November 5, 2014

Blog Tour: Endsinger (The Lotus War #3) by Jay Kristoff – Deleted Scene and Giveaway


Welcome to our Tour Stop for

Endsinger (The Lotus War #3) by Jay Kristoff

presented by St. Martin’s Press!

We are so excited to be able to share a deleted scene for all of you today!
It’s the original first chapter to the book, and Jay talks about why it was cut.

Be sure to enter the giveaway found at the end of the post!


The flames of civil war sweep across the Shima Imperium. With their plans to renew the Kazumitsu dynasty foiled, the Lotus Guild unleash their deadliest creation—a mechanical goliath known as the Earthcrusher, intended to unite the shattered Empire under a yoke of fear. With the Tiger Clan and their puppet Daimyo Hiro in tow, the Guild marches toward a battle for absolute dominion over the Isles.

Yukiko and Buruu are forced to take leadership of the Kagé rebellion, gathering new allies and old friends in an effort to unite the country against the chi-mongers. But the ghosts of Buruu’s past stand between them and the army they need, and Kin’s betrayal has destroyed all trust among their allies. When a new foe joins the war tearing the Imperium apart, it will be all the pair can do to muster the strength to fight, let alone win.

The traitor Kin walks the halls of Guild power, his destiny only a bloody knife-stroke away. Hana and Yoshi struggle to find their place in a world now looking to them as heroes. Secret cabals within the Lotus Guild claw and struggle; one toward darkness, the other toward light. And as the earth splits asunder, as armies destroy each other for rule over an empire of lifeless ash and the final secret about blood lotus is revealed, the people of Shima will learn one last, horrifying truth.

There is nothing a mother won’t do to keep her children by her side.


add to goodreads

Endsinger (The Lotus War #3) by Jay Kristoff
Publication Date:  November 25, 2014
Publisher:  Thomas Dunne Books

Available for Purchase:


This was originally the first chapter of Endsinger. I remember writing this about six different ways. Originally, Isamu, the Daimyo of the Fox clan, was an eleven year old boy, but I eventually made him a crotchety old man because they’re fun to write. Isamu played a much bigger role in the original draft, but he got pared down a little for timing’s sake. In the end, I decided it would be better to start the book with a scene that focused more on Yukiko, rather than one that introduced a bunch of new characters and only had Yukiko appear at the end. Sadly, that meant my idea for Iron Cavalry got cut from the book. Such is life. I’ll use it one day. =)

