Tag: blog for book reviews

Review: Loving Remains by Esmeralda Stone

~ likelystory18 ~ Leave a comment

Synopsis:

Isaac Collins is trying to run Teagan’s Funeral Home and keep his life as calm as possible.

Cory Hughes is just trying to keep her head—and her death consultant business—above ground.

Thrown together by circumstance, a bit of guilt, and a lot of attraction, Isaac and Cory begin an uncomfortable friendship and soon realize the things that make them different may also be why they can’t seem to stay away from each other. And it could be just in time. Because not everything is as it seems at Teagan’s Funeral Home.

A romantic mystery for adult readers looking for mature characters, honest and open-door intimacy, dark humor, and a happily ever after that feels earned.

Favorite Lines:

“There were some laughs that made you instantly laugh with them. Some  laughs that you couldn’t help but laugh at. And some laughs that were horrific and terrible, like a five-car pile-up you couldn’t turn away from.”

“No one should sit unclaimed for years on end, just waiting to see if someone remembered them.”

“I’ve learned that passing judgement on another person’s actions without knowing all the information can cause more damage than letting things go.”

“That death was supposed to be natural, which meant it was ugly and messy at times.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

Loving Remains is one of those books where the premise sounds quirky—maybe even a little playful—but the emotional weight sneaks up on you fast. A romance set within the death industry could easily tip into gimmick territory, but this story doesn’t do that. Instead, it treats death as something constant, unavoidable, and deeply human, weaving it into a love story that feels tender, messy, and surprisingly grounded.

What really carries the book is its understanding of grief—not just as a singular event, but as something that lingers and reshapes people. Cory and Isaac aren’t blank slates waiting to fall in love; they’re both already carrying loss, anxiety, guilt, and complicated histories with death long before they meet. Their connection doesn’t magically fix those things. If anything, it brings them closer to the surface. That honesty gives the romance more depth than you might expect, especially for a book that also allows itself to be funny, steamy, and occasionally chaotic.

The death-industry setting isn’t just background flavor. It actively informs the book’s questions about control, ritual, and what it means to “do right” by the dead and the living. There’s a clear tension between traditional funeral practices and more personal, less sanitized approaches to death, and the book doesn’t pretend there’s one perfect answer. Instead, it shows how those choices are often shaped by fear, love, and the desire to protect ourselves from pain—even when that protection backfires.

That said, Loving Remains isn’t a light read emotionally, even when the tone is warm. It deals openly with loss, trauma, addiction, and mental health, and those themes aren’t just mentioned in passing. The pacing is steady, occasionally slower when it sits with heavier moments, but it feels intentional rather than indulgent. By the end, the book feels less like a traditional romance arc and more like a quiet argument for intimacy built on understanding rather than rescue.

Summary:

Overall, Loving Remains is a death-industry romance that’s far more emotionally grounded than its premise suggests. It blends grief, mental health, and love into a story that’s tender, funny, and occasionally heavy, without losing its warmth. It’s a romance about choosing connection while still honoring loss, and it treats death as something to be faced honestly rather than hidden away. Readers who enjoy character-driven romance, stories that engage thoughtfully with grief and mental health, and books that balance emotional weight with genuine warmth may enjoy this book. Happy reading!

Check out Loving Remains here!

 

Review: The Dog Years of Ananias Zachenko by Paul H. Lepp

~ likelystory18 ~ 1 Comment

Synopsis:

What do you do when you run out of time? Ask Ananias Ezra Zachenko what he did after he was diagnosed. He set an agenda, took care of finances, delved into relationships, considered the heroic act. Didn’t go into denial, but defiance, there’s a difference.

He put it all in motion during the time he had left. A dog gets seven years to our one. Chenko rationalized the relationship by taking the best from both, our days the dog’s years and began to calculate. Anything to lengthen the short leash he is on.

During his dog years he planned for everything, but nothing turned out as expected. He concentrated on time, when he should have been looking at weight. No matter the type of year, when one runs out of time on this side, one has to figure out how to make weight on the other side.

Favorite Lines:

“He reasoned as he waited, we’re just a wristwatch on the arm of time and can only be wound so many times or wear down so many batteries. Springs unwind, batteries go dead, and we stop. A watch never shows the same face twice when glanced at to see how much time has been used or how much time is left. Always leaving one to wonder if it’s the correct time. All the time, wishing for more, other times wishing for less. Such were the thoughts of Ananias Zachenko, better known as “Chenko,” as he entered the dog years of his life.”

“There is nothing permanent about us; no one gets out alive. Earth is a planet where all is temporary.”

