Book Review

Smoke and Scar by Gretchen Powell Fox

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Smoke and Scar by Gretchen Powell Fox is a gripping enemies-to-lovers romantasy that plunges readers into a world still reeling from the dark, magical scars of an ancient war. At its center is Elyria Lightbreaker, a fae war hero (or criminal, depending on who you ask) who has spent 250 years drowning her past in alcohol, sex, and reckless avoidance. But when her dead lover’s sister enters the Arcane Crucible—a brutal, winner-takes-all series of trials that could shift the fragile balance between humans and fae—Elyria is dragged back into a fight she wanted to forget. As she battles deadly opponents, shifting alliances, and an infuriatingly broody human knight, Smoke and Scar delivers high-stakes action, emotional depth, and a slow-burn romance that smolders…right until it ignites.

Book cover for Smoke and Scar by Gretchen Powell Fox.

Cedric shuddered at the thought of what it would be like to meet the Revenant in battle at full power. He hoped he never had to find out. And yet, for some reason he could not possibly begin to explain, he also hoped he did?

Gretchen Powell Fox, Smoke and Scar

I could only ever mean this in the best way, but start this book prepared with the knowledge that it will make you fall hard for its characters, then drop you into a haunted cave and threaten to break your heart once you’re in its clutches. (But it’s fine! You’ll be fine. Trust me.) Elyria is sharp, feral, and drowning in unresolved trauma, and Cedric, is a fierce warrior with protective instincts that belie his programming, particularly once he begins to question the narratives he’s been raised on after actually spending time with fae. What makes their dynamic fresh is the way Fox subverts our favorite genre conventions. Elyria is the shadow mommy, if you will. She’s emotionally constipated and a little bit uncouth, and Cedric is her damsel in distress (and there is so much distress—whump goblins, come get your food!). Their romance is the kind of slow burn that aches in the best way, full of reluctant trust and repressed third-degree yearns. Among other choice genre favorites, there is a Pride and Prejudice-esque hand flex, as well as a “who did this to you?” But when I say it’s a slow burn, what I mean is any slower, and they’d literally be on fire. But it’s great! So bring your marshmallows!

High fantasy can sometimes fall into the trap of making side characters seem as though they’re positioned simply to function as plot devices rather than people, but here, every character feels important and distinct. They are a found family, full of snarky, reckless, and endlessly lovable personalities. Fox’s treatment of “side characters” (more accurately, characters who are not the two main love interests) reminds me of the way Leigh Bardugo writes her characters in the Grishaverse. Nox and Thraigg are my favorites in the bunch (actually, I need an entire novella all about Nox), but truly, not a single one feels expendable.

As she met his golden brown eyes, something stirred in the hollow place where her inner shadow slept. A recognition. An understanding.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Smoke and Scar

One of the most impressive things about Smoke and Scar is its handling of power—not just the kind you wield in battle but the kind that shapes societies, histories, and people. The Crucible isn’t just a fight for a shiny prize; it’s a symbolic war over centuries of oppression, loss, and vengeance. The fae and humans have deeply entrenched narratives about who deserves power and why, and Fox doesn’t take the easy route of making one side clearly “right.” Instead, the story wrestles with the murky, often brutal nature of power itself: who controls it, who’s willing to die for it, and whether it can ever truly be shared.

The worldbuilding smartly reinforces the novel’s deeper themes, balancing intricate political tensions with tangible, sensory-rich settings that make you feel like you’re walking through the aftermath of a war that never quite ended. The Crucible itself is a thrilling, blood-soaked puzzle box of challenges, and Fox crafts each trial with enough variety and tension to keep both characters and readers on their toes. There’s a real sense of danger, and readers quickly learn no character is safe. As a result, each thrilling victory feels earned. The trials aren’t just about physical strength either; they demand strategy, adaptability, and an understanding of the larger forces at play. And because of that inventiveness, it’s fun to read about each new trial because they almost feel interactive, pulling the reader into the problem-solving alongside the characters.

Beyond its political and magical intrigue, Smoke and Scar also carries deeper themes of identity, acceptance, and learning to embrace the parts of yourself you’ve been taught to suppress. Elyria’s journey with her shadow powers, in particular, feels like a metaphor for self-acceptance—whether that’s tied to gender, sexuality, culture, or any other aspect of identity. There’s a moment where she finally stops resisting this part of herself, and it’s written with a kind of catharsis that will resonate deeply with anyone who’s ever struggled with their own sense of belonging.