– Jay

1. War, She Cried

Isamu was looking forward to dying.
The Lord of the Kitsune Clan watched the enemy form up across the tar-black river, ō-yoroi weighing heavy on his old bones. The armor was black iron, six feet tall, the small engine on his back spitting choking fumes into the chill air. The bridge beneath his feet was hard stone, solid beneath his feet. A good spot to lay down and finally sleep.
The air was thick with exhaust, gumming in his eyes. A tall standard fluttered on his back—black silk set with the sigil of the Fox Clan. Dozens more whipped in the breeze around him; the nine-tailed fox dancing above the heads of his soldiers, bringing luck upon his people.
Kitsune looks after his own, or so the saying went.
Perhaps he’ll be kind enough not to today.
The Clanlord sighed, licked at cracking lips. He pulled his helm off, pawed at his eyes with iron fingers. He’d been handsome in his prime, but time had been less than kind—years of war in Morcheba had taken their toll, and a broken nose and scarred brow did little to soften his natural scowl. He looked positively ancient now, small and painfully thin, long white hair and moustache bound in warrior’s braids. His Lady used to tease him about it, waking in the mornings and running her fingers through his locks, asking if he’d need his walking stick today.
The thought of her made his chest hurt.
Perhaps the army gathering across the river would put an end to that.
Blood lotus filled the fields behind him, swaying in the wind he couldn’t feel. The blooms had all been plucked, but the stalks would remain until autumn’s end. Then, before the black rains began to fall, they’d be torn from the earth and stripped of rind, sap, pulp, roots.
Blood lotus. The plant with a hundred uses. Proof the Gods existed, or so the Guild Purifiers claimed. Watered with the blood of gaijin war prisoners, or so said the Kagé rebels on their outlaw transmissions. Looking at the death gathering across the river, the Fox Clanlord found little inclination to care who was right and who was wrong.
Scouts reported a week ago that the Dragon Clan army was on the march, heading west towards Fox lands. Daimyo Isamu had decided to meet the assault at Eikōbashi, the Bridge of Glories—one of the only viable crossing points over the Hebi river. The longer they held the Dragons back, the more time Yama city would have to prepare for siege. Isamu had asked for five hundred volunteers to accompany him to the bridge. All knew it was suicide mission.
He’d heard most of his men had dueled each other for the privilege to go.
The Clanlord glanced at his soldiers; the knots of Bushimen behind makeshift palisades, barring passage across the old bridge. The line was broken by the hulking silhouettes of Iron Samurai, faceguards crafted into the likenesses of snarling foxes, gauntlets wrapped around chainkatana and wakizashi. They were his best, his bravest, but they were pitifully few.
Since the day Isamu had refused invitation to Tora Hiro’s wedding, since the moment the would-be Shōgun of Shima had been slighted by the Kitsune Clanlord, not a drop of fuel had been shipped from Yama’s chi refinery to the Fox army. The gauge on Isamu’s armor read half-full, his chainblades suffered the same. Barely enough to fight the battle he hoped to die in.
The snub-nosed silhouettes of four heavy sky-ships hung overhead for air-support, droning like fat, angry flies. His men had built palisades across the bridge to fend off archer fire. The bridge itself was ancient stone lined with railtracks; a gateway between Dragon and Fox lands that had stood for two centuries. But it was only fifty feet wide, forming a bottleneck in which the Ryu numbers would count for less.
Isamu thought they might last a week against the Dragon assault. Looking out now as the enemy formed up on the southern banks, the old Clanlord wondered if they’d last a day.
At least fifty Iron Samurai marched in the Ryu vanguard, armor glittering like white gold. Clan banners of brilliant blue set with the Dragon standard whipped in the breeze. At least three thousand infantry tromped behind the samurai, crossbowmen following. Half a dozen ironclads rumbled overhead, accompanied by a handful of swift-moving arrowhead corvettes. And on the western flank, crushing any thought of Kitsune victory beneath thunderous hooves, Isamu saw at least thirty of Clan Ryu’s famous Iron Cavalry.
Their horses were crafted of clockwork and cold metal, skeletal bodies glinting in the sunlight. Great plumes of chi smoke spilled from exhaust pipes on their flanks. Their hearts didn’t beat, their eyes were black glass, but their riders were men of flesh, encased in mechanized armor, roaring dragon helms, double-handed chainnodachi at their sides.
Isamu had seen the Ryu cavalry in action overseas, back in the days before the world stopped making sense. He remembered gaijin soldiers screaming as the iron horses rode them down, sweeping through flesh like harvestemen amongst lotus fields. Looking down his line, their flimsy wooden barricades, he knew they had nothing to counter them with.
To Isamu’s pride, his men didn’t quail.
Fools, he thought. Brave young fools.
The lotus fields were trampled flat behind the Dragon army, storms of dust swept away by the breeze from the Iishi foothills. To the north-west lay the great city of Yama—the prize that drew the Ryu army onwards. Once the bridge was overrun, the Ryu would cut the Kitsune capital’s rail lines, call in air support and lay their siege. After a hundred years of border skirmishes and bickering, at last it had come to this.
Isamu glanced at the man beside him. General Ginjiro was big even inside his ō-yoroi, the suit specially made to accommodate his impressive girth. His armor had seen countless battles, a hundred dents and nicks etched across its broad belly.
“The children look excited, old friend,” Isamu muttered.
Ginjiro nodded, eyes never leaving the Dragon lines. “I’ve fought beside half these men. Killing gaijin, side by side. To think we’d live to die like this.”
“Only if we’re lucky.”
“Bloody fools. What about the Tiger clan? The Dragons lean down for a bite of our tenders and leave their own hindparts exposed and ungreased?”
“The Tigers are paralyzed. The Kagé rebels murdered First Daughter Aisha. And while that whelp Hiro mourns his betrothed, the Dragons seize the chance to end old grudges.”
“Honorless dogs,” Ginjiro growled. “Two hundred years of truce, broken in a day.”
“My cousin Haruka was always was the opportunist.”
Isamu ran his fingers over the thousand-stitch obi at his waist; nine tailed foxes dancing across a field of undulating black and red. His Lady had sewn it for him before his first campaign overseas, told him it would protect him from the blades of his enemies.
He wondered now if it would fend off the blades of those who’d been his friends.
“Look, Lucky Fox,” Ginjiro said.
“You know I hate that nickname, Ginjiro-san.”
The general nodded toward the other bank. “An emissary approaches.”
Squinting down the Dragon lines, Isamu saw a flash of white cloth approaching. A cadre of Iron Samurai clomping towards the bridge, lead by a figure in an impressive suit of ō-yoroi.
“The forms of Bushido must be obeyed,” Isamu sighed. “Even in a debacle like this.”
“Sent to demand surrender, no doubt.”
“Well, let’s go disappoint him.”