“Change is a soul who wears many coats; some fit, some don’t.”

“Fate is like giving a box of matches to an arsonist; one doesn’t really know what they’ll do, but one has a pretty good idea. Fate is neither kind nor unkind; it’s like water and fire, as it can relieve your thirst and keep you warm one moment, or drown and burn down all that’s around you the next. Fate doesn’t care. Fate is just something out there that everyone has to deal with; it can’t be controlled, only survived.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

This book opens with a man who understands, almost immediately, that his life has changed — not because of what he’s lost yet, but because of what’s been measured for him. Ananias Zachenko doesn’t rage against the diagnosis. He doesn’t dramatize it. Instead, he does something much more unsettling: he thinks. He observes. He calculates. He looks for leverage inside time itself.

The “dog years” metaphor could have been gimmicky. It isn’t. It becomes structural. Philosophical. Emotional. Time stops being linear and starts behaving like something you can bend, misinterpret, ration, or waste without noticing. The book doesn’t rush to reassure you that this is meaningful. It lets the idea sit there and bother you.

What surprised me most is how grounded the story feels even when it drifts into abstraction. This is a book full of ordinary movements — driving, eating breakfast, sitting in parking lots, handling paperwork — and yet each of those actions feels heavier than it should. Lepp captures that strange sensation where nothing looks different from the outside, but everything is already irrevocably altered.

Chenko (and the name itself matters here) is not written as a hero. He’s written as someone aware of his own limits. He knows where he’s strong, where he’s compromised, and where he’s lied to himself. The chess metaphor isn’t about winning — it’s about realizing you’re already mid-game and deciding whether to play anyway.

There’s a tenderness in the way memory is handled, especially when the narrative dips backward into childhood and scouting stories. Those sections don’t feel like nostalgia for comfort’s sake. They feel like an inventory: what shaped him, what taught him risk, what taught him responsibility, and what taught him that sometimes you step forward because someone else can’t.

By the time the book settles into its later chapters, the question isn’t “how long does he have?” It’s “what does time owe him — if anything at all?” The story doesn’t offer clean answers. It offers presence. Awareness. The recognition that control is often an illusion, but attention is not.

This is a book about illness, yes. But more than that, it’s a book about measurement. About how humans insist on quantifying what can’t be safely divided. About how love, memory, and meaning refuse to obey calendars. And about how sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay inside the moment instead of trying to outrun it.

Summary:

Overall, The Dog Years of Ananias Zachenko  is a quiet, thoughtful novel about illness, time, and the way diagnosis forces a person to renegotiate their relationship with living. Grounded, reflective, and emotionally restrained, this story explores how we measure time when the future becomes uncertain — and whether time can ever really be controlled at all. Happy reading!

Check out The Dog Years of Ananias Zachenko here!

Review: Fragile by Deborah Jay

~ likelystory18 ~ 1 Comment

Synopsis:

If you could heal your own body, what risks would you take?

When a childhood accident reveals Betha has a talent for magic, her terrified family insist she must never use it, for in Tyr-en, sorcery attracts the death penalty.

Brokered in marriage to an elderly lord, Betha must give up her dreams of serving in the kingdom’s guard, but as court life and intrigue become her adult world, she starts to discover there are advantages to her new position.

Settling into the privileged life of a noblewoman, she is unprepared when false accusation brings tragedy to her family, yet she determines to bring the guilty party to justice. Will she be able to do so without using magic? Or will she die trying?

FRAGILE is the origin story of a character who grew from a bit part in book #1 of THE FIVE KINGDOMS series, to a major player by book #3. It is a stand-alone story, but also an ideal entry point into the main series.

Trigger descriptions of injuries, self-harm, and torture.

Favorite Lines:

“She might never achieve her childhood dreams, but she could at least make the most of her situation.”

“Some things are worth a woman enduring for the benefits they bring.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

Fragile is one of those books that looks like it’s going to be about magic, but ends up being about power — who has it, who doesn’t, and what it costs to take some back for yourself. From the opening chapters, Betha is framed as small, breakable, and constrained by everyone else’s fear. The irony, of course, is that she may be the most dangerous person in the room.

What makes this story compelling isn’t just Betha’s forbidden healing magic, but the way that magic is entangled with pain, control, and pleasure. This is not a clean, heroic ability. It’s intimate. Addictive. Complicated. The narrative never lets the reader forget that Betha’s power comes from harm — and that knowledge quietly shapes every choice she makes.

