Golden Son

This originally appeared at The Irresponsible Reader, where I usually don't wait 10 months to write up a book. Usually.
—

I glimpse Gray police standing over arrested Brown vandals who covered an apartment complex with the image of a hanging girl. My wife. Ten stories tall, hair burning, rendered in digital paint. My chest constricts as we pass, cracking the walls I've built around her memory. I've seen her hanged a thousand times now as her martyrdom spreads across the worlds, city by city. Yet each time, it strikes me like a physical blow, nerve endings shivering in my chest, heart beating fast, neck tight just under the jaw. How cruel a life, that the sight of my dead wife means hope.

Red Rising

Golden Son

The Empire Strikes Back

Kinslayer

Catching Fire

The Deaths of Tao

The Two Towers

Morning Star