Review of Lightlark (Lightlark, #1) by Alex Aster: A Dazzling Illusion
Ah, Lightlark! I was drawn to its shimmering cover and the intoxicating buzz surrounding Alex Aster’s debut—after all, what’s more alluring than a new fantasy laden with intrigue? The hype on BookTok sucked me in like a moth to a flame, and before I knew it, I had pressed “pre-order” alongside my splurge for an audiobook on NetGalley. Spoiler alert: I’m not sure I can say it was worth the $16.99 investment.
From the get-go, Lightlark presents itself as a fascinating blend of The Hunger Games and A Court of Thorns and Roses, eagerly positioning itself among beloved fantasy giants. The narrative revolves around Isla, a young ruler entangled in the Centennial—a game of survival and betrayal among six realm rulers cursed to compete to break their bonds. While the premise sparkles with potential, the execution leaves a lot to be desired.
Aster’s writing, unfortunately, reads like a second draft and often relies on telling rather than showing. For instance, the world-building felt haphazard. We know there are six realms—Wilding, Skyling, Moonling, Starling, Nightshade, and Lightlark—but the relationships between them seem convoluted. What are these realms exactly? Countries? Paradises? The narrative spends precious time divulging details and info dumps yet fails to immerse us fully in its complex tapestry.
One quote that stood out was when Isla reflects on the nature of the game: “The snow villages of the Moonling new lands. The airy jubilees of the Skyling newlands.” It’s lovely in theory, but the prose rarely soars; at times, it feels cliché and juvenile. Characters limp along without depth; Isla is crowned as a fierce warrior but repeatedly stumbles—literally and figuratively—striking a confusing chord for someone trained in swordplay. She swings from vulnerable to overpowered, leaving me puzzled about her real persona.
The characters, apart from Isla—especially the rivals—emerge as stiff archetypes; the brooding Grimshaw is likened to a “bootleg Rhysand,” which doesn’t help his case. While romance is a driving force, and there are inklings of complex relationships, I found myself not wholly invested. The dynamics feel like set pieces rather than genuine interactions. An early date scene felt painfully misplaced when juxtaposed with the urgent stakes of the Centennial.
While I’m drawn to YA fantasy for its escapism and relatability, Lightlark too often veers into tropes without clever subversion. The narrative is rife with anti-women sentiments, and the female characters are treated as vessels for male desire rather than multifaceted individuals—Cleo, for instance, seemed to devolve into a cartoonish villain without much explanation.
Ultimately, Lightlark is a captivating idea shrouded in muddied execution. It funneled the expectations of a trend-driven market, only to deliver something that feels unrefined. If you’re seeking an addictive read with the promise of romance and fantasy, this might find a home with those who lean towards light, fluffy escapism; however, if you favor depth and nuance in world-building and character development, you may want to approach with caution.
As I close the book, my thoughts are complicated. I appreciated the ambition behind Aster’s journey—her marketing strategy was impeccable, and engaging the TikTok audience is no minor feat. Although Lightlark may resonate with readers enamored by familiar tropes, it left me longing for a richer experience. Here’s hoping for a stronger follow-up, as I know there’s potential lurking in those pages!
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