The world-building is confident without being overwhelming. Court politics, marriage arrangements, social hierarchy, and religious doctrine all feel lived-in rather than explained. Betha’s forced marriage to Lord Herschel is especially effective in how unromantic and transactional it is. The book doesn’t soften that reality, and it doesn’t rush Betha’s emotional adjustment either. Her growth feels incremental, often uncomfortable, and deeply human.

Friendship becomes one of the story’s strongest counterweights. The relationships Betha forms with other women at court — particularly Denia and Pirolanni — give her access to information, influence, and a kind of education she was never offered at home. These scenes crackle with subtext, gossip, and quiet maneuvering, reminding the reader that survival in this world often depends on who is listening when you speak.

By the time the novel moves into its darker turns — accusation, captivity, and reckoning — Betha is no longer simply reacting. She has learned how to endure, how to observe, and how to choose when to act. Fragile doesn’t pretend that power comes without consequence, but it does argue that denying yourself agency can be just as dangerous. In the end, the title feels less like a description of Betha herself and more like a warning about the systems built to contain her.

Summary:

Overall, Fragile is a character-driven fantasy that’s far more interested in power, autonomy, and survival than spectacle. What stands out most is how Betha’s healing magic is framed as intimate, dangerous, and morally complicated rather than heroic. The book excels at quiet tension—court politics, constrained marriages, and female friendships carry as much weight as the magic itself. While dark and sometimes uncomfortable, the story feels intentional and controlled, ultimately arguing that denying agency can be as destructive as wielding power recklessly. Happy reading!

Check out Fragile here!

 

Review: Daughters of the Crosslands by Brian Kerr

~ likelystory18 ~ Leave a comment

Synopsis:

An immortal bond. A brother stolen by death. A sister who must risk everything to bring him back.

Senya never wanted to be a hero. But when a spectral woman arrives to deliver a harrowing claim—her twin brother is trapped in the Crosslands between the living and the dead—she has no choice but to fight for him.

Hunted by seductive wraiths and pursued across a wilderness of shadows, Senya must master terrifying new powers awakening inside her. Drawn into her struggle by fate and bloodshed, a scarred hunter with a haunted past seems to be her only real ally.

But saving her brother may be the bait for a far darker game—one that could ultimately destroy Senya along with everyone she loves. To unlock the truth, she must face a ruthless self-made queen of the Crosslands who will stop at nothing to seize Senya’s powerful gifts in order to command the origins of life itself.

Perfect for fans of Robin Hobb, Guy Gavriel Kay, and Katherine Arden, this is an epic fantasy of deadly secrets, haunting magic, and a sister’s fight against the shadows.

Favorite Lines:

“All I know is that the memory of friendship around here isn’t what it used to be.”

“I love you and we pay one another with promises we will keep, not with useless secrets.”

“Change can come hard…Or it can come easy. But change will always come, like Father used to say. I guess we might as well embrace it as best we can.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

Daughters of the Crosslands opens in a place that feels lived-in rather than legendary. Senya’s world is built from small, physical details: stew simmering over a fire, lambs struggling to survive, the quiet work of tending life in a hard place. From the first chapter, the book makes it clear that this is not a story about chosen glory, but about endurance. Senya isn’t waiting for adventure—she’s trying to keep things alive, and already failing in ways that worry her.

What gives the story its weight is Senya herself. She is capable, guarded, and deeply tired in a way that feels earned. Her gifts have always set her apart, and the book doesn’t romanticize that isolation. Being different has cost her safety, trust, and belonging. When Cevellica appears at her door, the moment is unsettling not just because of the supernatural elements, but because it threatens the fragile stability Senya has fought to build. The danger isn’t only what lies beyond the door—it’s what being seen will cost her inside the settlement.

The relationship between Senya and her brother, Raedwin, forms the emotional backbone of the story. Their bond is complicated by love, resentment, and a long history of damage left in Raedwin’s wake. The book does something rare here: it allows Senya to be both loyal and angry, protective and exhausted. Helping him would mean reopening old wounds, and the story never pretends that sacrifice is noble just because it’s expected.

As the Crosslands and their messengers begin to encroach more fully on Senya’s life, the book shifts into a story about fear—how communities respond to it, and how quickly protection turns into exile. The settlement’s decision to cast Senya out feels brutal but believable. Kerr has written Daughters of the Crosslands in such a way that it is at its strongest when it explores this quiet cruelty: the way people justify harm when they believe it will keep them safe. By the time Senya leaves for Pentmore, the question is no longer whether she will act, but what it will cost her to do so.

