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.

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.