Five men faced each other the bridge; Isamu and Ginjiro for the Kitsune, three Iron Samurai for the Ryu. Isamu recognized the Dragon commander; Reisu, firstborn son of Daimyo Haruka, and his own second cousin. The Dragons had sent their heir apparent to take Yama city. Isamu couldn’t really ask for a better executioner.
Reisu placed palm over fist, bowed to Isamu.
“Venerable Daimyo Isamu-sama, Clanlord of the Kitsune. My noble father, Daimyo Ryu Haruka bids us greet you. The Dragon Clan salutes Kitsune’s courage.”
Isamu covered his fist, bowed in return. His back murmured protest.
“Honorable Reisu-san,” he said. “We receive your Lord and father’s greetings humbly. I pray my cousin Haruka-san is well. Clan Kitsune greets his firstborn with the respect he is due.”
As one, the Kitsune soldiers behind the barricades thrust their naginata spears before them. Five hundred glittering blades. Five hundred grim faces.
“And yet,” Isamu continued. “I must ask why Dragon soldiers march into my lands, armed for war?”
“My noble father Haruka sent missive to you, honorable Daimyo, explaining his intent.” Reisu frowned. “Perhaps the messenger did not arrive?”
“Oh, a messenger arrived. Demanding I swear fealty to your father, or somesuch. I simply presumed the man was a liar or a lunatic. Daimyo Haruka is not so cowardly as to to take advantage of the current political chaos and attack his own cousin in the dark, surely?”
An uneasy silence settled amongst the samurai, broken only by the whispering breeze, the creak and hiss of their ō-yoroi.
“Isamu-sama,” the Dragon Lord all but sighed. “Do you wish to play this game?”
Isamu stroked his long white moustache, fixed the Ryu commander in his stare.
“Do you know what my men name me, Reisu-san?”
“Of course, honorable Daimyo. They call you Lucky Fox.”
“And do you know why?”
The Dragon Lord cleared his throat. “It is said you cannot be killed. That the great Kitsune watches you above all others. That he refuses to let you die.”
“I have outlived five sons, Reisu-san. Buried my bride in the ground at our feet. Walked this earth long enough to see my entire family in the grave.” Isamu shook his head. “And for that . . . these young pups name me Lucky.”
Lord Reisu removed his helmet and stowed it beneath his arm. He was around the age of Isamu’s eldest. Cropped hair, straight-edged, fierce-looking. A deep frown marred his brow.
“I have no desire to anger Kitsune and take his favored one,” Resiu said. “And I know fortune has favored you in the past, great Daimyo. But I have my orders.”
“What would you have me do, then, pup? Step aside while you storm my capital? Enslave my people? Perhaps you’d like the keys to Yama’s gates while we’re at it?”
“All respect, but you cannot win this batle, Daimyo Isamu. Look behind me.”
“I have seen what stands behind you, Lord Reisu. But Kitsune will not kneel before it.”
“Then you will die.” Reisu looked amongst the Kitsune men. “All of you.”
Isamu gifted him a bitter smile. “I doubt I’m that lucky.”
Reisu glanced at his lieutenants, searched for the words. He met the Daimyo’s stare, pressed his lips together, shrugged like a like a blind man when asked the color of the sky.
It is red, little pup. Red as blood.
“Izanagi’s balls,” Isamu sighed. “All right, I’ll make it easier for you then, young Reisu. If you lack stomach to strike, let me provide just cause. Each of us secretly rejoiced when the Kazumitsu line crumbled. Each held some hope that we would build something better than that psychotic little wretch Yoritomo gave us. But instead, your father would have you butcher his own kin in a grab for the Shōgun’s throne. A man his age should know better.”
Isamu spit upon the ground.
“You bear the Dragon standard, but all I see are dogs snarling over scraps. Now get the hell of my soil before I bend you over my knee and beat you like your father should have.”
Reisu’s face was pale. He slammed his helm back on, voice taut with fury, tinged metallic behind his oni mask.
“So be it. Death to Kitsune.”
He spun on his heel and began stomping back down the hill, plumes of blue-black exhaust in his wake. The other Ryu followed, hissing pistons, the smooth click-clack of interlocking metal teeth and gears. Isamu’s voice pulled them up short.
The Dragon commander did not turn, but deigned to glance back over his shoulder.
“Lord Daimyo?”
“When the Tiger Clan and their Guild masters come for you, when you stand where I am now with empty fuel tanks, remember today. Remember Kitsune.”
“Kitsune!” Five hundred voices rang out at Isamu’s back. He smiled faintly.
Without another word, Reisu and his men stalked back to their line.
“I’d say that went about as well as could be expected,” Ginjiro sighed.
The Fox Clanlord turned and hobbled back to his soldier. The sergeants had already broken the men into lines, standard bearers back, bushimen at the front, a phalanx of Iron Samurai in the vanguard. The veterans were grim and unafraid, but Isamu could see fear uncoiling in his younger men; men who hadn’t yet lived long enough to have lived at all.
He turned to his general. “Perk them up a little, would you? Do that thing you do.”
“Soldiers of the Fox Clan!” Ginjiro held his chainkatana aloft and arced the motor with a roar. “This it the day and this is the hour! You look not upon your countrymen, but upon your enemies! No mercy! No surrender! Death to the Ryu!”