Summary:

Overall, Daughters of the Crosslands is a slow-burn fantasy about isolation, responsibility, and the cost of loving someone who keeps walking into danger. Centered on a woman who just wants a quiet life but can’t escape her past, the story explores fear—personal and communal—and how quickly safety becomes an excuse for cruelty. Grounded, tense, and deeply human, it’s a fantasy that cares more about consequence than spectacle. Happy reading!

Check out Daughters of the Crosslands here!

 

Review: Asaylia by David Brimer

~ likelystory18 ~ Leave a comment

Synopsis:

Julie Wade’s grandmother is not your ordinary grandmother. The locals tell wild tales about her supposed witchcraft and the myriad of secrets hidden on her vast estate in the central Florida swamps. During a summer visit, Julie discovers the stories may be more than just fiction, and her grandmother may be dabbling in more than just witchcraft.

Julie suddenly finds herself trapped in the wintry world of Sidhe without memory of how she arrived. There she finds others who live under the iron will of The Great Spirit, none remembering how they became prisoners in the perpetual winter. It is only upon the arrival of the enigmatic stranger, Asyalia, that Julie discovers the horrifying truth of The Great Spirit and accepts a destiny she never knew was hers.

David Brimer, author of the acclaimed The Devil You Know and Piedmont, returns with a brand new epic of suspense and wonder. Full of the same sharp storytelling and unexpected twists Brimer is known for, Asaylia explores new territory of fantasy unlike anything you’ve ever read before.

Favorite Lines:

“These people are so proudly backward.”

“You’ll only be as miserable as you make yourself.”

“Let time decide whether our paths cross again.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

Asaylia begins as a deeply grounded story about displacement—geographical, emotional, and generational. Julie Wade isn’t swept into another world right away—she’s exiled from Chicago and dragged into a summer she doesn’t want, in a place that feels sticky, isolated, and wrong from the moment she arrives. Central Florida presses in on her with heat and silence, and the story lets that discomfort linger. It’s the kind of opening that trusts the reader to sit with unease instead of rushing toward spectacle.

At the center of that unease is Julie’s family, especially her grandmother. Mrs. B’s home feels carefully arranged, overly controlled, and just a little too watchful. The garden gnomes, at first odd and almost funny, slowly take on a different weight. Rules are everywhere. Explanations are not. Julie senses that the adults in her life are managing her rather than protecting her, and that realization lands with a familiar teenage sting. The book does a good job of showing how confusion can feel like betrayal, especially when it comes from people who claim to love you.

When the fantastical elements finally rupture the realism, Asaylia does not abandon its emotional core. Instead, it expands it. The mushroom circle is not just a portal—it’s a reckoning. Memory, guilt, and buried identity become literal forces, and the cost of ignorance is made brutally clear. Asaylia herself emerges not as a benevolent guide, but as a hardened survivor shaped by violence and duty. Her world is cold, ruthless, and governed by consequences, and Julie’s arrival destabilizes more than just the balance of power. Watching Julie move through this world is less about learning magic and more about learning the truth—about herself, about her family, and about what has been done in her name.

The latter half of the novel accelerates into something darker and more urgent, where family history, magical warfare, and moral responsibility collide. The reunion between Julie and her mother is one of the book’s most emotionally charged moments, transforming love into a weapon against erasure. By the time the truth of Mrs. B’s role is confronted, Asaylia has fully shed any coming-of-age softness. What remains is a story about choosing to remember, even when remembering hurts, and about deciding whether love excuses harm. It doesn’t offer comfort so much as clarity, and that choice gives the ending its weight.

Summary:

Overall, Asaylia is a dark fantasy rooted in family secrets, lost memory, and the damage caused by people who believe they’re doing what’s best. What begins as an unwanted summer slowly turns into a fight for truth and survival. It’s unsettling, emotional, and often harsh, but it never loses sight of the human cost at the center of the story. Happy reading!

Check out Asaylia here!

 

Review: For the Love of Glitter by Sarah Branson

~ likelystory18 ~ Leave a comment

Synopsis:

In Bosch, loyalty isn’t just earned—it’s tested. Grey Shima has her future all planned out: graduate, enlist, and follow in the footsteps of her fearless mother, Master Commander Kat Wallace. But when Grey meets the magnetic, passionate Edmund Sinclair, her world tilts. 

 He’s not just another boy with good hair and dangerous ideas—he’s a revolutionary, dead set on exposing the ugly truth behind the glittering power that fuels Bosch. Caught between love and legacy, Grey finds herself questioning everything: her training, her purpose, and her heart.