She’d spent so long burying half of herself. Now that she had finally given that half the freedom of acknowledgment—started to embrace it, even—she suddenly wanted to know more about it. Wanted to know everything.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Smoke and Scar

If there’s one place where I found myself wanting more, it’s in the details of Cedric’s backstory (anyone else get unreasonably attached to Tristan for the 0.5 seconds he appears?) and the mechanics of mana magic. Cedric often serves as the “token human,” giving us an outsider’s perspective on the fae world, but his own history remains somewhat elusive. The concept of mana and the tension surrounding its use also raises questions that feel ripe for further exploration. What exactly does it mean to leach mana from the land? Why is it seen as so inherently destructive, especially when celestial forces gifted humans with this ability? And what are we to make of the fact that most of Cedric’s identity as a knight is supplemented by the lore behind this power? Fox gives us enough to fuel the conflict but leaves plenty of room for further revelations in future books. We also get seamless nonbinary representation in Tenebris Nox, but for all the diverse and interesting fae creatures and cultures introduced in this novel, I really wish we’d had a chance to see more of the LGBTQ+ representation that surely must exist in this world.

Ultimately, Smoke and Scar is the best kind of fantasy because it provides readers a thrilling, high-stakes adventure while sneaking in sharp commentary on power, identity, and history. And yet, despite its weighty themes, the book never feels bogged down. It’s as entertaining as it is thought-provoking. The characters are ones you want to protect (even when they make terrible choices), and the world feels vast but never overwhelming. I can picture it next to everyone’s favorite series by Sarah J. Maas, Rebecca Yarros, and Leigh Bardugo. If you love found family, slow burn romance, and fantasy that dares to explore the true cost of power, this is one you won’t want to miss.

Thank you to the author, Gretchen Powell Fox, for sharing an advanced reader copy of her book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

Voyage of the Damned by Frances White

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Frances White’s Voyage of the Damned is a locked-room murder mystery set aboard a ship in a fantasy empire teetering on the edge of chaos. Ganymedes “Dee” Piscero, the most unremarkable hero of Concordia’s twelve magical heirs, is thrust into a deadly game when a fellow heir is brutally murdered. With no magical “Blessing” of his own, Dee must rely on his wits and sheer luck to survive as suspicion and bloodshed multiply aboard the emperor’s ship. As tensions mount, the question isn’t just who the killer is—it’s whether anyone will survive the voyage long enough for it to matter.

Book cover for Voyage of the Damned by Frances White.

As if the restrictive shell of a body is more important than the infinite possibilities of a mind.

Frances White, Voyage of the Damned

The premise hooked me immediately: A fantasy murder mystery? Twelve heirs, each with a unique secret power, trapped on a ship with a killer among them? Sign me up! The romance—abrupt as it was—grew on me, too. There’s something tender about Dee’s connection with Wyatt that offsets the grimness of the plot. And it was sweet to see a self-loathing protagonist stumble into vulnerability through a soft love story amidst all the chaos unfolding around them.

But with that said, the execution left a lot to be desired. The worldbuilding is the book’s glaring weak spot. Concordia’s provinces are so reductive they feel like caricatures. Each province is defined by a single animal and a somewhat related industry (and a matching hair color for some reason?). From what I gathered, the magic is hereditary within one single family per province, and it passes down from a parent to one of their children, but other than that, the magic lacks any discernible system or depth. I also found myself asking way too many questions about the logistics of this world. For instance, why are there finger guns in a high fantasy setting where actual guns don’t exist? And in this world where there is no electricity, why are there hot dogs, cotton candy, and poutine, and references to how undeniably cool it is to walk away from an explosion without looking back, and comments on something being so good it’s ”like crack”? None of it makes sense and fundamentally strips the setting of its believability.

They keep their memories and stories safe within music, where empires cannot touch them.

Frances White, Voyage of the Damned

The characters are both a highlight and a source of frustration. Dee’s self-deprecating humor and insecurities make him relatable early on, but as the bodies start piling up, his self-absorption and misplaced priorities are distracting and confusing. Why is he busy agonizing over choosing between a dead ex-lover and his very new romantic interest when they’re all actively being pursued by a murderer? I wish White had spent more time on Dee’s journey of self-discovery and his battle with internalized shame, particularly given the book’s LGBTQ+ representation. I appreciated the barest hints of themes like unity, oppression, and the effects of colonialism, but I needed to see way more of it. I also loved Grasshopper and the dynamic between Dee and Grasshopper. Hands down the best part of the book. Unfortunately, the rest of the cast felt more like stereotypes than people, each defined by a single trait.

