Jennifer K. Lambert delivers a devastating debut that reads like a love letter written in blood and dreams. “Never the Roses” weaves together the threads of Patricia A. McKillip’s ethereal fantasy tradition with a distinctly modern understanding of trauma, creating something that feels both timeless and urgently contemporary. This is not your typical enemies-to-lovers romance—it’s a meditation on the cost of power, the weight of choices, and whether two broken souls can find wholeness together.
The novel centers on Oneira, the legendary Dread Sorceress who has finally achieved what few of her kind ever can: retirement. Haunted by past atrocities, particularly the destruction of Govirinda, she has retreated to a cliff-side sanctuary where she tends roses and contemplates mortality. Her carefully constructed solitude shatters when she impulsively steals a book from her greatest rival’s library, inadvertently beginning a correspondence that will challenge everything she believes about herself and her capacity for connection.
The Architecture of Loneliness
Lambert excels at crafting protagonists who are simultaneously powerful and powerless. Oneira commands dream magic that can level cities, yet she cannot escape the prison of her own guilt. Stearanos, bound by blood magic to serve a king he despises, wields devastating sorcery while remaining utterly controlled by forces beyond his influence. Their shared experience of magical enslavement creates an immediate, unspoken understanding that Lambert handles with remarkable delicacy.
The author’s choice to structure their initial relationship through stolen books and written exchanges proves inspired. These textual conversations allow both characters to reveal vulnerability without the immediate threat of physical confrontation. When Oneira leaves a children’s book in exchange for Stearanos’s tome on rare roses, she unknowingly reveals her longing for innocence, while his research into Veredian roses—flowers that bloom only in winter’s darkest days—becomes a metaphor for finding beauty in desolation.
The Weight of Blood and Magic
Where Lambert truly distinguishes herself is in her unflinching examination of magical servitude. The blood geas system that binds sorcerers to their patrons feels both fantastical and painfully real, echoing historical systems of indenture and debt bondage. Stearanos’s inability to refuse his king’s commands, even when they violate his moral core, creates genuine stakes that transcend typical romance obstacles.
The novel’s handling of war trauma proves equally sophisticated. Oneira’s retirement isn’t portrayed as cowardice but as necessary self-preservation after experiencing what we might recognize as severe PTSD. Her rose garden becomes both sanctuary and penance, a place where she attempts to nurture life instead of dealing death. Lambert wisely avoids simple redemption narratives, instead showing how healing requires active choice rather than passive time.
Where Dreams Meet Reality
The magic system itself deserves particular praise. Oneira’s oneiromancy—her ability to manipulate dreams and step between sleeping and waking worlds—never feels arbitrary or overpowered. Lambert establishes clear rules and costs, particularly the requirement for absolute honesty between a sorcerer’s will and their magic. This creates fascinating tension when Oneira must navigate her growing feelings for Stearanos while maintaining the internal truth necessary for her power to function.
The supporting characters, while fewer in number, add essential texture to the world. Oneira’s animal companions—Bunny the wolf, Adsila the raven, and Moriah the cat—serve as both magical familiars and emotional anchors, representing different aspects of her psyche. Their acceptance of her helps readers understand that beneath her fearsome reputation lies someone worthy of love.
Moments of Imperfection
The novel isn’t without its flaws. The pacing occasionally stutters, particularly in the middle section where the weight of Oneira’s guilt threatens to overwhelm the narrative momentum. Some readers may find her self-flagellation excessive, though this reviewer appreciates Lambert’s commitment to showing how deeply trauma can embed itself in the psyche.
The political maneuvering between kingdoms sometimes feels underdeveloped compared to the intimate character work. While the threat of war provides necessary external pressure, the machinations of King Uhtric and Queen Zarja occasionally read more like plot devices than fully realized political entities. The subplot involving Tristan, the wandering minstrel, serves its purpose but feels somewhat perfunctory compared to the electric tension between the protagonists.
Language as Spell-craft
Lambert’s prose itself becomes a kind of magic, shifting between stark simplicity and lyrical complexity as the story demands. Her descriptions of the Dream sequences are particularly effective, creating a sense of otherworldly beauty without losing narrative coherence. The author has clearly studied her influences well—echoes of McKillip’s crystalline beauty and Miller’s psychological depth resonate throughout—while maintaining her own distinct voice.
The dialogue crackles with intelligence and subtext. When Oneira and Stearanos finally meet face-to-face, their conversations dance between flirtation and philosophical debate, revealing character through every exchange. Lambert understands that the most powerful moments often come not from grand gestures but from small revelations—a shared meal, a careful touch, the choice to trust despite every reason not to.
The Thorns Among the Roses
The novel’s climax delivers emotional devastation worthy of its buildup. Without spoiling the specifics, Lambert commits fully to the tragic implications of her setup. Oneira’s final choice feels both inevitable and shocking, a culmination of themes about sacrifice, responsibility, and the price of love. The ending may prove too dark for some romance readers, but it honors the weight of what came before.
The epilogue provides necessary closure while maintaining the story’s melancholic beauty. The image of Veredian roses blooming in winter snow becomes a perfect metaphor for finding hope in the aftermath of loss—beautiful, rare, and achingly temporary.
A Conversation with Classics
Lambert positions this novel explicitly as a conversation with McKillip’s “The Forgotten Beasts of Eld,” and the influence shows in the best possible ways. Like McKillip, Lambert understands that fantasy’s greatest power lies not in world-building spectacle but in using the impossible to illuminate essential human truths. The magical elements never feel decorative; they’re integral to exploring themes of power, consent, and redemption.
Readers familiar with Madeline Miller’s work will recognize similar psychological depth and moral complexity. Both authors excel at showing how mythic figures might feel and think as recognizably human beings, struggling with choices that echo contemporary ethical dilemmas despite their fantastical settings.
For Readers Seeking Similar Journeys
Those drawn to “Never the Roses” might consider exploring:
“The Forgotten Beasts of Eld” by Patricia A. McKillip – The acknowledged inspiration, featuring similar themes of isolation, power, and choice
“Circe” by Madeline Miller – Another story of a powerful woman seeking redemption and connection
“The Goblin Emperor” by Katherine Addison – For those interested in fantasy that prioritizes emotional complexity over action
“The Priory of the Orange Tree” by Samantha Shannon – Epic fantasy with strong romantic elements and complex magic systems
“The Witch’s Heart” by Genevieve Gornichec – Norse mythology retelling with similar themes of love and loss
Final Verdicts and Reflections
“Never the Roses” succeeds because it trusts its readers to embrace complexity over comfort. This isn’t a fantasy that promises easy answers or simple happiness. Instead, it offers something more valuable: a story that acknowledges the weight of difficult choices while celebrating the human capacity for connection even in the darkest circumstances.
Lambert has crafted a debut that feels both assured and deeply personal. While it may not satisfy readers seeking traditional romantic fulfillment, it will resonate powerfully with those who appreciate fantasy as a vehicle for exploring profound emotional truths. The novel’s meditation on trauma, healing, and the possibility of finding beauty in broken things makes it essential reading for anyone interested in the evolution of romantic fantasy.
Like the Veredian roses at its heart, “Never the Roses” blooms rarely but magnificently, offering beauty that emerges not despite darkness but because of it. In a genre often criticized for its simplistic morality, Lambert has given us something far more valuable: a story that dares to suggest that love might not conquer all, but it can make the struggle worthwhile.
This is not a book you read; it’s a book you experience, and its haunting beauty will linger long after the final page.