Being in a relationship is tough, even without the intrusion of powerful magics and summoned demons. Giving all that you have for another person, even one hellbent on magical experimentation, takes a lot of effort. And when it's over, you just hope you can keep going despite the scars. In the magical alternate universe of Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson's Shadows of the Short Days, it's the scars of the past that matter most.

In Hrimland, the wild energies of the beyond are closer to the surface than other places. Here, sorcery is commonplace, demons can be brought forth through incantations and all manner of magical creatures interact with humans. Garún and Sæmundur, a woman and man attuned to this magical energy who are former lovers, try to find their way in Dan Vilhjálmsson's alternate vision of Reykjavík. When Garún finds herself in the center of a revolution to make Hrimland independent, she commits to fighting for freedom. But Sæmundur, consumed by a desire to delve more deeply into demonic conjuring than anyone ever has, may be too far down a path to darkness to be saved.

Balance is the heartbeat of this story. The yin and yang-esque relationship between two magical elements, seidur and galdur, plays a central role in the magic system, but it also serves as the backdrop for a plethora of counteracting forces. The Crown and the rebels, the modern and the ancient, human and nonhuman, and Garún and Sæmundur themselves add to a thematically contiguous world. As a result, Short Days feels orderly and orchestrated from the get-go.

The tone of each of the two narrative voices also exhibits this balance. Garún and Sæmundur read very differently in the close-third perspective Dan Vilhjálmsson employs for both characters. Where Garún frequently lets her righteous anger steer both her voice and her actions, Sæmundur's brooding obsession is the polar opposite. His meddling with sometimes horrific magic feels feverish and reckless, which is perfect because we know Garún feels exactly that way about him much of the time.

This sense of symmetry is balanced by how otherwise layered and lived-in this world feels. One of my favorite parts of sci-fi cinema is seeing the grunge of a cantina or the dirty streets of a futuristic town. Every corner of this vision of Reykjavik has a different magical creature, a different alchemical concoction, a new piece of lore to be uncovered. Hrimlandic, which reads like a combination of Old Norse and Gaelic, fills nearly every page of the book, adding to the sense of abundant discovery. Dan Vilhjálmsson includes a rich glossary filled with Hrimlandic terminology, as well as a compendium of magical creatures and a "Citizen's Primer" full of advice for pronouncing some of the wonderfully complicated words throughout.

Dan Vilhjálmsson had me considering a concept I had not anticipated before starting this book: the personal price of revolution. The pain inflicted on those seeking change and the pain simply incurred by the effort of protest and agitation are central components of Garún and Sæmundur's experience. It seems a fitting meditation for today's world, when the seeking of change is both desperate and, yes, painful. If Shadows of the Short Days is any guide, it's the pain that makes the struggle worth fighting for.

Readers will be riveted by powerful world building and deep characterization for the entirety of Rebecca Roanhorse’s Black Sun. Right from the start, the story is on the clock. The Convergence, an alignment of Sun, Moon and Earth, approaches, and Serapio, a boy from a far-off land, brings magic and doom with him to his mother’s homeland of Tova.

As the characters make their way toward Tova for the Convergence, the narrative perspective shifts constantly between Serapio, the Sun Priestess Naranpa and a sea witch of sorts named Xiala. While there are a few twists and turns to the plot, Roanhorse paints her story in broad, easy-to-follow strokes, the action serving almost as backdrop upon which to paint her world and to enrich her characters.

As perspectives change, so do the rhythm and meter of the text, matching the mannerisms and personality of each character. When Xiala is guiding the narrative, her brash, blunt nature creates shorter, more direct sentences. People characterized by Xiala are often summarized by their physical characteristics first, their emotional resonance second. This shift in narrative tone and theme is most notable when Serapio is in the hot seat. Blind, brooding and by far the most powerful character, Serapio offers a perspective that often clashes with others’ views of him and his surroundings. This attention to detail in character voice creates an engaging story that keeps the reader in the moment through shifting narrative lenses.

The world of Black Sun is well built and clearly inspired by the Pre-Columbian Americas. Roanhorse has constructed a world of multiple regions and religions, intertwined by their roots, culture and money (cocoa, in the Mayan fashion) but split by their beliefs. Each character has a different perspective on the story’s events; a relational diagram displaying where the characters agree, disagree and agree-but-do-not-quite-know-it would have to be three-dimensional and incorporate multiple referencing lines, mirroring their real-life relationships. Roanhorse’s humanization of Black Sun’s characters creates genuine connection for the reader, even with the Sun Priestess, despite any lack of sun-star divination skills the reader might have.