Representation in fantasy is something I always root for, so seeing characters like Dee, a bisexual, plus-size person grappling with mental health struggles, and Wyatt, who lives with chronic pain and illness, felt refreshing and necessary. Their identities and challenges added depth and realism to the story, as well as glimmers of inclusivity often lacking in this genre. However, as part of the late-stage plot twist, we discover that this version of Wyatt isn’t even real. It’s such a betrayal to Dee (and, honestly, I’m not sure how he could just get over it!) and to the readers who got invested in the romance developing between Dee and Wyatt. It soured the entire story for me because it felt a little like the work this relationship did to help normalize characters like Dee and Wyatt finding love in the stories we consume was just a trick. Fantasy deserves better, and so do the readers who see themselves in these characters.

The final wall around my heart crumbles and his love fills the untouched space behind.

Frances White, Voyage of the Damned

In addition to my major issues with the romance, representation, worldbuilding, and characters, the locked-room mystery also falls short. Instead of piecing together clues, Dee passively gathers information handed to him by other characters. It feels lazy and robs the story of the tension and intrigue that make a good mystery compelling. The story felt really aimless in that regard, and what’s even more frustrating is I don’t think there was any way for readers to solve the murder mystery on their own. Where’s the fun in that?

Voyage of the Damned reads like young adult fiction, so marketing it as adult fantasy sets up expectations it can’t meet. I never got attached enough to the characters, the mission, or the world, so it essentially failed to deliver the compulsive, edge-of-your-seat tension I expect from a murder mystery. The writing is accessible with memorable flashes of wit and charm, but ultimately, any redeeming qualities are drowned out by inconsistent characterization, clunky worldbuilding, and a mystery that doesn’t trust its audience to engage. Fans of lighter fantasy or creative LGBTQ+ representation may enjoy its quirky charm, but for those seeking a tightly woven mystery or a richly immersive fantasy world, this voyage may be one to skip.

Thank you to NetGalley and HarperCollins Publishers / Mira Books for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

The Pairing by Casey McQuiston

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In The Pairing, Casey McQuiston serves up a story of lust, longing, and languid food tours through Europe, all wrapped in the undeniable queerness that has become their signature. Theo, an aspiring sommelier, and Kit, a pastry chef, find themselves accidentally reunited on the food and wine tour that marked the end of their relationship four years prior. What starts as a hookup competition to prove they’re over each other soon unravels into a complicated mess of unresolved feelings and sexual tension. With scenic backdrops and sumptuous descriptions of food and wine, McQuiston delivers an enticing setup—but does the romance sizzle or fizzle?

Book cover for The Pairing by Casey McQuiston.

I’ve always agreed with the French that a meal should begin with sweetness, but I’m beginning to wonder if the Italians had it right—if, sometimes, discovery wants bitterness first.

Casey McQuiston, The Pairing

McQuiston deserves praise for the unapologetically queer heart of The Pairing. Particularly, the scene where Theo comes out to Kit as nonbinary is handled with thoughtfulness and care, and their pronoun switch midway through the story feels authentic and affirming. Theo’s vulnerability in sharing their identity with Kit creates some of the novel’s most tender moments. Kit shows all the unconditional support and encouragement anyone could hope for, and it completely melted my heart! It’s rare to find queer representation so layered, deliberate, and nuanced, and McQuiston nails it here.

Unfortunately, the novel stumbles in crafting compelling characters beyond their queerness. Theo’s privilege as a “nepo baby” who opts to stay poor and struggling despite several people offering to help them throughout the entire novel feels contrived and frustrating. Their refusal to leverage their family’s wealth for the sake of so-called authenticity or some misplaced sense of validation or merit borders on tone deaf and feels hollow, especially when juxtaposed with their ability to casually flit through European cities. This, combined with their insufferable self-pity, makes it difficult to root for them.

Sometimes I think the only way to keep something forever is to lose it and let it haunt you.

Casey McQuiston, The Pairing

Just when all of Theo’s internal struggles and bad decisions have them primed for some significant growth, the story abruptly shifts to Kit’s perspective halfway through the novel, undercutting any meaningful resolution. Kit, while less grating, brings little complexity to the table, beyond his complete and total adoration (infatuation?) for Theo. Together, their chemistry leans heavily on physical attraction, and the emotional weight never lands. Theo and Kit keep circling around the same issues, avoiding the hard conversations that would make their reunion satisfying. By the end, I was left craving more substance—something to make their love story feel earned.

