciated the slow burn. It fits the tone of someone discovering themselves rather than being remade overnight.

In short: this is a sequel that keeps the entertaining roller-coaster of the first book going, while deepening the emotional stakes without losing the comic edge. I'm genuinely excited to see where the series goes next; how Carl handles further levels, how his “average Joe” veneer continues to crack, and what the author has in store for Donut. Highly recommended for anyone who enjoyed Book 1 and wants their next read to be both raucous and quietly thoughtful.

I flew through Dungeon Crawler Carl and honestly had a blast. It's not trying to be deep or world-changing, just a proper fun story done really well. The premise is wild, but it somehow makes sense as you go — part game, part survival, part complete chaos.

Carl's a brilliant lead and Donut steals every scene she's in. The humour hits just right, the action never slows, and there's enough heart beneath all the madness to keep it grounded. I finished it grinning and immediately wanted to start book two.

An absolutely excellent read. I genuinely don't understand how anyone could find this boring or a let-down; it's far more about political intrigue, quiet power plays, and long-term strategy than constant action, and that's exactly what made it so satisfying. It was never going to be a fairy-tale ending just because she became the princess of an old, exiled house with barely any members left; of course there were political moves to make and debts to settle before any sense of security could exist.

The romance was rewarding without being predictable; definitely not insta-love or the usual tropes. The emotional connection built naturally, through shared trauma and slow trust, and that made it hit even harder. I tore through this book faster than most, completely absorbed by the tension and the emotional honesty running through it.

What really impressed me was the character work. The author didn't shy away from difficult topics like PTSD, trauma, and abuse, and handled them with a quiet realism that added so much weight to the story. It's thoughtful, mature fantasy; full of subtle moves, flawed people, and choices that actually matter. An outstanding continuation to the series, and easily one of the most engaging reads I've had this year.

Robert Jackson Bennett returns to his brilliantly weird fantasy - a mystery world with A Drop of Corruption, the follow-up to The Tainted Cup. You could read this as a standalone, the central murder mystery holds up perfectly well on its own, but you'll get a deeper, richer experience if you already know Dinios Kol and his unsettlingly sharp mentor, Ana Dolabra.

Once again, Bennett blends detective intrigue with lush, bio-organic worldbuilding. The mystery this time is even more convoluted, genuinely hard to predict, and the addition of a third member to their investigative trio gives the story some fresh energy. The audiobook, as before, is outstanding. The narrator completely is Din, all anxious intelligence and clipped observation, and the immersive quality between prose and performance is spot-on.

The empire feels larger this time, too. We venture beyond the damp, claustrophobic settings of the first book to glimpse more of the bureaucratic sprawl and political decay. But I'll admit, the lore occasionally lost me. The hierarchy, ranks, and factions blur together. The threat of the Lothiathans from the first book barely features, which makes sense narratively (we're out of the wet season), but it also removes one of the series' most tantalising world-level tensions.

On reflection, I think I've realised why A Drop of Corruption didn't hook me quite as much as The Tainted Cup. The first book balanced plot and character beautifully - Din's personal struggles were as gripping as the case itself, and his arc drove my emotional investment. Here, the focus seems to shift toward Ana, which I liked in theory, but in practice it didn't land as powerfully. Because Din narrates, Ana's story unfolds at a remove, so her development feels more told than lived. We do get some satisfying answers about her lore, but they arrive very late, really only in the final chapters, and the earlier breadcrumbs didn't pull me in the same way. It felt a little compressed at the end, as if her revelations were squeezed in rather than threaded naturally through the mystery.

That said, Bennett's writing remains sharp, strange, and utterly distinctive. His command of tone and structure is impeccable, and even when I wasn't as emotionally invested, I was still in awe of how well he constructs a mystery.

This is the kind of book that reminds you how stale most fantasy has become. It doesn't just avoid the usual tropes, it builds something entirely new. The world is weird, unsettling, oddly beautiful and completely self-contained. You don't feel like you're being drip-fed exposition. You're dropped straight into it and trusted to catch up. That trust is half the pleasure. Every little detail feels earned, from the grotesque plant-infested murder at the start to the strange, organic structures of the homes to the looming leviathans at the edge of the empire. It's textured and offbeat and never overexplained.

