As the year winds down, I’ve been taking stock of my reading goals—because of course I have. My goal for 2025 was to read 25 books. As of now, I’m at 23, and currently reading two books at once: Abundance (non-fiction) and Lady of the Lake, the final book in The Witcher series. Surely reading hefty fantasy tomes should count as at least two books each, right? I remain cautiously optimistic that I’ll limp across the finish line at 25 before the year ends.
In January, I’ll share my favorite reads of 2025, but for now I’m already thinking ahead. My reading goal for 2026 is—boldly, bravely—the same: 25 books. Mostly fiction, a sprinkling of non-fiction, a mix of new releases and classics I’ve somehow missed. The challenge, of course, is that as I write Book Three of my fantasy series, I’ll also be reading other fantasy novels… many of them comfortably over 100,000 words. Epic quests are wonderful. They are not fast.
Wish me luck. And tell me—what are your reading goals for 2026?
As I look toward 2026, my writing path feels both clear and a little daunting—in the best possible way. My primary goal is to publish Curse of the River, Book Two of the Prophesied Prince trilogy, and then keep my momentum going straight into writing Book Three, the conclusion of Sugandha and Atul’s journey.
This trilogy has always been a coming-of-age story at its heart—about power that is inherited, power that is chosen, and the cost of both. I’ve been planting seeds for the ending since Book One, even when I didn’t fully understand what they would grow into. Now, as I write deeper into Book Two, I can see the shape of the finale forming on the horizon.
I know this much: the ending will be bittersweet. How much bitter and how much sweet? Even I don’t know yet. My characters certainly don’t. They’re still making choices, still stumbling, still hoping. And I’m following them, page by page, trusting that the story will reveal exactly the ending it demands—whether it breaks my heart a little in the process or not.
What I do know is that I want to give this world, these characters, and you—the readers who’ve walked this road with me—the most honest ending I can write. One that lingers. One that feels earned.
Here’s to a year of rivers that refuse to stay calm, prophecies that don’t behave, and stories that insist on being told.
As I close out 2025, it feels right to finally share something I’ve been carrying quietly with me for months—the title of Book Two in the Prophesied Prince trilogy.
Curse of the River.
If Child of the River was about beginnings—a prophecy awakening, a girl fleeing grief, a prince crossing the sea—then Curse of the River is about aftermath. About what lingers once the river has spoken, once the curse has been cast, and once running is no longer enough.
Rivers, in this story, are never just water. They remember. They witness. They bless—and they punish. In Book Two, the river that shaped Sugandha’s fate refuses to loosen its grip. The magic deepens, the truths grow sharper, and the cost of survival becomes harder to ignore. Sugandha is no longer only a girl on the run; she is a young woman beginning to understand that power, once awakened, demands to be reckoned with. And Atul—still haunted by who he is and who he is not—must decide what loyalty, leadership, and sacrifice truly mean when curses do not stay neatly in the past.
I chose this title because it reflects what this book has become for me while writing it: darker, more intimate, and more unforgiving. The river does not simply carry them forward—it tests them. And sometimes, it turns against those who think they understand it.
Revealing this title feels like a promise. To higher stakes. To deeper bonds. To consequences that ripple far beyond a single choice or a single shore.
From start to finish, I devoured this book in three days—turning pages over my morning coffee and reading at night instead of watching television. There are no dragons, no grand calamities, nothing fantastical to demand attention. Instead, Towles gives us something even better: exquisite prose, fully realized characters, and a marvelous, atmospheric portrait of New York City.
Set in 1938, the story follows Katey Kontent and her roommate Eve, who meet Tinker Grey, a wealthy banker, on New Year’s Eve—and from that moment, Katey’s life shifts. Eve burns bright, all impulse and charm. Katey is the reader (I now want to read every book she references), the observer, the deep thinker. And Tinker… he’s the man doing the wrong things for what he believes are the right reasons.
“It is a lovely oddity of human nature that a person is more inclined to interrupt two people in conversation than one person alone with a book.”
“If we only fell in love with people who were perfect for us…then there wouldn’t be so much fuss about love in the first place.”
“I’ve come to realize that however blue my circumstances, if after finishing a chapter of a Dickens novel I feel a miss-my-stop-on-the-train sort of compulsion to read on, then everything is probably going to be just fine.”
This novel feels like an ode to being young—making mistakes, forging friendships, and stepping boldly into life even when you don’t fully understand it. Towles captures that restless, hopeful energy with such elegance.
I’ll definitely be reaching for more of his books.
