There’s a particular kind of fantasy reader who needs the unmistakable scent of something genuinely different before they’ll commit to a new series. I’m that reader. Life is short, bookshelves are long, and I’ve been burned by enough Chosen One narratives to be cautious about where I spend my reading time.

So when I stumbled across a video by Exits Examined describing Steven Erikson’s The Malazan Book of the Fallen as “the Dark Souls of fantasy,” something clicked for me. A sprawling, unforgiving world that doesn’t hold your hand? Check. Characters spread across storylines that take novels to converge? Double Check. A series that trusts its readers enough to throw them into the deep end and say, “Swim”?

Needless to say, I was intrigued. I am now six chapters in. I am also, to be perfectly honest, only partially sure what’s going on. And I’m not sure I would have it any other way.

I came to Gardens of the Moon between entries in Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive, which my readers should be familiar with. If, for some reason, you’ve missed my reviews of the first 3 entries, it is a series built on meticulous worldbuilding, clearly defined magic systems, and a sense of epic grandeur that in-time will come with its own orchestral score. I love it. But there’s something to be said for the tonal whiplash of stepping from Sanderson’s sunlit cathedral of hard magic into Erikson’s grimy, smoke-filled war tent.

Where Sanderson ensures the reader can make Connections and infer what is definitely possible, Erikson simply implies a general idea of what one could do with a Warren. If Sanderson’s worldbuilding is an architect’s blueprint, Erikson’s is an archaeologist’s dig site; you piece it together from fragments, and half the time you’re not sure if you’re holding a priceless artifact or a very interesting rock. This is fitting, given Erikson’s background.

It’s considerably darker, denser, and more morally ambiguous than what I’ve read lately. Six chapters in and I’ve already witnessed betrayal, divine possession, murder, and enough political scheming to make Machiavelli reach for a flowchart. As a palette cleanser, it has teeth.

Each chapter in this book is significantly longer than you might expect. In some cases, a chapter spanned 40+ pages in itself. I’m on page 207, and I’m JUST starting Chapter 7. The chapters throw you in, dropping you in media res with a pov character that you may or may not be familiar with. I’ve heard it said you might experience a storyline with one character, and not find out the resolution to that situation… for two entire books! This is the case for Stormlight as well, but Sanderson does you the courtesy of putting those stories into Interludes that are generally separate from the main plot. I can’t tell when I’m going to read something that I’ll follow for more than one chapter, or if I’ll be left hanging for weeks!

Not only are these chapters long, but they often feature multiple POVs and parallel storylines. So who knows who’s going to show up next! I’ve been advised not to worry about it too much and that I’ll eventually get resolutions to some parts, but it can really be jarring to shift from one location and story to a seemingly unrelated note.

Here is my best attempt at a coherent summary of the main threads I’ve picked up, offered with the full caveat that I may be completely wrong about all of it:

Ganoes Paran appears to be our central point-of-view anchor… at least, the closest thing this book offers to one. He’s been placed in command of the Bridgeburners, an elite military unit that is very much in the crosshairs of forces both mundane and divine. The Bridgeburners are under threat not just from the enemy, but seemingly from their own Empire’s leadership.

Speaking of death, Paran was murdered. Just straight-up killed by Sorry, a fisher girl whose whole town was eaten by Hellhounds, and then subsequently was possessed or merged with an old crone and then subsequently turned into some sort of assassin? I’m going to be honest: I reread that sequence twice, and I’m still assembling the puzzle. You either keep up or you don’t. I’m mostly keeping up.

Then there’s Tattersail, a mage of considerable power and, it seems, considerable grudges. She’s attached herself to the Bridgeburners’ cause in what reads as at least partially revenge-fueled. She’s one of the characters I’m most drawn to — she feels grounded in a way that provides a welcome anchor amid all the cosmic machinations.

Did I forget to mention the Puppet? Yeah, one of the characters gets his soul bound to a puppet… because that’s the kinda world we’re reading about here.

If you’re coming from Sanderson’s corner of the genre, you are accustomed to magic systems that come with clearly defined rules, costs, and limitations. You understand Allomancy. You can reasonably explain Surgebinding. You could, theoretically, write a physics paper on how Investiture works, Axii and all…

Gardens of the Moon does not offer you this comfort.

Magic here operates through “Warrens,” sources of power that mages access and channel. And that’s... about as much as I can tell you with confidence. There are different Warrens. They do different things. Some of them seem tied to particular gods or forces. How exactly they work, what their limits are, where the lines between them fall… well, Erikson seems content to let you absorb this through osmosis rather than exposition.

For a reader conditioned by hard magic systems, this is jarring. It’s like switching from Garmin to asking Charlton Heston, “Where’s the First Presbyterian Church on Gordon Street?” but his response is in Latin… backwards. But there’s a freedom in a system like that too, a sense of genuine mystery around what magic is in this world that a neatly codified system can sometimes lose.

And then there’s the Deck of Dragons.

Sure, for most fantasy readers, they’re no strangers to mystical card-based divination; tarot parallels are practically a genre staple. But the Deck of Dragons operates like a real-time power tracker for the gods and ascendants who are actively meddling in mortal affairs. Readings from the Deck seem to map the current state of divine interference, with positions shifting as power dynamics change.

Paired with the recurring motif of a spinning coin, which is seemingly tied to the whims of Oponn, the twin gods of chance, there’s a strong sense that fate, luck, and divine will are not background flavour here. They are active players at the table. The mortals may be holding the cards, but the gods are playing the game.

It’s strange. It’s compelling. I do not fully understand it. This appears to be working as intended.

Six chapters into Gardens of the Moon, I am confused, fascinated, and deeply hooked. This is not a book that rewards passive reading; it demands your attention, your patience, and your willingness to sit with uncertainty.

For Sanderson readers looking for something tonally different: this is your dark mirror. For Dark Souls fans who’ve always wanted that energy in book form: congratulations, someone wrote it. For everyone else: bring a notebook, lower your expectations of immediate clarity, and enjoy the ride.

I’ll be back after the remaining chapters.

To be continued...