The murder mystery at the centre is genuinely clever. The initial crime is so bizarre you can't help but lean in, and what follows is a twisting, tense investigation that respects your intelligence. There's no spoon-feeding. Every time you think you've figured it out, the story folds back in on itself with a new layer or implication.

Din and Ana make the whole thing work. Their dynamic is electric. Ana is brilliant, unfiltered, erratic in a way that's completely compelling. Din, by contrast, is all focus and discipline, but there's real vulnerability there too. He has dyslexia, and it isn't just thrown in for flavour. It shapes everything about how he works, how he relates to others and how he hides parts of himself. There's a constant tension in him, this mix of shame and determination, and it makes his character arc feel grounded and real.

Their relationship isn't romantic in the usual sense, but it's intimate and oddly moving. Ana never pities or belittles him. She values him for exactly who he is, not despite his difference but because of it. They balance each other in a way that feels earned.

What really stood out to me is that this book never talks down to you. It assumes you're smart enough to keep up, to notice what's unsaid, to connect the dots. And that respect makes the reading experience feel richer. It's the opposite of those stories that spell everything out in neon. You have to listen, watch, think.

By the time I finished it, I didn't want to pick up anything else. I was still thinking about Din's quiet frustration. About Ana's brilliance barely masking her fear. About how strange and fully formed this world felt. This wasn't just a good read, it was an experience. Easily five stars. I honestly can't wait for the next one.

I don't understand the hype around this book. It's not dark or edgy or intense in any meaningful way. It's just badly written. The author seems to assume the reader needs everything spelled out to the smallest detail. Every time a character moves, we're told exactly how. He doesn't just get in the car. He walks around to the door, reaches for the handle, opens it, sits down. It reads like a checklist. There's no tension, no rhythm, no trust that the reader can fill in the blanks.
The dialogue is even worse. The two main characters go round in circles, repeating the same arguments with slightly different wording. There's no real build-up, no emotional shift, just this constant cycle of bickering and forced intensity. He's meant to be morally grey, but there's nothing compelling or redeemable about him. He's just cold and controlling. And she has no real agency. She doesn't grow or change. She just reacts, and half the time her choices make no sense.

The world doesn't feel real either. It's supposed to be urban fantasy, maybe with some fae or magical elements, but none of it is explained properly. It's all vague atmosphere and vibes with no structure. Scenes blur together, settings feel half-formed, and the lore is either dropped in randomly or forgotten completely.

What bothered me most was how the book leans on trauma to make itself feel dark and important. But none of it is earned. There's no reflection, no emotional weight, just pain for the sake of it. It feels like the author wanted shock value instead of story. If you're going to explore abuse, manipulation or toxic power dynamics, you need to actually do something with it. Here it just sits on the page, dressed up as romance.
I get that some people want escapism and clear emotional cues, but this felt like being spoon-fed a story that didn't have much to say. It drags, it repeats itself, and it talks down to the reader at every turn. There are better dark romantasy books out there that don't treat their audience like idiots. This one isn't worth the time.

This was my very first Joe Abercrombie novel, and honestly, what an introduction. I had heard about his reputation for gritty, clever fantasy, but The Devils surpassed every expectation I had. From the very first chapter, it was sharp, chaotic, and gleefully unpredictable. It gave me the same kind of wild, adrenaline-fueled vibe as the Twisted Metal TV series: dark humour, sudden violence, and characters you cannot quite believe you are rooting for.

What really blew me away was the cast. Each character felt distinct and unforgettable. They were not just filling archetypes or recycled tropes; they were living, breathing people with quirks, grudges, and fragile hopes. Even when they were at their most brutal or ridiculous, I found myself caring about them, sometimes against my better judgment. By the end I realised I was invested in every single one of their fates, and I even shed a tear or two, which is not something I expected from a book that is also this funny and gruesome.

Abercrombie's worldbuilding deserves its own spotlight. There is no clunky exposition, no long history lessons. Instead, the world reveals itself piece by piece through the characters, the fights, and the banter. It is immersive without ever dragging. For a first-time reader of his work, it felt like being dropped into a fully realised, breathing world, yet I never felt lost or overwhelmed. That balance is masterful.

The tone is what makes it sing. It is tense and brutal one moment, then laugh-out-loud funny the next. Abercrombie knows how to twist the knife (sometimes literally), but he also knows when to pull back and let humour or tenderness carry the scene. It is the kind of book that keeps you turning pages not just for the plot but to spend more time in the company of these devilish, damaged, and delightful characters.

