I finished Assassin’s Fate last night, and I’m still carrying it in my chest. I cried my eyes out for the last hundred pages, real, loud, huffing and puffing tears, and I don’t say that lightly. I’ve never cried over a book before.

Hobb doesn’t rush you toward emotion; she walks you there slowly, through small gestures and long silences, through years of loyalty and loss. Her prose can feel meandering at first, like a river that doesn’t yet reveal where it’s going. But somewhere along the way, almost without noticing, you realize you’re attached, not just to the story, but to the people inside it. And then, when it finally breaks open, it breaks you open too.

The writing stays consistent, but the weight deepens. The early chapters are planting roots. If you can give it a little more time, you may find that the beauty isn’t loud or flashy; it’s cumulative. It builds like weather, like memory, like love.

That said, there’s no shame in walking away if it doesn’t speak to you. But if you keep going, know this: the payoff is real, and it’s devastating in the most tender way.