Also, this book has extremely cool magic. Crows eat people, the sun goes dark, and the ocean sings with its children—wild forces of creation running rampant on small to massive scales. (There’s something incredible about reading “THE SUN WENT DARK.” It paints a remarkable picture.) Truly, the fact that this review has only now gotten to this aspect of Roanhorse’s fantasy world demonstrates Black Sun’s multifaceted appeal.

Black Sun has one drawback: It is clearly the start of a series, and ends like it. Readers looking for an open-and-shut story will not find it here. As referenced before, the story is a set piece for the characters to interact with the setting and each other, but there is plenty of fascinating interplay and world building to keep readers engaged and entertained from start to finish.

Nebula Award-winning, New York Times bestselling author Naomi Novik returns with the can’t-miss fantasy of fall 2020, a brutal coming-of-power story steeped in the aesthetics of dark academia.

The Scholomance school in Wales has a very specific purpose: Uphold the balance of good and evil, and prevent the latter from running rampant. The evil here takes the form of the maleficaria, monsters that think teenage wizards coming into their own are particularly tasty snacks. The solution was to create the Scholomance, a place where the teen wizards can congregate and harness their powers while simultaneously drawing the maleficaria into one central location. Not everyone survives, and that’s before graduation day, when seniors must battle their way past the hordes of demons and monsters as a way of “passing” their education.

And you thought your high school experience was rough.

El is a student at the Scholomance with an affinity for dark magic. While her acerbic personality is enough to keep people at arm’s length, the possibility that her magic could grow into a magnificent display of villainous sorcery is a close second. To further cement her role as a school outcast, El is biracial and struggles with not identifying enough with either her Welsh mother or her Indian father. She was distant from her father's side of the family while growing up, but her brown skin still keeps her from being fully accepted by her mostly white European classmates. Her magic and her identity prevent her from fitting in, making her compensate with a sharp tongue and standoffish attitude. If you’ve been searching for the antiheroine of your dreams, El is a strong contender. There is something so cathartic about being in El’s mind, seeing the world through familiarly jaded and angry eyes. The thought of being able to wield her power even just for a second, and the confident way she nurtures and uses her abilities are the vicarious experiences many restless readers will appreciate.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Why Naomi Novik turned to the dark side of fantasy.

Do not be fooled by the book's high school setting and the presence of teen wizards, as this is very much an adult fantasy novel (if the demons who feast on teenage wizards wasn’t a clear giveaway). The twisted trial by fire endured at the Scholomance by its students is the only solution that’s been proven to control the maleficaria, but the scales are tipping and El worries there could be disastrous consequences. But there is lightness amidst the viscera in El’s growing friendship with Aadhya, an Indian American student, and the bickering beginnings of a romance with the popular, do-no-wrong Orion. It reminds readers that at the end of the day, these people are trying to deal with the complexities of hormones and emotions and identity . . . if they could forget about the monsters trying to kill them for five seconds.

A Deadly Education is a wild ride that never ceases to yank the rug out from under readers. El is a heroine you want to root for over and over, while still worrying about what all this means for her future. Will she embrace the darkness and become the evil sorceress she was born to be? Or will she guide her magic down a different and more surprising path? It’s not a question easily answered, especially in a world that takes no prisoners and requires a high price from its magic users.

As a reader, nothing is more thrilling than discovering an author blessed with boundless imagination. A Deadly Education will cement Naomi Novik’s place as one of the greatest and most versatile fantasy writers of our time.

Talyien, Queen of Jin-Sayeng, has been betrayed. She is in hiding, sheltered by a slumlord in Anzhao City while she recovers from her confrontation with the sorcerer Prince Yuebek and a disastrous reunion with her estranged husband, Rayyel. Her own guards have mostly abandoned her, leaving her protected only by Nor, her guard captain; Agos, her childhood friend; and Khine, a onetime physician and con artist from the city’s seedy depths. And yet, it seems Talyien still has further to fall: Her erstwhile host turns her over to the city’s corrupt governor. Her escape, aided by a shadowy faction from her home country, leads ever deeper into a morass of plots, secrets and magic that tests the strength of her friendships, distorts her late father’s legacy, and threatens the fabric of reality itself.

