With a magic system that’s two parts enchantment and one part pseudoscience, The Helm of Midnight is a well-executed fantasy set in a heavily religious world reminiscent of Renaissance Europe. Author Marina Lostetter (Noumenon) brings together a cast of relatable, remarkably human characters across three separate timelines to tell a beautiful story of struggle, loss and, eventually, triumph.

Rather than spells and grand wizards, the world of The Helm of Midnight is built on a foundation of “scientific magic,” which is similar to traditional representations of alchemy. Magic is accessed via specific metals that each represent one of the five gods of the pantheon: Emotion, Knowledge, Unknown and twins Time and Nature. The twins are male and female; Emotion and Knowledge go by unique pronouns to represent their genders; and the Unknown's identification is undisclosed (perhaps representing nonbinary or genderfluid identity). These gods are central to everything in Lostetter’s world. Magic follows their rules, government is modeled on them and the plot circles around their religion.

In the present-day storyline, Krona, a Regulator of magical items and enchantments, is searching for two lost items: a death mask imbued with the spirit of a religious fanatic and serial killer and a stone of pure despair, enchanted to bestow grief on its wearer. As Krona continues her search, Lostetter weaves in the other two storylines, which unfold in the past, to paint a broader picture of the city-state and the greater history at play.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Marina Lostetter on why The Helm of Midnight needed to be told from three perspectives.

While the setting is rich and full of layered, complex culture, the core draw of The Helm of Midnight lies in its characters and their plights. These characters have suffered, are suffering or will suffer serious hardship. Dealing with grief, loss and emotional damage is as much a part of the book as the enchantments and murder wrought throughout. The city’s currency is literally lost time, which is taxed at birth, then bottled and sold. Emotions are drained away into stones in order to embrace good feelings and wash away painful ones. Masks are enchanted with the knowledge of the dead to avoid their disappearance into oblivion.

While clearly setting up for a series, Lostetter tells a complete and satisfying story within the 400 or so pages of The Helm of Midnight. Tears, smiles and surprise await any reader that opens this book.

Lieutenant Touraine is a conscript. Kidnapped as a small child from her homeland—once the Shāzan Empire, now the colony of Qazāl—she was forced into service in the Colonial Brigade of Balladaire, serving alongside others who, like her, were seized from their native desert lands.

They've recently been deployed to El-Wast, the capital of Qazāl and Touraine’s own hometown. Her immediate superior is a noble-born sadist who denigrates her and her companions any chance he gets. Her commanding officer is a woman both respected and feared for her single-minded devotion to the throne and pragmatic brutality. Her best friend yearns for revolution, her lover for safety, and Touraine herself for success, for a chance to prove her worth and the worth of her fellow fighters to their Balladairan overlords. When Touraine foils an assassination attempt against Luca Ancier, the princess of Balladaire, Touraine is hurled headlong into a whirlwind of intrigue, romance and rebellion. She encounters revenants from her past, as well as types of magic that the nobles of Balladaire have denied but that Touraine and her comrades know to be horrifyingly real.

Throughout The Unbroken, the first book in C.L. Clark's Magic of the Lost series, Clark introduces characters as if they're old friends, trusting the reader to infer the connections between Touraine and her fellow soldiers. Although this feels jarring at first—for the first several chapters, the reader almost constantly feels as though they have missed something—it quickly becomes one of The Unbroken’s greatest strengths. As the book submerges the reader in this way, it gives the story a unique urgency and drive, and it persuades the reader that if you just keep going, the answers will reveal themselves. Combined with Clark’s undeniable skill as both a writer and a world builder, this plunge into plot renders The Unbroken a remarkably active read. It requires attention from the reader in ways few speculative works do.

The Unbroken also follows in the grand tradition of speculative fiction that comments directly on the real world. Clark presents a searing and unflinching view of European colonization in North Africa, and of Africans' struggle against it, and she refuses to soften any of the harshness or resolve any of the complications inherent in those events.