This book picks up right where Book Three left off, with our protagonists scattered across the continent, each desperately trying to reach the others. The story unfolds through multiple POVs, across shifting timelines, and with what feels like dozens of characters and locations. I only vaguely remember some of the peripheral players, yet it never diminished my enjoyment or my ability to follow along. That may not be the case for all readers, but for me, the sheer scope of this world is part of the charm.
“Mamma, are they demons? Is it the Wild Hunt? Phantoms from hell? Mamma, mamma! Quiet, quiet, children. They are not demons, not devils . . . Worse than that. They are people.”
I remain in awe of the complex, deeply layered world the author has built—and the authentic voices he manages to give every single character. Not much “happens” in the grand scheme of the series arc. The violence and torture are graphic, and I skimmed those sections.
Geralt is no longer hunting monsters; he is knee-deep in political intrigue, trekking toward Ciri with a vampire, Dandelion, an archer, and Cahir as companions. Their interactions and misadventures are consistently engaging. Dandelion is, of course, writing a memoir—glimpses of which we get—and it adds a humorous, meta touch. Yennefer appears only briefly, while Ciri’s story is mostly told in flashback, and just when we catch up to the present timeline… the book ends abruptly.
Some sequences, like the ice-skating scene near the end, are elaborate and beautifully constructed—showcasing the author’s incredible choreography. I’m honestly not sure how he plans to wrap up this sprawling saga in one final book, but I’m eager to find out. I’ll be diving into the next one soon.
Sugandha is the quiet heartbeat of the Prophesied Prince trilogy. I’m deep in Book Two right now, so I’m living in her world every day—and she’s definitely taken up long-term residence in my head.
When we first meet her in Child of the River, she’s grieving the loss of the only family she’s ever known: her grandfather.
“Sorrow and grief filled my heart when I realized I would receive no more guidance from my grandfather. I had never known my parents, and my grandfather had raised me from birth.
Usually, I would stir into wakefulness at this time of day. From my cot, I would hear my grandfather in the kitchen, pulling down pots, grinding an array of herbs, and brewing them.
Those small sounds would bring me peace, and I would snuggle into my sheets and close my eyes… He would grin at me as if I brightened his day just by existing, his wrinkled face glowing.”
One of my favorite chapters featuring her is Chapter 31 (Summer, Year 1). There’s a certain innocence to Sugandha there—one that still survives even as she’s fighting for her life. She stumbles through chaos guided only by instinct and heart, doing what she believes is right, even when she has no idea what’s really happening around her. That combination of bravery and bewilderment is exactly what makes her so compelling to write.
Book Two lets me deepen her dynamic with Atul. These two couldn’t be more different—each carrying their own scars, their own expectations, their own definitions of who they should be. Watching them learn to trust each other, challenge each other, and sometimes collide spectacularly has been one of the joys of drafting this book. This moment between them is from earlier in book two:
“Look at me,” I said, and her eyes fluttered open.
“Imagine what it would mean to master that power,” I said, my voice low. I let the oars still in my hands.
She clenched her jaw, then closed her eyes again. Her breath evened out, arms stretching forward as if reaching for something unseen. I waited. But the river stayed calm.
Then she gasped—clutching her throat like something had seized it—and coughed, harsh and broken.
“Nanda—”
“No.” Her voice came between sobs, ragged and raw. “Stop. You think you understand what it’s like—to carry this wild, flickering thing inside me—but you don’t. You can’t.”
This trilogy is, at its core, a coming-of-age story. Through Sugandha, I wanted to portray a deeply human young woman—strong yet unsure, resilient yet overwhelmed, someone whose magic feels as dangerous as it is wondrous. Her journey isn’t neat or easy, and it mirrors the hardships a girl on the run would face in a world shaped by myth, patriarchy, and the weight of expectations. These are truths often left unexplored in traditional Indian mythology, and Sugandha gives me the space to write into those gaps.
She grows slowly. She stumbles often. But she keeps trying. And that, to me, is what makes her unforgettable.
I feared that the men who revered me as the Heir to Malla would abandon me if they knew the truth about my birth. That was the reason I had urged my uncle, King Jay of Malla, to send me on this mission. Uncle Jay wanted me to wait until our soldiers had secured Kashgar, but I itched to prove myself.
Atul’s journey in Child of the Riveris a tangle of identity, duty, and the quiet ache of wanting to be enough. When his ships crossed the Nira Sea, he didn’t just bring soldiers—he carried the weight of his own questions about who he is… and who he desperately hopes to become.