Five hundred voices screamed in answer.
“Death to the Ryu!”
“Banzai!” Ginjiro stabbed at the sky.
“Banzai!” Five hundred hafts pounded the stone, blades glittering in the red sun’s light. The roar of chainkatana and wakizashi filled the air, set the plates of Isamu’s ō-yoroi vibrating. He drew his chainwakizashi with arthritic fingers and smiled at Ginjiro.
“Much better.”
“Pray for a miracle, old friend,” Ginjiro muttered.
“No need.” Isamu sighed. “Kitsune looks after his own.”
The Iron Cavalry had already formed up, riders stomping their accelerator stirrups and lunging into a brisk canter. Each mechanical horse moved in exactly the same fashion, eyes aglow with the reflected glare of their power cores. Dust seethed amongst the trail of exhaust. At a word from their captain, the riders leaned forwards and switched their accelerators to full gallop. The whine of motors entwined with the thunder of their hooves, the swick-swack of the lotus stalks crushed underhoof. A storm of leaves filled the air behind them.
“Naginata!” General Ginjiro roared.
The Fox infantry brought their weapons to bear on the advancing cavalry; matchsticks against a mountainside. The stone bridge beneath Isamu began vibrating as the Iron Cavalry drew closer, a sickening rumble reaching up through his boots and taking seed in his gut. Isamu raised his hand into the air, ready to signal his archers.
The cavalry captain shouted a command. Each rider locked his feet in place, stood in the saddle and drew his chainnodaichi. Thirty blades roared to life, adding to the near-deafening din of the approaching cavalry. They were an earthquake, relentless and iron-shod. Heartbeats away.
Isamu blinked sweat from his eyes, sword poised in his hand.
I pray I will see you soon, my love.
He pushed her from his mind with a kiss, set his thoughts to the business of killing. Maybe dying. The dragons hit the bridge. Stone trembled. He drew breath to roar.
A shadow fell across the sun, a flash of darkness overhead. Isamu glanced up as another shadow passed above. A deafening crack split the air, as if the Thunder God Raijin had descended from the clouds. The report hurt his ears, threw up dust from the stone at his feet.
The Daimyo heard screams, another thunder-blast, static electricity crackling up his arms. He looked to the Iron Cavalry, saw the flash of broad white wings, bright amber eyes, claws like sabers, black as cuttlefish ink.
“Well, that’s a sight,” he breathed.
Arashitora. Two of them. Wings as broad as houses, ice-white fur patterned with black stripes, taut muscle rippling underneath. The heads and wings of great, snow-white eagles, the hindquarters of enormous tigers; impossibilities from long-gone days of childhood made flesh. The lead tiger had wings sheathed in metal and canvas and clockwork gears. The beasts swooped split off, calling to each other with fierce, terrible cries. Isamu stared, hands slack on his sword hilt. Not at the ruins of the cavalry lines. Not at the legendary beasts come back to life to wreak carnage amongst his enemies. But at the girl riding upon the lead thunder tiger’s back.
Long dark hair tied in a braid. Pale and slender, one hand wrapped in the arashitora’s feathers, a naked katana in the other. Moving as if she’d been born on the beast’s back. Crying out, fierce and terrible; a scream of rage echoed by the beast beneath her.
The cavalry line was shattered. Horses lay in smoking fragments on the bridge, engines spewing fire. Riders were rolling on the ground, clutching broken legs and ankles. The remainder were struggling back into formation as the thunder tigers fell on them again.
Arcs of raw current flared as the arashitora clapped their wings together, birthing that awful, ear-splitting sound. Several of Isamu’s men cried out as the thunder rolled. Flagstones burst skyward as if explosions were being set off under the bridge, streaming from the thunder tigers towards the cavalry riders. The horses were tossed like kites in a storm, crushing men or toppling into the black river. Three exploded, riders sailing through the air, torn apart by blazing shrapnel. Agonized screaming rose above the fading thunder.
The arashitora fell upon the iron cavalry with grating roars, tearing riders and mounts apart as if they were made of paper. The Dragons who could run, did. The remainder crawled, or lay bleeding where they fell, gazing up into an empty, smoke-colored sky.
“Men of Ryu!” The girl’s scream rang above the howling wind. “This is Kitsune land! The land of my father, my mother, my brother. Turn your backs and quit this field, or stand this day before Enma-ō, Judge of all the Hells!”
Her beast clapped his wings again, splitting the stone beneath him. Isamu dragged the helm from his head, wiped dust from his eyes. He surveyed the smoking wreckage, the broad splashes of sticky red on ancient stone, smoke coiling up into the sky.
The Bridge of Glories . . .
He looked at Ginjiro, his mouth dry as dust.
“Izanagi’s balls . . .” the general breathed.
Isamu looked at the Dragon army, fear and confusion rippling amongst their ranks. The smaller arashitora roared, loud enough to make him wince. He looked at the girl, sword held high in the autumn sun. He muttered a curse, lost beneath the din of fire and smoke and thunder.
“I told you,” he sighed. “Damned Kitsune looks after his own . . . ”