As a newcomer, I can say this: if The Devils is typical of what Abercrombie can do, I have a whole backlist to dive into, and I cannot wait.

I adored every page.

This was a quiet surprise.

I wasn't sure what I was getting into at first. It opens in a very ordinary way, and then slowly, things start to feel... off. Not in a bad way, just slightly tilted. The kind of story where the world feels familiar but wrong around the edges. I really liked that.

It's not fast-paced. The writing gives things room to breathe. The setting is strange but grounded, it feels like something you could actually fall into if you took a wrong turn at the wrong time. And I liked how it didn't over-explain the rules. You pick things up as you go, just like the main character does.

The relationship at the centre of it really crept up on me. It's not big or dramatic, but it felt honest. By the time I reached the end, I cared more than I expected to. There's a moment near the end that really got me.

There were a couple of parts in the middle that dragged slightly for me; a lot of political discussions and shifting allegiances I found a bit hard to track. But even then, the tone and the ideas kept me engaged.

It's one of those books that leaves you with something. I kept thinking about it afterwards.

Thank you to the author for the ARC. I really enjoyed this: thoughtful, unusual, and quietly moving.

This was a quiet surprise.

I wasn't sure what I was getting into at first. It opens in a very ordinary way, and then slowly, things start to feel... off. Not in a bad way, just slightly tilted. The kind of story where the world feels familiar but wrong around the edges. I really liked that.

It's not fast-paced. The writing gives things room to breathe. The setting is strange but grounded, it feels like something you could actually fall into if you took a wrong turn at the wrong time. And I liked how it didn't over-explain the rules. You pick things up as you go, just like the main character does.

The relationship at the centre of it really crept up on me. It's not big or dramatic, but it felt honest. By the time I reached the end, I cared more than I expected to. There's a moment near the end that really got me.

There were a couple of parts in the middle that dragged slightly for me; a lot of political discussions and shifting allegiances I found a bit hard to track. But even then, the tone and the ideas kept me engaged.

It's one of those books that leaves you with something. I kept thinking about it afterwards.

Thank you to the author for the ARC. I really enjoyed this: thoughtful, unusual, and quietly moving.

Servant of Earth turned out to be such an addictive and enjoyable read. The writing pulled me in straight away, and I found the main character's voice both vivid and flawed in the best way. She feels so strongly about her place in the world, but as a reader you can see the cracks, her certainty shadowed by moments of naivety that she herself cannot recognise. That tension between her conviction and the truth makes her all the more compelling.

The romance subplot was engaging and had a satisfying payoff, though it did feel slightly rushed. Part of me wonders if that was meant to highlight her impulsive, human side, but it clashed a little with how sharp and switched on she otherwise seemed. Still, I enjoyed it, and the subtle hint of another possible romantic path left me rooting for what could become a much darker enemies to lovers arc in the next book.

Where this story really shines is in its mix of politics, power, and unrest. I loved the way tyranny was explored within a society already dripping with privilege. The trials gave the book structure and momentum, but they never felt like the heart of the story. Instead, they opened doors into bigger themes such as civil discontent, moral ambiguity, and the fragility of order while still keeping the pace tight. It struck just the right balance, enough action to stay tense and gripping without drowning the plot in endless detail.

The world itself felt rich and layered, with plenty of intrigue to latch onto. Even when the plot leaned into familiar beats, the execution kept me turning pages. There were a few moments that dipped into a more YA style than I usually like, but overall the book never read as juvenile. It had weight, complexity, and a moral edge that gave it staying power.

By the final page, I was already eager for book two. Servant of Earth delivered on character, tension, and world building, and left just enough threads dangling to make the wait for the sequel feel unbearable. A strong 4.5 stars for me.

I just finished The Raven Scholar, reading along with the audiobook, and I have to say, it's a fantastic experience. The story doesn't rely on dramatic emotional highs or shocking moments, yet I found myself hooked from start to finish. There is a quiet intrigue running through every chapter, and the twists in this book are second to none. Each reveal lands at exactly the right moment. I never once felt ahead of the story.

It's part murder mystery, part survival contest, with echoes of the Hunger Games, but the world itself feels utterly original. Every aspect; society, history, the logic of its magic, feels distinct and alive. The worldbuilding never falls back on tired tropes or easy exposition, and I was constantly curious to see what would be revealed next.