With its vibrant cities and decadent meals, the European backdrop offers a feast for the senses; however, the execution—while meticulously researched—feels superficial. The bacchanalian parade of food, booze, and hookups quickly grows repetitive. I think this is partially because Theo and Kit don’t really develop, so it feels like nothing advances the plot. The tour becomes just as redundant as every scene between the two leads. The characters’ romanticized, tourist-like experience of Western Europe also leaves little room for authentic exploration of various cultures and cuisines. Furthermore, their near-magical ability to charm their way into every bed and social circle simply isn’t realistic. While escapism is often part of romance’s appeal, the sheer perfection of every encounter makes this story feel flat and predictable.

If I can give my whole heart to love without fearing the cost, I will regret nothing.

Casey McQuiston, The Pairing

The Pairing struggles to balance its frothy, sexually charged premise with the deeper emotional work necessary for a satisfying second-chance romance. Some moments in Theo and Kit’s inner monologues are achingly beautiful—one, in particular, stands out when Kit sees Theo in Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, a depiction of the divine feminine, while imagining Theo admiring Michelangelo’s David, a tribute to masculine beauty. Kit wonders, with quiet longing, if Theo also finds pieces of them both reflected in the David. How romantic to discover your lover—and yourself—in the world’s most iconic works of art! Yet moments like this remain internal; the characters never bring such revelations into their shared conversations or let them deepen their connection beyond physical desire.

McQuiston’s hallmark wit and charm, evident in earlier works like Red, White & Royal Blue and One Last Stop, are present but not as pronounced here. Some lighthearted moments occasionally sparkle, but a frustrating lack of narrative depth overshadows them. For readers new to queer romances or those looking for lighthearted escapism, The Pairing might hit the right notes. But for anyone seeking the heartfelt intimacy and layered storytelling that define McQuiston’s best work, this book might feel more like a missed opportunity than a perfect pairing.

Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

House of Marionne by J. Elle

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Seventeen-year-old Quell has spent her life in the shadows, fleeing from city to city to hide the forbidden magic coursing through her veins. But when her secret is discovered, and her mother’s life hangs in the balance, Quell is forced into the gilded world of the Order, a high-society magical debutante system where the stakes are as deadly as they are dazzling. To survive, she must navigate the Order’s trials, master new forms of magic, and resist the allure of her handsome, shadow-wielding mentor—all while concealing her own outlawed powers. But as the dark truths of the Order unravel, Quell faces an impossible choice: tame the magic she fears, or embrace the monster within.

Book cover for House of Marionne by J. Elle.

I’ve done it. I’ve stepped into this world we’ve spent our entire lives running from. There’s no turning back now.

J. Elle, House of Marionne

In House of Marionne, author J. Elle offers an ambitious mix of dark academia, magical intrigue, and an enemies-to-lovers romance. While its premise is captivating, the story doesn’t fully deliver on its promise. The concept of toushana magic—a cornerstone of the story—is underexplored, leaving readers with more questions than answers. The visual idea of diadems and masks as manifestations of mature magic is intriguing (if uncomfortably gendered), but the logic behind them feels incomplete. For instance, the practicalities—like how they impact daily life or sleep—are glossed over. I kept wondering how no one ever got their hair tangled in a diadem! (Magical reasons?) This lack of clarity makes the world-building feel more like a collection of ideas than a cohesive system.

The characters fare slightly better, though still not without their flaws. Quell is a strong, determined protagonist, but her decisions—especially her quick trust in her suspicious grandmother—don’t always align with her survivalist upbringing. Jordan, her mysterious love interest, is a mix of brooding intensity and trope-heavy predictability. He seems designed to evoke fan-favorite archetypes like Rhysand (A Court of Thorns and Roses) or Xaden (Fourth Wing) but falls short of their depth and charisma. Yagrin, a fascinating side character with the potential to steal the show, is frustratingly underutilized. It’s easy to imagine a version of the story from his perspective being far more compelling.

The novel’s writing style is accessible and engaging, though it skews toward a middle-grade tone despite its young adult (YA) label. This lighter touch makes the book easy to read but also limits its emotional resonance and complexity. For instance, many of the lines where Quell describes how she views Jordan physically are so beautiful, but the writing never fully convinces me of their deeper connection. The narrative leans heavily on familiar YA fantasy tropes, and while these elements create a solid framework, they lack the originality or depth needed to stand out. As a result, the attempt to weave in themes of power and danger also often feels surface-level, relying more on atmosphere than substance.

She is fury and determination. Insatiable at times, and intensely powerful. She is also destruction. But some things deserve to be destroyed.