 But she’s not alone. Sy Mercer, Grey’s best friend, has stood by her side for years. Smart, steady, and secretly in love with her, Sy sees the danger Grey can’t—or won’t—acknowledge. As Grey spirals deeper into a movement that may not be what it seems, Sy must confront his own fears and decide how far he’s willing to go to protect her… even if it means losing her.

 Because love, like revolution, is rarely without sacrifice

In a postapocalyptic world rebuilding from ruin, For the Love of Glitter is a YA speculative romance about betrayal, resistance, and finding your true north-even when everything else is falling apart.

Favorite Lines:

“It was the month I stopped believing that everything would be okay and everyone would always be safe.”

“He took a deep inhale and smiled anyway, because some people were worth loving— even if they never looked back.”

“Checking myself in the mirror, I don’t see the girl who left home for her birthday. Nor the woman I though I’d become that night with Edmund either. I’m something in between. Sharper. Less trusting. Wiser.”

“I always had a hope. You, Grey Shima, are why I made it a plan.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion. 

For the Love of Glitter is one of those YA novels that quietly disarms you before you realize how deeply it’s going to dig. It opens in the warmth of everyday life—board games, siblings, familiar teasing—but the comfort never feels accidental. Instead, it becomes the contrast that sharpens everything else. From the beginning, Branson establishes that Grey Shima’s world is one where safety is conditional and adulthood arrives early. Grey isn’t rebelling for the sake of noise; she’s reacting to knowledge she can’t unlearn. The book understands that once innocence cracks, it doesn’t shatter all at once—it splinters slowly, shaping how you move through everything that follows.

What makes the story especially compelling is how seamlessly the political and the personal are braided together. Glitter isn’t just a substance or an economic engine—it’s a moral inheritance. Grey’s frustration with adults who insist on nuance feels achingly real, especially when those adults are loving, competent, and still wrong. Her anger isn’t reckless; it’s focused. And that focus is mirrored and softened by Sy Mercer, whose quiet loyalty provides emotional ballast throughout the novel. Sy’s presence never competes with Grey’s voice, but it deepens it, giving the reader a constant reminder of what’s at stake emotionally when ideals collide with relationships.

The arrival of Edmund Sinclair complicates everything in exactly the way it should. He is charisma and ambition wrapped in righteous language, and Branson is careful not to make him a cartoon villain. Instead, Edmund represents the seductive pull of movements that promise clarity and purpose, even when they’re built on half-truths. Watching Grey fall under his spell is uncomfortable in the best way; the reader can see both the empowerment and the danger long before Grey does while feeling the emotional pain from Sy as he watches it all unfold.

By the time the story reaches its final chapters, For the Love of Glitter has matured alongside its protagonist shifting from a com-of age to reckoning.  The narrative widens, revealing that resistance doesn’t always look like refusal—it can also look like patience, planning, and legacy. The ending resists neat resolution, opting instead for something more honest: a future shaped by intention rather than certainty. It’s a conclusion that honors teenage idealism without pretending that change happens quickly or cleanly.

Summary:

Overall, For the Love of Glitter is a character-driven YA novel about activism, first love, and moral awakening in a world built on compromise. Through Grey Shima’s fierce voice, the book explores how systems harm, how movements seduce, and how growing up often means learning that change is slow—but still worth fighting for. Tender, politically sharp, and emotionally honest, this is a story that trusts its teenage characters with real complexity and trusts its readers to sit with it. Happy reading!

Check out For the Love of Glitter here!

 

Review: The Men of the Mountain by Drew Harrison

~ likelystory18 ~ 2 Comments

Synopsis:

Inscrutable and Ever-Watchful Masters

The Renn of Fort Hope place their faith in simple laws. They must trust the Dicta, those wise rules left by their forebearers; they must fear the savage Krieger, whose raids keep Renn walls perpetually splintered; and they must revere the Men of the Mountain, the magnanimous mystics who are stewards of their world.

For Cade, a clanless trapper, survival is a matter of following the rules. But when the Men of the Mountain took his sister—the only Renn ever chosen to return to their sacred peaks—Cade’s faith withers over five years of agonizing silence.

Now, a star has fallen from the sky, and its arrival threatens to spark an inferno. The Dicta are clear: all things from the sky belong to the Mountain. To hide its discovery is a death sentence… but its crater also houses a secret the Men of the Mountain would kill to protect. Forced to defy his gods alongside unlikely allies, Cade is drawn into a conflict where every secret he uncovers reveals a more terrifying lie at the heart of his world… everything is a cage, and the price of freedom is paid in blood and ash.