She was sixteen. Seventeen at most. Short and slender, pale skin drawn tight across her bones, wisps of hair caressing her cheeks in the storm wind. She dragged down her goggles and kerchief, revealing coal-black lashes, red-rimmed eyes. A beautiful nine-tailed fox coiled around her right arm, but her left bicep was a patchwork of horrid burns. The mourning black she wore smelled of smoke, of ozone and the strange feline musk of the beast looming behind her.
Isamu had heard the tales of course, but he’d never quite believed them. The girl who had tamed the arashitora. Who had slain that fool Yoritomo and ended the royal line after two centuries of Kazumitsu rule. And yet here she was, close enough to reach out and touch.
“I have the honor of addressing Kitsune Isamu, Daimyo of the Fox Clan?”
They stood outside his tent, soldiers gathered in awe around the beasts and the girl at their lead. Twenty-year veterans were chattering like children. One reached out a trembling hand to touch the smaller thunder tiger, as if to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming. The beast snarled, eyes flashing. The bushiman wisely backed away into the crowd.
“I am,” the old man replied. “And you are the one the minstrels call ‘Stormdancer’.”
“Isamu-sama.” She covered her fist, bowed. “My name is Kitsune Yukiko. These are my friends, Buruu and Kaiah.”
At the mention of its name, the beast called Kaiah turned to glare at Isamu. Female, he realized. Ferocity welled in her eyes, glowing like the embers among the ruins of iron horses. Isamu resisted the urge to look away.
“It’s all right,” the girl said. “She won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” Isamu shrugged. “I am in your debt, Kitsune Yukiko. If not for you, the Dragons would be on their way to Yama, and the corpse rats kissing my bones. I suppose I should thank you?”
“You can thank me by taking your men back to your capital, Isamu-sama. Far from the lotus in the valley behind you. I will come speak to you there. Three days from now.”
Isamu frowned. “We should press advantage. Strike at the Ryu while”
“No.” The girl’s eyes flashed. “We are not here to win this battle for you, Isamu-sama.”
“Then why are you here, girl?”
“To burn your fields.”
“ . . . I beg your pardon?”
An uneasy murmur rippled amongst the men, confused glances passed from one to another. The Daimyo raised one thin eyebrow, tried to ignore the ache in his joints.
“Why would you burn the valley you just defended?”
“We defend all Shima’s people from tyranny. We’re here to set you free.”
“From what?”
“This weed.” The girl pointed to the lotus around them. “All the evils it brings. And the Guild of murderers who controls it.”
“These are the sovereign lands of the Kitsune Clan. I cannot simply let you—”
“You can’t stop us.” Yukiko turned and climbed onto the male thunder tiger’s back. The beast stepped forward, towering over the Kitsune Clanlord. Its breath was a blast of warmth in his face, tinged with blood-scent. Slitted amber eyes gleamed as it spread its clockwork wings, faint electricity making Isamu’s flesh prickle.
The girl fixed the Daimyo with her glare. A common-born child, staring down a lord who could trace his lineage back to the beginning of the Shōgunate. Her eyes were hard. Full of hurt. Rage. Held in check by a will he could almost feel burning on his skin.
“I hear rumor you refused invitation to Daimyo Tora Hiro’s wedding, Isamu-sama. That you would not swear featly to Shima’s new Shōgun.”
“Shōgun,” Isamu scoffed. “You heard true, Stormdancer.”
“Three days from now, perhaps you will do me the honor of telling me why.”
Isamu noticed figures emerging from the lotus stalks; men swathed in brown and green, eyes showing through slits in their hoods, handflares in their belts.
“For now, you have ten minutes,” the girl continued. “After that, we light our fires whether you’re here or not. These fields will burn. This is where it begins. This place. This day.”
The other arashitora unfurled her wings, awed men backing away, shielding their eyes. Raw current flickered across their blades. The smell reminded Isamu of when he was a boy, sitting on the balcony, watching summer monsoons roll down from the Iishi. He called out above crackling current, the broad pinions slicing the air like knives.
“What do you mean, girl? Where what begins?”
The beasts took to the air, subsonic booms from their wings scattering his men like children’s toys. And as they rose higher, he heard her calling over the growing storm. A single word he’d heard countless times, now carrying a gravity he’d never known.
“War,” she cried.