Neema is exactly the sort of female protagonist I love reading about. She isn't loud or desperate to be liked, but there's a quiet determination in everything she does. She notices what others miss, and her choices are always grounded and believable. It reminded me of the lead from Blood Over Brighthaven - practical, resilient, and never interested in performing for anyone.

The romance is handled with an incredible lightness of touch. It's a true slow burn, nothing heavy-handed or forced. Just subtle moments and hints, so natural you could almost miss them, but all the more believable for it.

Worldbuilding is a real highlight here. The setting feels lived-in and new at the same time, and every detail comes out naturally through the story. There's always more to discover, but it never feels overwhelming.

For the second half especially, the audiobook makes a big difference. There's a stretch of intense inner dialogue, with several voices moving in and out of Neema's thoughts. The narrator is exceptional, making each voice and every emotional shift distinct. I'm not sure the experience would have felt the same without her.

This isn't a book built around big emotional fireworks, but it's captivating in its own way; intelligent, surprising, and always a step ahead. The twists alone are worth the read. If you're looking for a thoughtful, original fantasy that keeps you guessing all the way through, with a world and a heroine you'll genuinely want to follow, I'd absolutely recommend The Raven Scholar.

I went straight into the second book after finishing the first because I was desperate to see what happened next. The story continues strongly with some good twists and plenty of drama, but for me it didn't quite live up to the excitement of book one.

I enjoyed it and I was never bored, but the pacing felt slower and the spark that made the first book unputdownable just wasn't as strong this time. The characters are still interesting and the world building is consistent, but I didn't feel the same emotional pull toward their journeys. By the end I was satisfied with how the story wrapped up, but I wasn't left with the urge to dive straight into more books in the same universe.

It's a good sequel and worth reading if you loved the first, but for me it simply didn't capture the same magic.

I absolutely devoured this book. From the first chapter I was hooked. The world building is sharp and layered, the atmosphere dark without being overwhelming, and the magic system works brilliantly within the story. The plot is fast paced but still gives space for the characters to grow. Oraya is one of the most compelling protagonists I've read in this genre. She is vulnerable and aware of her limits but she is also clever, resourceful and determined. Watching her navigate a world where she is always at a disadvantage kept me on edge the whole time.

The romance is slow burn and believable. It never overshadows the main storyline but instead deepens it. I cared about what happened between the characters because it felt earned rather than forced. The action scenes are tense and well written and the political undercurrents keep the stakes high throughout.

This is exactly the kind of book that makes me stay up far too late reading. It gave me everything I want in a fantasy romance: a dangerous setting, a heroine I could root for, twists that land, and a story that never let up.

I finished Jade City, but I won't be continuing the series. Honestly, I found it boring. I kept zoning out of the storyline, especially on audio. The constant perspective changes were jarring; it often took me a few lines to figure out whose head I was in, which broke immersion every time.

The magic system is a great concept, jade as a source of power is intriguing, but it felt like the book leaned too heavily on that one cool idea without doing enough to make the characters come alive. I didn't believe in them, didn't root for anyone, and never felt connected to their journeys.

Some readers call this a character-driven book, but I disagree. To me it lacked both compelling character arcs and a strong plot. The story plodded along, and while there were a few well-written action scenes scattered in, they couldn't carry the weight of an otherwise flat narrative.

It's clear why this series has fan, the worldbuilding and premise have potential, but for me, it never clicked.

There's a real gap in the market for short, digestible sci-fi that doesn't skimp on concept, and Time's Arrow slots into that space perfectly. At just around 40,000 words, it's a fast read, but not a lightweight one. It packs political tension, time travel, and moral questions into a tight narrative that never drags.

The story follows a scientist caught in the crossfire of international power plays after the invention of a time travel machine. What I appreciated most is that despite the high-stakes backdrop, military manoeuvring, espionage, covert tech, it keeps a human core. The emotional weight of choices, the cost of invention, and the pull of personal connection are all present, even in brief moments.

The writing style is clean and direct. There are a few moments where the dialogue feels a bit formal or the side characters function more than shine, but honestly, that's forgivable given the scope and scale of what it's trying to pull off in a short space. The pacing is brisk, the plot is always moving, and the stakes feel real.