The Ikessar Falcon, K.S. Villoso’s sequel to The Wolf of Oren-Yaro, is fast-paced to say the least. It transitions from the dark political fantasy of the first book to an apocalyptic epic reminiscent of Terry Brooks’ The Elfstones of Shannara at breakneck speed. There are almost too many plot twists and new developments to track, which would be confounding were it not for the strength of Villoso’s portrayal of Talyien. The queen is clearly in the same boat as the reader as she struggles to keep up with the sheer pace at which her world is being turned inside out. Perhaps the most compelling subplot is Talyien coming to terms with the nature of leadership and what it means to rule. The Ikessar Falcon also includes some fascinating developments in Talyien’s relationships, especially those with Rayyel, Agos and Khine. Villoso’s clear talent for characterization is as evident as ever.

However, the most striking differences between The Wolf of Oren-Yaro and The Ikessar Falcon are the rapid expansion in the setting and the abrupt shift in the role of magic. While the first book emphasized the political intrigue and cultural complexity of both Jin-Sayeng and Zirinar-Orxiaro, the second book recasts magic as the driving force behind all the machinations. In addition, while The Wolf of Oren-Yaro took place over a few days and was set almost entirely in the urban confines of Anzhao City, The Ikessar Falcon compresses weeks of travel across oceans and continents into gaps between chapters. Although the characters are as compelling as ever, these shifts move Villoso’s series closer to the typical epic fantasy, and results in a much broader writing style than the tightly constructed, setting-specific voice of the first book.

The Ikessar Falcon retains the excellent characterization and intrigue of The Wolf of Oren-Yaro while expanding both its world and the plot at a head-spinning rate. It does everything the middle book of a trilogy should with an uncommon degree of authorial skill, and is a thoroughly entertaining read in its own right.

The second, much-anticipated installment in Tamsyn Muir’s Locked Tomb trilogy delivers on its promise of high-energy necromancy and cryptic conundrums. The Reverend Daughter, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, has been transformed into Harrow the First, Ninth Saint to Serve the Emperor. But Harrow the Ninth has been forever altered by her battles in the previous book, Gideon the Ninth, which is told from the point of view of Harrow’s now-deceased cavalier, Gideon Nav.

As the mystery unravels aboard the Emperor’s ghostly space station, Muir’s seamless, inventive writing brings us dreamlike, labyrinthine plots, fantastical timelines and the continuation of secrets so surreal that readers will forever question who truly holds the power in this precarious but beautiful universe. As one of the Lyctors sworn to protect the Emperor, Harrow follows her lord to increasingly terrifying locations as he flees the mysterious Resurrection Beasts—horrifying creatures who ceaselessly attack him and his increasingly weary and rebellion-prone Lyctors.

Whereas Gideon’s story focused on spellbinding swordplay and fleeting crushes on dangerous temptresses with unexpected identities, this book hones in on the very marrow of Harrow—the bone adept’s fears, desires and personal history. Harrow was created by her parents’ morbid sacrifice of all of the Ninth House’s children, and she feels the need to stay true to her roots, always donning the skeletal face paint typical of the Ninth House, practicing her necromancy until her sleepless eyes nearly bleed and remaining nemeses with the narcissistic, ruthless Ianthe Tridentarius, who consumed her own sister and cavalier in her thirst for Lyctorhood. The one piece of herself that Harrow has left behind, however, is any memory of or feeling for Gideon Nav. Harrow’s unbearable grief has forced her to carve the cavalier from her heart and mind. As the perspective fluctuates from a mysterious second-person narrator to an omniscient, unbodied narrator, readers will wonder if Harrow is being haunted, and by whom.

Readers familiar with Gideon-and-Harrowhark, Harrowhark-and-Gideon will revel in the new dangers that threaten the Emperor and his Saints, all of which could only be conjured from the depths of Muir’s wild imagination: the River, an eerie, dangerous experience composed of both insurmountable amounts of energy and a void from which it’s nearly impossible to return; the Body, a vision of Harrow’s one true deceased love who proffers questionable advice and is most definitely not of this world; and a host of revenants, resurrections, hallucinations, illusions, ghosts and—of course—skeletons.

Muir reprises her attention to numerology, mythology, classic literature and intricate, complex secrets, as well as special appearances from the spirits of cavaliers and necromancers recently and historically lost. As secrets spill like the vibrant innards of terminated cavaliers’ corpses, Harrow and the Lyctors must struggle to stay alive as the true price of the Emperor’s power comes to light—and perhaps, justice.

