"Cassandra woke up to the rays of the sun streaming through the slats on her blinds, cascading over her naked chest. She stretched, her breasts lifting with her arms as she greeted the sun. She rolled out of bed and put on a shirt, her nipples prominently showing through the thin fabric. She breasted boobily to the stairs, and titted downwards.”

This is how every woman has been written into this book.

Every fucking woman.

There is no denying the author can spin words more poetic and flowery than the classics. But he needs to work on compelling characters. The plot fell between amazing and flat due to these two facts. I couldn't keep my attention on more than half the storylines and struggled to keep reading in many places.

The story opened with a bloody scene that didn't end up mattering, except to completely confuse the reader in regards to what time period/world the story's set. There's magical bow/arrows, ghosts, monsters, and references to modern technologies that wouldn't make sense in a magical land, so this must be Our world? Our time?

Honestly, I can't even finish this review. This book infuriated me. The writing was poetic, which held me captive throughout the whole thing. But it was a serious struggle all the way through.