In Clark’s world of Balladaire and Shālan, no benevolence goes untarnished and no grand ideal is left uncompromised. Even her villains are driven less by sadism or a desire for chaos than by simple selfishness, greed and the thoughtless cruelty of a bigot convinced their bigotry is, in fact, truth. And yet, for all the disturbingly plausible grime, gore and occasional horror that coat every surface of this tale, The Unbroken is not a dark fantasy. There is a current of optimism that flows throughout: optimism for Touraine and Luca, optimism for Shālan and Balladaire, and perhaps optimism for the real regions Clark has translated onto the page. It's a hope that all these people and places will somehow remain, in spite of the destruction that flawed, selfish, well-meaning people wreak on each other, unbroken.

Starting a book series is among the trickiest things for a writer to do. After all, stories that unfold over multiple volumes often need quite a bit of exposition, so first books run the risk of spending too much time laying the groundwork and losing the reader halfway through. Then there’s the problem of the ending: Is it better to end with a cliffhanger halfway through a high-stakes scene or in the proverbial calm before the storm? Amid all this, writers must craft a compelling narrative out of a partial story. Writing is hard enough without these added difficulties.

The Frozen Crown, Greta Kelly’s debut and the first installation of her Warrior Witch duology, builds an evocative setting, a tantalizing magical system and a compelling and complex set of protagonists so well that it feels like a full story with some missing pages. Were it a standalone novel, I would have thrown it across my apartment for its unanswered questions. But as the first of a set, such a visceral response is a testament to its success. Kelly’s world is hard to resist (and well worth the investment), and the sequel demands to be read, both to finish a gripping story of politics, revenge and illicit magic and for my own peace of mind.

Princess Askia Poristkaya e-Nimri of Seravesh, to use her full title, is on the run. Her country has been overrun by the expansionist Emperor Radovan of Roven and his fire witch, Branko, as they carve their way down from the north. So Askia has turned southward, hoping to leverage her familial ties to the court of Roven’s rival empire, Vishir, to secure an army with which she can reclaim her home and birthright.

But Askia’s task is complicated by a dangerous secret: She is a death witch, one who can see, hear and commune with ghosts, and both Roven and Vishir contain many who would hunt, hurt or kill her if they knew. Furthermore, her standing in the Vishiri court is tenuous, and Radovan’s plots follow wherever she goes.

Kelly’s setting evokes the geography of the Caucasus: Roven’s climate, naming conventions and culture are inspired by the Slavic kingdoms of modern-day Russia, while Vishir is something of a conglomerate of several civilizations from Persia and the Middle East. However, this is no historical fantasy in the vein of Guy Gavriel Kay. Instead, these inspirations are clearly intended to provide a broad structure rather than information regarding the plot itself. Its details are more of a piece with K.S. Villoso’s Chronicles of the Bitch Queen, from the queen seeking allies in a foreign and often hostile land to a society that exists in an uneasy and strained truce with magic.

The story is told in a direct, sometimes terse first-person narration, which fits Askia’s blunt personality. There are moments when this writing style feels unpolished, and though it serves the characters well, it may end up clashing with the ambition of Kelly’s thematic vision. The Frozen Crown tackles so many problems, from sexism and the pitfalls of ambition to the nature of good and evil themselves, that it runs an unusual risk. While it feels and reads like a fantasy epic, it could easily veer into the darker territory occupied by the likes of Joe Abercrombie and Alex Marshall, simply because there may be too many conflicts for these characters to resolve in only two books. However, The Frozen Crown is dynamic and promising enough for both it and its forthcoming sequel to be worth the read, regardless of how the story ends.

Kacen Callender’s highly anticipated second book in their Islands of Blood and Storm duology is an incredible ride. King of the Rising summons us once again to the Caribbean-inspired isles of Hans Lollik, which are as flawlessly picturesque as they are fatal. Elskerinde Sigourney Rose’s actions in the first book, Queen of the Conquered, have rendered the islands and their people a chaotic, revolutionary mess.