Sambuciña Ahurra, aka Buc, has few possessions: several knives, which she keeps hidden about her person; the dexterity of a 16-year-old former street urchin, sneak thief and pickpocket; an insatiable and compulsive appetite for books; and a mind so sharp she must dull it with depressant drugs to communicate with other people. Her partner, Eldritch Nelson Rawlings—he goes by Eld, understandably—rescued her from the streets and taught her to read two years ago, and has been following where she leads ever since. In all that time, Buc has never made a mistake. That is, until a miscalculation leads to their arrest by Imperial officers. Within a day, the pair of them have been blackmailed into sailing across an ocean to investigate disappearing sugar shipments, launching them into a hurricane of secretive sorcerers, mythical pirates, gods both dead and living, wild hogs and something called Archaeology, whatever that means.

For all its trappings of detective work and mystery, Ryan Van Loan’s The Sin in the Steel is more Locke Lamora (on the high seas) than Sherlock Holmes. Its frantic pace and continuous action capture the reader, but behind its frenzy lurks a truly fascinating world. The economy of Servenza, the archipelagic empire Buc and Eld call home, with its reliance on sugar, tea and the psychoactive herb kan recalls the colonial European powers of the 18th century. Magic is rare but hardly secret; it is very literally a gift from the gods, and its nature varies with the divine source. The resulting limitations, and the grisly details of its use, allow it to easily coexist with a fascinating mix of flintlock-era gunpowder and borderline-futuristic transportation.

But while such a backdrop is necessary to support the story, the plot might founder were it not for its ceaseless motion and the way the mysteries pile up faster than they can be answered. As a stand-alone story, The Sin in the Steel asks the reader to fill in a great many gaps, especially since it leaves almost every thread outside Buc and Eld’s search for the missing sugar itself untied. In some ways, it’s a novel that requires its readers to moonlight as writers. The frustration of questions left unanswered is, in truth, a playground for the creative, inquisitive reader. Van Loan asks his audience to channel their inner Sambuciña, and richly rewards those who follow through.

The Sin in the Steel is not for those who want to be presented with a prepackaged world; some assembly is required. But that assembly is part of the joy of books like this. The leftover mysteries are carefully crafted to capture the imagination, and the hectic unravelling of schemes and unearthing of secrets are well worth the effort needed to keep pace.

Witchcraft has lost some of its bite in the last hundred years. From nose-twitching Samantha to teenage wizards roving the halls of Hogwarts, witchcraft has moved from a dark threat to a childish fantasy. Alexis Henderson’s debut novel, The Year of the Witching, abandons this trend, plunging readers headlong back into a world where magic is a thing to be dreaded and feared.

Despite its dark promise, The Year of the Witching opens with scenes of relative innocence. Immanuelle Moore has always been relegated to the outskirts of Bethel society due to her family’s checkered history and biracial heritage, but she is, all things considered, relatively happy. Even if her very birth was an affront to the Prophet and cast her family into disgrace, she is able to go on Sabbath picnics with her best friend and tend her flock of sheep in the relative safety of Bethel’s fields. But a darker side to Bethel lurks beneath the surface. When Immanuelle stumbles into the Darkwood while chasing a rogue ram, a pair of witches give her a piece of contraband that will change her life forever: her dead mother’s journal. Although its very existence puts Immanuelle’s life and freedom in jeopardy, she is loathe to give up the only connection she has to a woman and a history she never knew. But as she digs deeper into the journal’s pages, Immanuelle discovers a secret about herself that threatens to lead her to ruin—and Bethel towards a reckoning.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Alexis Henderson on growing up in one of America’s most haunted cities.

Alexis Henderson’s novel is heavy, and not because of its page count. The Year of the Witching explores issues of identity, patriarchy and life under a totalitarian theocracy, all of which would be terrifying in their own right. But Henderson introduces us to this world, equal parts The Handmaid’s Tale and 1690s Salem, gently. She allows readers to slowly see for themselves the cracks in Bethel’s pious facade before bringing down the full weight of its horror. That horror necessitates a warning to the faint of heart: This is not the book for you if you even border on squeamish. The Year of the Witching revels in a sort of rich macabre tone, describing scenes of blood and horror so vividly that you can almost smell the putrid flesh of the witches of the Darkwood and feel the harsh stone of the Prophet’s altar. For the wrong reader, The Year of the Witching will fail to do anything but nauseate. But for the right reader—a reader who loves historical fiction and the cold feeling of text-induced terror—this book is a perfect read, certain to terrify, disturb and intrigue from beginning to end.