One of my favorite moments to write is his exchange with the fake prince in Chapter 26 (Spring, Year 2). Those scenes crack Atul open a bit. The fake prince’s doubts mirror Atul’s own, and you see him slide into that big-brother role so naturally—steady, protective, and sometimes wiser than he realizes. And then, just as quickly, he’s unmistakably a teenager again: impulsive, earnest, and brave in ways that don’t always make sense but feel undeniably true.
Being Meera’s son (yes, that Meera from the Land of Magadha trilogy) gives me a chance to explore the complicated corners of his heart—respect tangled with resentment, admiration overshadowed by old hurt. His mother’s secrets shaped him, and in many ways, he’s still deciding what parts of that legacy he wants to claim.
Through Atul, I get to return to one of my favorite questions: What truly makes a good ruler? Birthright? Choice? Sacrifice? Something quieter and harder to name?
Atul doesn’t have the answers yet—but he’s determined to earn them.
On a storm-lashed shore, young Sugandha watches her grandfather call upon the god of fire to curse a ship of enemies. The sea roars, the sand trembles—and when the ritual ends, her grandfather lies motionless.
That night, he opens his eyes one last time.
“I have enough life force left to offer you a blessing… Conceal her from Ori. Your uncle poses a grave danger to your very existence.”
As the bells of her uncle’s cart echo in the distance, Sugandha flees the only home she has ever known—her journey entwined with a dying man’s curse and a prophecy that will shape the fate of kings.
⚔️ Child of the River — Book One of the Prophesied Prince Trilogy — is a sweeping medieval fantasy inspired by ancient India, filled with curses, rival kingdoms, and a destiny born of the river’s depths.
Book Two of the Prophesied Prince series is inching toward 50,000 words! In the latest chapters, we encounter descendants of characters from my Land of Magadha trilogy—members of the Malla army who came to Kashgar with Atul. Writing those scenes felt like coming home. After ten years in the world of Magadha, revisiting its legacy through new generations has been deeply satisfying.
Meanwhile, Sugandha is beginning to uncover the truth about her family and her powers. Something tells me she won’t be happy with what she learns.
Magical creatures continue to hunt our protagonists—but as always, the real danger lies in human heart.
Here is a snippet from Chapter two written in Atul’s POV:
“The rumor of your death has reached our ranks. The commander… he neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead, he told us—your five guards—to find you.”
I nodded. “Clever of him. That gives you a reason to follow me north.” I kept my voice steady, calm, though the thought of the others—young men who had followed me across the sea—believing I had fallen before even drawing my sword unsettled me. Still, I had to trust the commander. Trust that he’d keep them loyal without revealing the truth. That I was alive. For now.
If you haven’t yet read Child of the River (Book One), now’s the perfect time. The audiobook, narrated by two incredible voice actors, brings Kashgar vividly to life. Book Two is slated for release in 2026.
This is my first book by Rebecca Makkai, and it definitely won’t be my last. The protagonist, Bodie, is a messy, complicated woman—professor, podcaster, and mother—returning to the boarding school where she spent four formative years. As a teenager, she began by trying to fit in, then found acceptance with a small circle of friends who saw her for who she really was.
Her sophomore-year roommate, Thalia, was everything Bodie thought she wasn’t—rich, popular, beautiful. Though not close friends, there was mutual respect between them. When Thalia is killed during their senior year, the tragedy leaves deep scars. Years later, Bodie returns to teach at the same school, and one of her students chooses Thalia’s murder as the subject of a podcast. The story unfolds as a letter Bodie writes to a man she suspects had a significant role in Thalia’s death.
Back then, Omar, a Black athletic director, was convicted of the crime. Through Bodie’s eyes, the book explores racism, abuse, class, and gender norms—issues that continue to shape contemporary America. What I particularly liked was that Makkai doesn’t make Bodie fit neatly into any box. We humans are complex, and how we react when something touches us personally often differs from how we think we’d respond in theory.
The mystery of Thalia’s death forms the spine of the story, but what lingers is the reflection on memory, justice, and the messy gray areas between right and wrong. It’s not easy to write a novel that captures the pulse of our times while keeping readers fully engaged, but Makkai manages it beautifully.
The hell of imprisonment isn’t the terrible food, it’s the lack of choice of food. It isn’t the cold, wet floor, it’s that you can’t choose another place to stand. It isn’t the confinement so much as the fact of never running, never getting in your car and speeding off, as Omar loved to do.
My only nitpick: there are moments when too many societal issues crowd the narrative. Focusing on fewer might have given the story even more punch. Still, this is a powerful, thought-provoking read—one I’ll be thinking about for a while.
Anna Bushi 