There are moments in life when you stumble upon a book and think, "Ah! Behold this ravishing cover, dripping with promises of adventure, mystery, and pure literary bliss!" (And yes, I judged the book by its cover. Sue me.) So, you borrow the KU book, prepare yourself a steaming cup of tea,—like a queen readying for battle, —sink into your fluffiest throne, and flip to the first page—heart racing, anticipation bubbling over, the giddy thrill of an epic journey about to unfold.—Because that’s what books are meant to do, right? Take you to unknown worlds, fuel your soul, and leave you breathless! (Or heartbroken!)
Page one whispers its sweet nothings, teasing you with the promise of greatness. You keep turning pages with the wide-eyed enthusiasm of a baby bird taking its first solo flight—only to be met with a maelstrom of despair. Suddenly, the air thickens, a sinister fog rolls in, and just like that, your literary honeymoon phase crashes into a storm of mediocrity. Your heart weeps as strong as the winds howl, your hopes are ripped apart, words hit you with the same intensity a baseball size hail hits a metal roof, full of WTF moments, and a torrential downpour of disappointment soaks through every ounce of your will to continue reading. This isn't just a bad read; this is a full-scale tragedy.
If you endured every agonizing page to the bitter end, congratulations, warrior. You are a rare breed, and I will personally commend your soul to the Gods of patience, light a candle for you while whispering your name in reverence, and seek emotional compensation on your behalf. If you didn't abandoned ship at the halfway mark, welcome—you weren't wise enough to leap from the burning wreckage before it nosedived into the abyss (me included). May we meet again in a better book.
Now, let’s dissect this cataclysm of a plot for what it truly is. A mess. A hot, convoluted, raging dumpster fire of nonsensical chaos— mess. One moment, we’re running like hell, adrenaline pumping, the stakes sky-high. Then—wait for it—you don’t actually need to run because, surprise! You have magic! (Except, oops, it doesn’t fully work. Convenient.) And then? BAM! A bear. A massive, bloodthirsty bear fresh out of hibernation—because why not?— appears in front of you. But instead of utilizing any sense of survival, our dear FMC decides, "Oh, I know! Let me try to outrun this 800-pound apex predator!" Genius. She gets injured. Shocking. Who would have guessed that blindly fleeing from a bear wouldn’t work out?
At this point, my little sister could have accomplished more.
And then we spiral even further into nnonsensical territory. The relentless cycle of “I must keep running,” “Oh no, I’m too weak,” (exaggerated eye roll)—Girl, it’s 2025. Get your life together. You’ve got a baby on the way (don’t even get me started on that), and you’re out here waiting for some mystical, brooding hero to save you. Unless said hero is a High Lord, a War College rider, a Mafia Don, or a billionaire with a tragic past, I do not have the patience for this damsel-in-distress energy.
This could have been something—it could have been the whole mountain, hill, or summit to be climbed. It could have been "The one!", the epic story about "run like a girl," but instead, we were given a protagonist whose “qualities” aligned more with exasperation. Perhaps in another, darker timeline—where every other book on Earth has turned to dust and my last brain cell has decided to self-destruct—I would force myself to read the rest of the series.
But in this lifetime? I’d rather wrestle an actual bear and build myself a fortress while pounding sand.