This book would suit anyone in the mood for something tense, mysterious, and emotionally grounded, especially if you like your sci-fi rooted in real-world power structures rather than space battles or high fantasy tropes.

It's the kind of book you could read in a weekend but think about for longer. A solid, compelling read from a local indie author with a lot of potential and I'll definitely be picking up the sequel when it drops.

This is a great pick for fans of The Time Traveler's Wife, The Silent Stars Go By, or Tom Clancy with a sci-fi twist.

  I've seen a few readers say they couldn't get on with this book. Some didn't finish it. Some said the main character, Sciona, was too cold or unlikeable, and they couldn't connect with the story as a result. 

I can understand that reaction, but for me, it couldn't be further from the truth. Blood Over Bright Haven is the most powerful book I've read in years. 

Sciona is a high-achieving scholar working in a rigid, elite institution that rewards intellect and control but quietly punishes emotional honesty. She's brilliant, closed-off, quietly proud, and difficult to reach. For some readers, that made her a barrier. For me, it made her feel achingly familiar. 

As a neurodiverse woman working in law (another system obsessed with performance, tradition, and precision) I recognised so much of myself in her. I'm often respected, sometimes even admired, but not always understood. And when Sciona finally finds herself in the company of someone who does see her, not just her potential, but her whole self, it was devastating in the best possible way. Her arc isn't about becoming softer or more relatable. It's about waking up to the structures she's upheld, and making the harder, lonelier choice to walk away from power when it costs too much. 

The magic system here is cold, clinical, brilliant; structured like code, elegant in form, but fuelled by something hidden and horrifying. That's where the book becomes so much more than fantasy. It's a story about complicity in systems we don't fully understand. Tilt the book one way, and it's a parable about artificial intelligence, about knowledge built on unseen suffering, abstraction hiding cost. Tilt it another, and it's about settler colonialism, the logic of conquest cloaked in divine justification. Terán believes it was chosen by god, and that belief lets it consume everything in its path, including the Kwen. 

And then, in the final chapters, just when I thought I'd steeled myself for the worst, the book shattered me again. The sacrifice near the end was one I didn't see coming until it was already happening, and even then, I didn't want to believe it. It was heartbreaking but somehow not hopeless. In fact, the hope I felt in the last few pages was something I haven't felt from a book in a long, long time. It isn't a neatly tied ending but it is earned. Quiet, heavy, and filled with possibility. A happy ending, but not the one you expect. 

And I have to say, I loved the romance. The slow burn between Sciona and Thomil was handled so subtly, so deliberately, it felt entirely natural. Just two people learning how to see each other clearly and choosing to stay. 

This isn't an easy book. It doesn't flatter the reader or offer easy catharsis. But it's a rare thing: layered, unflinching, and emotionally honest in ways that linger long after the last page. It challenged me. It reflected things I've rarely seen acknowledged in fiction; about being brilliant and alone, about who gets to own knowledge, about what it means to truly change. 

I didn't always like Sciona and I don't think that was ever the point.
I understood her. And I will be carrying this story with me for a very long time. 

I liked Fourth Wing a lot but Iron Flame is where the series really found its voice for me. Everything is heavier, messier, and more complex and I was completely locked in. This isn't just about surviving school anymore. It's about legacy, war, politics, trauma, and trust. And Violet's journey through it all was compelling.

The GraphicAudio production once again delivered. During some of the more intense sequences, it felt like my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. The sound design pulls you so deeply into the world that even the quieter moments, intimate conversations, self-doubt, grief, land with surprising power.

Violet continues to be a fantastic protagonist. Her resilience isn't romanticised here, it's painful and often lonely. The book digs into the cost of being strong, the weight of leadership, and the fear of losing who you were in the fight to become who you have to be. I felt every second of it.

The pacing is still fast, but this time it's layered with actual narrative tension; secrets, betrayals, deepening lore, and major reveals that made the world feel far more intricate than Book 1 suggested. There's also more time spent with the dragons (thank the gods), and the politics between wards, wielders, and riders starts to feel terrifyingly relevant.

Even the romance, which I found a bit over-described in Fourth Wing, felt more grounded here. Still intense, still swoony, but more emotionally charged and woven into the story rather than competing with it. There's real conflict, miscommunication, and consequences, not just pining.

If Fourth Wing lit the spark, Iron Flame fans the fire. It's brutal, beautiful, and unflinchingly honest in ways I didn't expect from this series.