King of the Rising presents readers with a fresh voice via the perspective of Løren Jannik, who was once one of Sigourney’s enslaved personal guards. We learn that, like Sigourney, Løren is also gifted with the supernatural psychic abilities called kraft. His connection to his former mistress is further complicated by the mysterious ways their powers interact, as well as the constant fluctuation of his moral compass as the rebel tyrant Malthe and his followers demand the head of imprisoned Sigourney alongside that of their colonizers, the Fjerns. But while Sigourney is of royal lineage and wields her kraft as a mind-control weapon, Løren prides himself on being an empath and using his kraft for good—or for relative good, at least.

Callender skillfully portrays raw human emotion and psychology as devious, power-hungry leaders pit islanders against one another and Løren must decide if he should be the one to lead the islanders to true liberty, not just temporary freedom as a result of a disorganized rebellion. The urgency and stakes increase when the islanders learn of a traitor in their midst, and Callender’s penchant for crafting unconventional, fantastical mysteries shines as Løren, Sigourney and the other rebel leaders must choose where their loyalties lie. We also glean enticing and horrifying clues, as well as insight into deep personal and intergenerational trauma, through Callender’s implementation of flashbacks.

When he saves Sigourney from execution for reasons that escape even his own understanding, Løren finds himself the unlikely leader of an island revolution, much to the chagrin of the Fjern and some rival islanders, who fear the power of his unique kraft. As the surviving Fjern return to claim Hans Lollik Helle for themselves, Løren and Sigourney must work together, journeying to the other islands and beyond to try to rally the forces they'll need to make their final stand. King of the Rising puts readers firmly into the minds of Callender’s unforgettable characters as it answers a spine-tingling set of questions: At the end of the war, who will survive and who will rule?

Few heroines have come as far as Runin Fang. She's literally crossed the entire continent of Nikan, destroyed an island, channeled the divine power of the Phoenix, killed the enemy in nearly every way imaginable, been betrayed by someone she loves, gone into hiding and come back out again. It's been a wild ride full of anger, triumph, humor and sheer willpower. In The Burning God, the third and final entry in the Poppy War trilogy, R.F. Kuang finds new ways to bring life, horror and excitement to this saga about a nation torn apart by war.

Left to die by the Dragon Warlord, Rin and Kitay find themselves back in the South, at the head of the Southern Coalition. This liberation force, created to rid the territory of Mugenese soldiers and to challenge the Dragon Republic, is poised to take back Rin's homeland. But with their Hesperian allies at their backs, the Dragon Warlord and his son Nezha are nearly unassailable. When an old enemy is revealed and a path to victory becomes clear, Rin must decide whether to trust her allies and unite behind a common foe or do the unthinkable: Build an army of shamans and take back the continent.

Though The Burning God treads new ground in many ways, Kuang constantly references people, places and things from the previous books. Of course, this is really helpful for readers who haven't been back to Nikan in some time, but it also creates a sense of history. All of the things Rin has done and all the people who have built her feel ever-present in her mind as she makes decisions both small and large. It also feels nostalgic, wistful even. You can tell that Kuang is deeply in love with her story, and it shows: The Burning God is the best-written book of the trilogy.

It's also the most thrilling, both because the twists, the turns, the intrigue and the magic are dialed up to 11 and because of Kuang's masterful sense of momentum. We've been waiting for Rin to lead troops in battle and conquer her many enemies, and Kuang's narrative delivers. I've heard it said that writers should write about what they enjoy. It's clear that Kuang delights in political and military strategy, in moving and cataloguing the many players on the board. As in the previous two entries in the trilogy, these passages have a sharpness that few other books can match.

Then there's Rin herself. Those of us who have read every book in the trilogy will reflect on the bloodshed and the carnage that leads Rin to this point. There's a moment where she wakes up after having slept well for the first time in a long time and looks in the mirror, contemplating who she is and who she wants to be. It's a poignant and strangely peaceful moment for a person whose story has been defined by war. It's also touching and sad when paired with an ending that will leave you dazed.

This place and this protagonist are singular in fantasy literature, and I hope we'll get to return to Nikan someday. Better yet, I hope we get to return to the future Nikan that this book promises. I'm sure the Phoenix will be waiting, ready to set the world on fire.