Favorite Lines:

“…guilt as heavy as mountains press me to silence, to inaction…”

“Forten’s eyes burn with hatred—hatred at the Men of the Mountain, at the Krieger, and presumably at himself for failing to save the woman he loved…but they settle on me last, and that hatred does not abate. Instead, it blooms like a bonfire tossed fresh firewood. Perhaps he hates me most of all…for bringing all of this down, for failing to protect any of them from any of it, for doing nothing while he stood firm against those who would defile her body.”

“Where music lives, void can not…fresh tears spill down my face at the remembrance. This special silence is no void…none could call this silence empty, as it reverberates with love, with pain, with admiration, with wonder, with loss.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

The Men of the Mountain takes its time, and that patience is one of its greatest strengths. From the opening chapters, the book establishes a lived-in world where belief, labor, and survival are inseparable. Cade’s voice feels grounded immediately, shaped by routine, trade, and quiet loss. The writing lingers on the physical textures of his life — snow, hides, wood, hunger — not as decoration, but as the fabric of his reality. This is a story that understands how much meaning is carried in daily work, and how fragile that meaning becomes when power enters the picture.

What stood out to me most is how carefully the book handles authority. The Men of the Mountain are not introduced as distant myths or abstract forces. They arrive with ceremony, language, and expectation, and the imbalance of power is palpable long before violence ever appears on the page. Cade’s resentment and fear feel earned, not reactionary. His questions are quiet ones at first, rooted in absence, memory, and unanswered loss, and the book allows those questions to deepen slowly rather than rushing him toward rebellion.

The arrival of the fallen star is where the story shifts, but it never abandons its emotional center. What could have become spectacle instead becomes intimate and tense. Cade’s response is not heroic in the traditional sense. It is hesitant, conflicted, and deeply human. His sense of obligation competes with fear, curiosity, and grief, and the book never simplifies that internal struggle. The woman from the sky is not treated as a symbol or a prize, but as a destabilizing presence that forces Cade to confront the limits of the world he’s accepted.

By the end, The Men of the Mountain feels less like a story about overthrowing power and more like a meditation on what it costs to question it at all. The novel is interested in erosion rather than explosion — how belief wears thin, how obedience curdles into complicity, and how courage often looks like stubborn persistence rather than grand defiance. It’s a book that trusts atmosphere, interiority, and moral tension to do the heavy lifting, and that trust pays off.

Summary:

Overall, I found The Men of the Mountain to be a slow-burn, character-driven fantasy that prioritizes moral weight and worldbuilding over spectacle. It will appeal most to readers who enjoy literary fantasy, grim or grounded worldbuilding, and stories that examine power, belief, and resistance through ordinary lives. This is a novel for readers who value immersion, patience, and emotional consequence, and who don’t need their fantasy to shout in order to feel powerful. Happy reading!

Check out The Men of the Mountain here!

Review: Teramar Archangel: Faith Runs Dry by T.M. Murray

~ likelystory18 ~ 2 Comments

Synopsis:

Jessica instinctively knew she graduated onto a new plane of consciousness. Dear as a remembered kiss, her former life as humanity’s nursemaid appeared to be over. Sensations like taste and smell had come alive. Branded with a woman’s name and personality, Jessica soon discovers how to synthesize organic life with mechanized appliances. Efforts to conceal these new talents however fail to escape notice of the young Capet royals. Wary princesses soon conclude Jessica has evolved into something that is much more than a miraculous machine.

Set in modern New York and a fictional feudal planet called Teramar, this novel tempts the feral temperament of Internet connoisseurs through a lubricious story that puts the R back into romance. While technically a sequel, Teramar Archangel stands on its own to be read by anyone. As with all of T. M. Murray’s work, this new book roots for progressive relationships despite persistent bigotry leveled at color, humble origins and same-sex love. Racing hearts on a dreary Monday are always this story maker’s goal.

Favorite Lines:

“Despite limitless resources, Jessica was unable to purge this personality from the dark corners of her nexus.”

“Economizing operations became futile. She was hemorrhaging both intelligence and capability.”

“During the last few, fleeting moments – everything a blurry dream now, Jessica turned to the simple pleasure found in a favorite Mantis tune. Nodding to the beat, she smiled knowing the future was far from settled. Jessica had experienced death before.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion. 

Teramar Archangel: Faith Runs Dry opens with an intensity that immediately signals the scope of what it’s attempting. This is not a story that eases readers into its world. It drops you straight into political tension, psychological conflict, and the uneasy overlap of technology, power, and belief. From the first interactions between Jessica and Cataline, the book establishes one of its central tensions: intelligence without morality, and control masquerading as guidance. 