J. Elle, House of Marionne

Ultimately, House of Marionne knows its audience. For readers looking for a fast-paced story with a magical setting, forbidden romance, and high-stakes danger, it delivers. The Order’s glitzy debutante culture and deadly secrets provide an atmospheric backdrop, and the romance, while not groundbreaking, has its moments. Casual readers who enjoy YA fantasy for its escapism and drama will likely find the book entertaining. However, for those seeking deeper world-building or more complex characters, the charm of this book will likely feel more like a spark than a flame.

Thank you to NetGalley and Razorbill / Penguin Random House for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

Blue Graffiti by Calahan Skogman

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Blue Graffiti by Calahan Skogman is a blend of nostalgia and longing, punctuated by the seemingly unremarkable moments that give meaning to life. The novel follows Cash, a young man tethered to his roots by love and loss, and inextricably connected to his hometown, Johnston, Wisconsin. When a mysterious stranger named Rose enters his life, Cash grapples with the familiar comforts of home and the intoxicating allure of something new. In this stunning debut, Skogman masterfully captures the beauty of the mundane, inviting readers to explore the depths of small-town life and the intricate emotions that bind us to the places we call home.

Book cover for Blue Graffiti by Calahan Skogman.

I prefer Johnston’s slanted houses and the honest families inside them who are mostly oblivious to what, I’m sure, is the larger but far less desirable, convoluted picture. Truth is, none of that big city, big money life had anything to do with the lives of the people here. They are universes apart.

Calahan Skogman, Blue Graffiti

Cash is a relatable and deeply empathetic protagonist; his introspective nature and love for his hometown make him endearing. His relationships with his friends, Prince and Leon, form the core of his world. They share a bond reminiscent of the found family trope seen in classics like The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. Their adventures—ordinary moments like rescuing an abandoned coffee table off someone’s lawn and lugging it home three miles with your friend—are imbued with a sense of significance, illustrating how even the simplest acts can become monumental in the context of deep, abiding friendships. These relationships are the backbone of the story, offering Cash a sense of belonging and purpose amidst his existential musings.

Rose, while central to the plot, remains somewhat enigmatic. She embodies the “manic pixie dream girl” archetype, captivating Cash but not fully fleshed out as a character. Her presence is sporadic, and while she catalyzes Cash’s internal transformation, her influence on the story is more symbolic than substantial. In contrast, Prince and Leon are fully realized, their camaraderie with Cash providing some of the novel’s most memorable moments.

I found nothing in broken cathedrals. There were no spirits in the ruins in which I waited, wishing and wanting for you to return.

Calahan Skogman, Blue Graffiti

The novel’s meditation on the nature of small-town life is both a love letter and a lament. Skogman captures the beauty and melancholy of a place where time seems to stand still. The quiet moments—like sitting by the lake, the hum of a bar, or the simple act of watching the stars—are imbued with a sense of timelessness and nostalgia.

At the heart of Blue Graffiti is an exploration of grief and the healing power of faith. Cash is a character marked by loss—his mother’s death, his father’s abandonment, and the fading vibrancy of his once-familiar world. These experiences weigh heavily on him, shaping his worldview and his interactions with others. Through Cash, Skogman delves into the complexities of mourning, portraying it not just as an emotional state but as a continual process of reckoning with the past. The novel suggests that faith—whether in oneself, in others, or in the unseen forces that guide us—can be a beacon of hope in the darkest of times.

I thought about our lives, and the graffiti of our town. We each left our mark. We are cracks in sidewalks, bent street signs, rusted gutters and train tracks. We are nails in wooden boards, handprints in cement. We are creaks in the doors of diners, stains from cigarettes. We are streaks of graffiti, blue as the sky.

Calahan Skogman, Blue Graffiti

In many ways, Blue Graffiti feels like a modern-day On the Road by Jack Kerouac, with the key difference being that the characters never really leave their small town. It’s a reflection on the idea that adventure and self-discovery don’t always require a physical journey. Sometimes, the most significant journeys are the internal ones—the ones where we confront our demons, embrace our flaws, and come to terms with our place in the world.

Skogman, best known for his role as Matthias Helvar in Netflix’s Shadow and Bone, regularly posts his poetry on social media. As such, fans will instantly recognize his background as a poet in the novel’s lyrical prose and rich symbolism. His keen insights into the human experience will resonate with anyone who has ever felt the pull of home, the weight of loss, and the desire for something more. Blue Graffiti illuminates the profound connections we share with the people and places that shape us. It reflects the beauty in our everyday lives and reminds us that even in the quietest corners of the world, there is a universe waiting to be discovered.

Thank you to NetGalley and Unnamed Press for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.