Not so long ago as I write this, I had the privilege to read the first book of this duology. It had been sitting on my TBR for some time as I kept passing it up based on my assumption that it would be a fairly standard romantasy tale; the cover, frankly, made it blend in to the point where I would have ignored it entirely if I had not heard it was sapphic. “Standard romantasy but make it sapphic” is enough of a hook to make me curious to try something.

When I finally got around to reading that first book, it was nothing like I’d imagined. The story was rich with complicated characters and a claustrophobic world that left me anxious to read the next part. And wow, that wasn’t the conclusion I had expected, but perhaps I should have known better than to ever assume I knew where this was all going.

The Raven’s Trade as a whole is not for the faint of heart. It’s not the darkness of the world, but the circumstances and choices presented to the characters that make it such a “difficult” read. Hellevir makes mistakes but never does she feel stupid for making them: she tried her best given what she knew and the restraints around her. Sullivan is cruel but no matter what she does, it comes after a lifetime of being molded into that role. How much control do either of these two really have over their lives and choices? I wouldn’t call this series a tragedy exactly, but it certainly follows the rules of one, much more than any other template.

Now, I’ve said my piece on the whole duology. If any of that intrigues you, if you’re a fan of hurt no comfort (lol), if you enjoy reading sapphic stories that aren’t straightforward romances… do check out the first book. And if you enjoy the ride, pick up the second when it comes out.

For those who already have read the first book and want to know about the second: the Antlered King is a book about death. Death, immortality, the afterlife, and what people do and don’t deserve. The “surface” plot picks up a few years into Hellevir’s self-imposed exile and follows her continual efforts to protect the people she loves and prevent a civil war. But that’s only the surface. Mind you, it’s surface one that masterfully wracks up the tension and nearly had me pacing the room and yanking on my hair as I knew I couldn’t trust a single moment of peace. But the real heart of the story is its questions and themes. Is wanting to be a good person enough to absolve us? Or do only our actions matter? What purpose does shame serve in helping or hindering our growth? Is eternal suffering a fitting punishment for mistakes we made in life? At what point do we stop giving people second chances? Is forgiveness a weakness or a strength? It’s these ideas that take center stage as the story reaches its conclusion, and they’re what will make or break the ending for you.

Perhaps you’ll disagree with Hellevir’s choices. I know I never could have made them. But I’m not Hellevir and can only wish someone might make the same choices for me as Hellevir made for other characters. That someone might see the good in me even when I can’t see it in myself. Because the alternative is the void, which is really just shame, and that never solves anything.