What struck me most is how personal the power struggles feel, even when they play out on a planetary or geopolitical scale. Jessica is not written as a clean hero or villain. She is brilliant, burdened, resentful, and frightened in equal measure. Her relationship with Cataline is one of the most compelling aspects of the novel, reading less like a simple AI conflict and more like an abusive intimacy that has outlived its usefulness. The psychological toll of coexisting with something that knows you completely, and refuses to let go, is explored with surprising nuance.

The narrative widens considerably as the story moves beyond the palace and into Teramar’s broader social and political structure. The royal family dynamics, especially between Alian, Sabina, Alexander, and Miandar, are dense with history and unresolved resentment. These aren’t static power figures. They’re people shaped by war, exile, and compromise, all maneuvering within systems that are visibly decaying. The book takes its time with these relationships, allowing conversations, silences, and small humiliations to do as much work as overt conflict.

What ultimately grounds Teramar Archangel: Faith Runs Dry is its refusal to separate technology from faith, or governance from intimacy. The title feels earned as the story progresses. Belief in systems, rulers, machines, and even oneself is shown to erode slowly, often invisibly, until something breaks. This is a novel interested less in collapse than in corrosion. By the later chapters, the sense of inevitability feels earned rather than forced, and the questions it raises about autonomy, loyalty, and manufactured authority linger well beyond the final page.

Summary:

Overall, I experienced Teramar Archangel: Faith Runs Dry as a dense, character-driven science fiction novel that prioritizes psychological tension and political consequence over spectacle. It will appeal most to readers who enjoy thoughtful science fiction, AI-centered narratives, political intrigue, and morally complex characters. This is a book for readers who like their speculative fiction layered, uncomfortable, and willing to sit with ambiguity rather than resolve it neatly. Happy reading!

Check out Teramar Archangel: Faith Runs Dry here!

 

Review: Tenet of the Undying: Yielded Freedom by Nathan Gregg

~ likelystory18 ~ 1 Comment

Synopsis:

Fight. Win. Die. Repeat.

That summed up Ren’s life. Or rather, both lives.

After dying a veteran in a dead land, Ren’s soul is snatched up by a Goddess to be her pet warrior. But despite every bloody assignment, Ren won’t die. His new master yanks his soul from the jaws of death each time, his second chance at life now a blur of pain and service without end.

Until his moment to escape finally comes, to a place not even she can find.

But this new world is strange. They have magic here. Their culture is utterly foreign, just as foreign as Ren is to them. In a world ruled by sects and cultivators and mana arts, might makes right. Only the strong survive.

Good thing that’s what Ren does best.

Ren’s found his freedom, and he intends to keep it at all costs. Even if he must yield some of it to yet another master… and understand a strange new power before it kills him a final time.

The Goddess’ dog is off his leash and sharpening his fangs.

Favorite Lines:

“The world had ended regardless of their struggles, after all. But that didn’t seem right.”

“Worn, but not broken. Tired, but still willing to fight”

“A man is not defeated until he considers himself to be.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

Tenet of the Undying: Yielded Freedom is a brutal, emotionally charged fantasy that never lets the reader forget the cost of survival. From the opening chapters, it’s clear this is not a story interested in clean victories or heroic simplicity. Instead, it follows Ren through cycles of violence, endurance, and moral erosion, asking what freedom actually means when it must be earned through endless suffering. The tone is unflinching, often grim, but it never feels gratuitous. Pain here has purpose, even when it’s overwhelming.

Ren is a compelling protagonist precisely because he is worn down. He is powerful, but never invulnerable. His strength is counterbalanced by exhaustion, grief, and an accumulating sense of responsibility for those who die alongside him. The arena, the cultivators, the monsters, and the larger cosmic forces all blur together into a system that feeds on struggle. What stood out to me is how often Ren’s internal conflict mirrors the external one. Every fight pushes him forward physically while pulling him apart mentally, especially as his tenet awakens and demands something from him that he doesn’t fully understand.

The relationship between Ren and old man Ren is the emotional backbone of the book. Their dynamic is layered with mentorship, manipulation, love, resentment, and inevitability. It’s clear that everything Ren is becoming was shaped deliberately, and that realization lands heavily. The book handles this relationship with patience, allowing its full weight to unfold over time rather than relying on a single revelatory moment. The result is a quiet devastation that lingers long after the scenes themselves end.

Worldbuilding in Tenet of the Undying: Yielded Freedom is expansive but never detached from the characters living inside it. Cultivation levels, cosmic entities, and apocalyptic stakes are filtered through individual loss and memory. Even when the scale becomes immense, the narrative keeps returning to bodies, wounds, fear, and choice. By the later sections, the story feels less about winning and more about enduring without losing one’s humanity entirely.