Jay Kristoff grew up in the most isolated capital city on earth and fled at his earliest convenience, although he’s been known to trek back for weddings of the particularly nice and funerals of the particularly wealthy. He spent most of his formative years locked in his bedroom with piles of books, or gathered around dimly-lit tables rolling polyhedral dice. Being the holder of an Arts degree, he has no education to speak of.

Jay’s debut novel, STORMDANCER, a Japanese-inspired steampunk fantasy, will be published by Thomas Dunne/St Martin’s Press, Tor UK & PanMacMillan in September 2012 as the first installment of THE LOTUS WAR trilogy. Jay is 6’7 and has approximately 13870 days to live. He abides in Melbourne with his secret agent kung-fu assassin wife, and the world’s laziest Jack Russell. He does not believe in happy endings.


Connect with the Author:  Website | Twitter |Facebook | Goodreads

Be sure to check out the other blogs participating in the tour HERE!


a Rafflecopter giveaway


  1. Carl

    I like the series because it’s so imaginative and – Japanese Steampunk – right on point.

  2. shell

    Thanks for the chance

  3. Monica M

    I love this series because of the writing (which is wonderful), and the premise (which is super engaging)!

  4. Vivien

    Everything!!! The world is fantastic!

  5. Wayne D'ava (@WretchedDreams)

    I love it was japanese steampunk & how it incorporated chainsaw katanas

  6. Mary Preston

    I don’t know yet.

  7. G. Donald Cribbs

    There are so many things I could list as things I love about this series. Here are just a few:

    I love the details with every description given. It’s very sensory. As I’m reading, I’m choking on the lotus root, my lips curl at the rancid smell described in the streets, etc.

    I love Yukiko and Buruu. They’ve got a connection that is special and the arc of their relationship throughout the series is epic. Especially if you read The Last Stormdancer.

    I still remember reading to the end of book 1 and gasping for air to the last sentence on the last page. It was absolutely breathtaking. Stunning. With book 2 came so many things I was horrified to read, and then I couldn’t stop, and my stomach was flipping like crazy, and damn you, Mister Kristoff! I need this pain to end, but don’t ever let it end!! Right?

  8. Ashfa Anwer

    The word building- it’s amazing!!!

  9. stacy

    I love the writing and I love that it is Japanese steampunk!

  10. sherry butcher

    The world, the writing and a great idea.

  11. Irma Jurejevčič

    I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.

  12. Emily

    The world, the writing, the characters, I can’t pick just one thing.

Leave a comment

Your comments make us smile!