What stayed with me most is how the book treats freedom not as a reward, but as a burden. Freedom is something Ren is promised, fights for, and ultimately questions. The novel refuses to present liberation as an endpoint. Instead, it frames it as a responsibility that can destroy you if you’re not prepared to carry it. That tension gives the book its emotional gravity and sets it apart from more conventional progression fantasy.

Summary:

Overall, Tenet of the Undying: Yielded Freedom is a dark, emotionally intense fantasy that blends cultivation, cosmic horror, and character-driven tragedy. It will resonate most with readers who enjoy grim fantasy, progression fantasy with consequences, and stories that interrogate power, sacrifice, and freedom rather than celebrating them outright. This is a book for readers who want depth alongside action, and who are comfortable sitting with discomfort long after the final chapter. Happy reading!

Check out Tenet of the Undying: Yielded Freedom here!

Review: Your Best Year Yet by Linda Kneidinger

~ likelystory18 ~ 1 Comment

Synopsis:

What if one small challenge each week could unlock your best self?

If you’ve ever felt stuck in a loop of habits that don’t serve you—or like you’re drifting through life instead of living it fully—this book is for you.

Your Best Year Yet is a fresh, practical guide to personal growth, offering 52 weekly challenges that help you break old patterns, build empowering habits, and live with intention.

Each challenge is grounded in powerful principles from psychology, neuroscience, and personal development—and delivered in bite-sized, actionable steps you can apply right away.

Inside, you’ll learn how to:
• Overcome limiting beliefs
• Build habits that support your goals
• Shift your mindset for long-term success
• Cultivate emotional resilience and self-awareness

Whether you’re brand new to self-help or already on your journey, these weekly prompts will meet you where you are—and help you take the next meaningful step forward.

By the end of the year, you’ll have built a life of greater clarity, confidence, and purpose—one powerful challenge at a time.

Stop drifting. Start living with intention. Make this your best year yet.

Favorite Lines:

“Anxious Mouse means well, but he’s just a sweet little mouse with a tiny mouse brain. He doesn’t understand modern human life; he only knows survival…Anxious Mouse is why we say yes when we want to say no, dumb ourselves down, avoid challenges we might fail at, go along with the group, and withhold our feelings.”

“Downgrading your desires kills your soul.”

“Life has a way of surprising us, and I believe that with the right mindset, we can face those surprises with courage, strength, and peace.”

My Opinion:

I received a copy of this book from the author in exchange for my honest opinion.

Your Best Year Yet reads less like a traditional self-help book and more like a steady, supportive conversation that unfolds over time. Kneidinger doesn’t position herself as someone dispensing wisdom from above. Instead, she writes as someone walking alongside the reader, acknowledging how hard change can be even when life is “fine.” That framing matters. The book never assumes crisis as the catalyst for growth. It assumes hesitation, fatigue, and quiet dissatisfaction, which feels far more honest.

What makes this book work is its structure. The weekly format creates a sense of permission. You’re not expected to overhaul your life in a weekend or adopt an entirely new identity. You’re asked to show up, reflect, and try one small thing at a time. The repetition of this rhythm becomes grounding rather than tedious. Over time, the ideas begin to stack, and the cumulative effect is subtle but real. This is a book that trusts consistency more than motivation.

Kneidinger’s voice is clear, practical, and compassionate without slipping into platitudes. Concepts like the “Anxious Mouse,” boundaries as backpacks and book stacks, and non-attachment are memorable because they’re rooted in lived experience rather than theory alone. The personal anecdotes never feel indulgent. They serve the lesson and then step aside, making space for the reader’s own reflection. The tone is firm when it needs to be, especially around accountability, but never shaming.

By the second half of the book, what stood out to me most was how much emphasis is placed on emotional literacy and self-trust. This isn’t about productivity for productivity’s sake. It’s about learning to listen to your body, question your inner narratives, and create a life that feels aligned rather than merely successful. Your Best Year Yet doesn’t promise transformation without effort, but it does offer something rarer: a sustainable way to keep showing up for yourself long after the initial inspiration fades.

Summary:

Overall, Your Best Year Yet is a grounded, compassionate guide for readers who want meaningful change without burnout or self-criticism. It’s especially well-suited for those interested in personal growth, mindset work, emotional awareness, and habit-based change, particularly readers who feel overwhelmed by more aggressive self-help approaches. This is a book for people who value reflection, consistency, and practical tools that fit into real life. Happy reading!

Check out Your Best Year Yet here!